“You are not of the Norlands.”
“No. Nor of Mars. My parents came from the third planet. I was born on the world nearest the sun.” He paused, meeting Rogain’s eye without either arrogance or deference. “I say this because I wish you to understand that I am a wanderer by birth and by nature.”
Rogain nodded, with just the hint of a smile. “In other words, I need not enquire what business you had on the northern moors in winter. Or any other time, for that matter.”
The captain of the guard muttered something audible about the business of rogues and outlaws. Stark said to Rogain, “Ask what you will. I was in the south, where I had come to fight with the Drylanders in a war against the Border States. But things went wrong, and that war was never fought. There was nothing for me to do there, and I had never seen this part of Mars. So I came north.”
“You are a mercenary, then?” asked Rogain, and one of the others, a heavy-jawed man with insolent, stupid eyes, made a gesture of relief.
“There is your answer, Rogain. He brings a great tale of war in the hope of selling his services.”
“What do you say to that, Stark?” asked Rogain mildly.
Stark shrugged. “I say that the proof of my story is easily gained. Only wait a day or two.” He looked from one to the other of the assembled faces, finding them hopelessly wanting. They were civilized men, all of them, good, bad, and indifferent—so civilized that the origins of their culture had been forgotten half an age before the first clay brick was laid in Sumer. Too civilized, Stark thought, and far too long accustomed to the peace Ban Cruach had bequeathed them, a peace that had drawn their fangs and cut their claws, leaving even the best of them unfit for what was coming.
“You will defend Kushat or not, as you choose,” he said. “But in either case, my services are not for sale.”
“Oh?” said Rogain. “Why?”
Very softly Stark said, “I have a personal quarrel with Ciaran of Mekh.”
The man who had spoken before gave a derisive laugh. Rogain turned to look at him with pointed interest. “Can you no longer recognize a man when he stands before you?” he asked, and shook his head. The man’s wattles turned a dull red, and the others looked startled. Rogain turned again to Stark.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair beside the desk. “Now. I would like to hear the story from your own lips.”
Stark told it, exactly as he had told the captain. When he was finished Rogain asked him questions. Where was the camp? How many men? What were the exact words of the Lord Ciaran, and who was he? Why had he ordered Stark to be scourged? Stark found answers for them all that were truthful and yet made no mention of Otar and the talisman. Rogain sat then for some time, lost in thought, while the others waited impatiently, not quite daring to offer their opinions. Stark watched Rogain’s hand moving abstractedly among the seals and scrolls upon his desk—a scholar’s hands, without a callus on them. Finally he sighed and said, “I will arm the city. And if the attack comes, Kushat will owe you a debt for the warning, Stark.” An astonishingly unpleasant look came into his eyes. “If it does not come—we will talk further about the matter then.”
Stark smiled, rather cruelly. “You still hope that I am lying.”
“This part of the world has laws of its own, which you neither know nor understand, and therefore it is possible for you to be mistaken. Firstly…”
“No one makes war in the winter,” Stark said. “That is exactly why Ciaran is doing it.”
“Quite possibly,” said Rogain. “But there is another thing. We have a power here that guards our city. It has sufficed in all the time past.” His voice was very quiet, deceptively unemotional. “Why now should the barbarians suddenly lose their fear of the talisman?”
There was now a stillness in the room, a sense of held breath and stretching ears, of eyes that glanced swiftly at Stark’s face and then away again, afraid to be caught looking lest they betray the intensity behind them. A duller man than Stark would have been able to smell the trap that had opened so innocently under his feet. Stark gave no notice that he was aware of anything, but any thought he might have had of telling Rogain the truth and surrendering the talisman to its rightful owners died then and there. He was on the edge of a trap, but these men were in one. They had lied to their own people to save their skins, and they did not dare admit it. If he told them that Ciaran knew the talisman was gone they would kill him to keep the word from spreading. If he gave them the true talisman, they would weep with relief and joy, and kill him even quicker. The last thing they could afford was to have word get about the city that the true talisman had returned.
So Stark said, “The Lord Ciaran is no common barbarian, and he is a hungry man, far too hungry for fear. If your talisman is as powerful as you say, I would guess he means to take it for himself.” The stillness hurt his ears. He sat with his heart pounding and the sweat flushing cold on his skin, and he added casually, “Sooner or later there is always someone to challenge a tradition.”
It was as though the room relaxed and drew breath. Rogain nodded curtly and said, “We shall see. For the moment, that is all.”
Stark rose and went out. Lugh was waiting to march him out of the building and across the square under the looming statue of Ban Cruach, past the shrine, and back to the grimy Quarter under the wall.
VI
At the foot of the stair Lugh stopped and gave Stark one last bitter look.
“Sleep well,” he said, “while better men than you walk freezing on the Wall.”
He marched his men away and Stark looked after them, hearing the petulance in the clang of Lugh’s iron-shod boots on the stones. He could find it in his heart to pity this young man, who was going to be forced so soon to dirty his beautiful armor with blood. Then he turned and climbed the stair, and was appalled at the effort it took. Twice he had to stop and hold on to keep from falling.
Part of his faintness was from hunger. He knew that as he entered the room and saw Thanis bent over a brazier stirring something savory in a blackened pot. Balin sprawled gracefully on the bench bed that ran along one crooked wall. He sprang up to catch Stark’s arm and steady him to a seat, and Stark muttered something about food, unable to remember how long it was since he had eaten. Thanis waited on him gladly, and they did not speak until he was finished, drinking the last of his wine and feeling human again, feeling strong enough to think, and thinking, scowling into his cup.
And Balin asked, “What happened?”
“They will arm the city,” Stark said.
“Will they hold it?”
Thanis said, “Of course they’ll hold it. We still have the Wall.”
“Walls,” said Balin, “are no stronger than the men who defend them.” He asked again. “Will they hold it?”
Stark shook his head. “They’ll try. Some of them will even die gloriously. But they’re sheep, and the wolves will tear them. This is my belief.”
He rose abruptly and went to stand by the window, looking out at the ancient uneven roofs, above them to the distant towers of the King City, and then beyond to the black line of the cliffs. The cold air stirred his hair, and he shivered and said, “Balin, could they hold it if they had the talisman?”
There was a quiet, in which he could hear the wind chafing and whining at the walls outside. He pulled the curtain tight and turned, and Balin was looking at him with smoky cat eyes, his body poised like a bent bow.
“This is your city, Balin. You know. I can only guess. Could they hold it?”
Slowly and softly Balm answered, while Thanis sat stiff and still as ivory, and as pale, watching the two men.
“They are sheep, Stark. And they’re worse than that. They’re liars. And they have forgotten the knowledge that was entrusted to them. They do not remember any more how the talisman was used, nor what it called forth from beyond the Gates of Death. If they had ten talismans, they could not hold the city.”