Thanis laid her hand on his rough cheek. “Come,” she said. “Come and rest.”
Gently she turned his head. He blinked and swayed, and she took him around the waist and led him unprotesting to the door.
There she paused, looking back.
“Sir,” she said, very meekly, “news of this attack is being shouted through the Quarter now. If it should come, and it were known that you had the warning and did not pass it on…” She made an expressive gesture and went out.
Lugh glanced uneasily at the captain. “She’s right, sir. If by chance the man did tell the truth…”
The captain swore. “Rot. A rogue’s tale. And yet…” He scowled indecisively, then shrugged and reached for parchment. “After all, it’s a simple matter. Write it up, pass it on, and let the nobles do the worrying.”
His pen began to scratch.
Thanis took Stark by steep and narrow ways, darkling now in the afterglow, where the city climbed and fell again over the uneven rock. Stark was aware of the heavy smells of spices and unfamiliar foods, and the musky undertones of a million generations swarmed together to spawn and die in these crowded tenements of slate and stone.
There was a house, blending into other houses, close under the loom of the great Wall. There was a flight of steps, hollowed deep with use, twisting crazily around outer corners. There was a low room, and a slender man named Balin, who said he was Thanis’ brother and who stared with some amazement at Stark, his long thief’s fingers playing delicately with the red jewel he wore in his left ear. There was a bed of skins and woven clothes and Stark’s body yearned toward it. But he fought off the darkness, sitting on the edge of the bed while Thanis brought him wine and a bowl of food, making quick explanations to Balin while she did so. Stark was too tired for the food, but he drank the wine and it cleared the cobwebs out of his mind so that he could think rationally at least for a little while.
“Why,” he asked Thanis, “is it dangerous to speak of the talisman?”
He was aware of Balm’s brilliant gaze upon him, but he watched the girl’s face.
“You heard Lugh when he answered the crowd,” she said. “They have put some bit of glass in the shrine and called it the talisman, and those who say they are liars are made to regret it.”
In a light and silken voice Balin said, “When the talisman vanished, we very nearly had a revolution in Kushat. The people resented losing it, and blamed the folk of the King City, where the shrine is, for not taking better care of it. Narrabhar and his nobles felt their high seats tottering under them, and the substitution was quickly made.”
“But,” said Stark, “if the people don’t believe…”
“Only we in the Thieves’ Quarter really know. It was one of us who took it.” There was an odd mingling of pride and condemnation in his tone. “The others—the artisans and shopkeepers, the ones with a little fat under their belts—they would rather believe the lie than bleed for the truth. So it has worked.” He added, “Thus far.”
Looking Stark very steadily in the eye, Thanis said, “You’re an outlander, yet you know about the talisman and you knew that it was gone. How?”
The old instinct of caution held him quiet. He understood now, quite clearly, that the possession of the talisman could be his death-warrant. So he said with perfect if fragmentary truth, “Ciaran of Mekh said it. There is an old man with him, a man of Kushat. His name is Otar…”
“Otar!” said Balin. “Otar? We supposed that he was dead.”
Stark shook his head. “He has told Ciaran the talisman was stolen and because of that Kushat is ready for the taking.” He recalled Ciaran’s words and repeated them. “Like a man without a soul.” He paused, frowning. “Does this bit of glass really have such power?”
Balin said, “The people believe that it has, and that is what matters.”
Stark nodded. His brief period of grace was over now and the darkness was sweeping in. He stared at Balin, and then at Thanis, in a curiously blank and yet penetrating fashion, like an animal that thinks its own thoughts. He took a deep breath. Then, as though he found the air clean of danger, he lay back and went instantly to sleep.
Hands and voices called him back. Strong hands shaking him, urgent voices speaking his name. He started up, heart hammering and muscles tense, with a confused idea that he had slept only a moment or two, and then he saw that the light of a new sun was pouring in through the window. Thanis and Balin were bending over him.
“Stark,” said the girl, and shook him. “There are soldiers coming.”
V
He shook his head, groaning with the stiffness of his body as he moved to rise. “Soldiers?” There was a clamor in the street outside, and a rhythmic clinking of metal that meant armed men marching. Full consciousness came back with a rush. His gaze swept the room, marking the window, the door, an archway into an inner chamber, his muscles flexing. Balin took him by the shoulder.
“No. You can’t escape. And anyway, there’s no need. I think Old Sowbelly made his report, and now you’ll be taken to the King City to answer more questions.” He faced Stark, speaking sharply. “Now listen. Don’t mention Otar or what Ciaran said about the city. They won’t like it, and they might well take your head off to keep you from repeating the story to others. You understand? Tell them exactly what you told the captain, nothing more.”
Stark nodded. “I understand.” Air from the window curled icily around his body and he realized for the first time that he was naked. He had been shaved and washed, his wounds rubbed with salve. Thanis handed him his boots and trousers, carefully cleaned, and a garment he did not recognize, a tunic of golden fur tanned soft as silk.
“Balin stole it from the baths where the nobles go. He said you might as well have the best.”
“And a devil of a time I had finding one big enough to fit you.” Balin looked out the window. “They’re coming up now. No need to hurry. Let them wait.”
Stark pulled the clothes on and looked in quiet panic for Camar’s belt. There came a pounding on the door and the remembered voice of Lugh demanding entrance. Balin lifted the bar and the room filled with soldiers.
“Good morning,” Balin said, bowing with a flourish and wincing visibly at the light dancing on Lugh’s breastplate. Lugh ignored the mockery. He was very soldierly and important this morning, a man with a duty to perform. “The Commander of the City will question you, stranger,” he said to Stark, and gave a peremptory nod toward the doorway.
Thanis lifted Stark’s cloak from a peg on the wall, revealing the belt under it. She brought them both to Stark. “You mustn’t keep the Lord Rogain waiting,” she said demurely, and smiled. She was wearing a red kirtle and a necklet of beaten metal intricately pierced, and her dark hair was combed out smooth and shining. Stark smiled back and thanked her, and buckled on the belt. Then he threw the cloak over his shoulders and went out with Lugh.
There were people in the street below watching as Stark went down the crazy stairway with the soldiers in single file before and behind him and Lugh walking ahead of all like a young cock-pheasant. This time the people only watched and did not say much to the soldiers. The detachment formed up in the street, eight soldiers and an officer to escort one man. Stark thought that they would have been better used to patrol the Wall, but he did not say so. The crowd left them plenty of room. Stark could see the intent faces peering at him and hear the muttered undertone of talk, and he knew that the word he had brought of Ciaran’s coming was all over the Quarter now, and probably over half the city.