Child of the Sun: Leigh Brackett SF Boxed Set (Illustrated). Leigh Brackett

fingers tightened on Thanis' shoulder. "Come with me, little one," he whispered. "Otherwise, I must crawl."

      She smiled at him and came. The crowd followed.

      The captain of the guards was a fleshy man with a smell of wine about him and a face already crumbling apart though his hair was not yet grey. He sat in a squat tower above the square, and he observed Stark with no particular interest.

      "You had something to tell," said Lugh. "Tell it."

      * * * * *

      Stark told them, leaving out all mention of Camar and the talisman. This was neither the time nor the man to hear that story. The captain listened to all he had to say about the gathering of the clans of Mekh, and then sat studying him with a bleary shrewdness.

      "You have proof of all this?"

      "These stripes. Their leader Ciaran ordered them laid on himself."

      The captain sighed, and leaned back.

      "Any wandering band of hunters could have scourged you," he said. "A nameless vagabond from the gods know where, and a lawless one at that, if I'm any judge of men—you probably deserved it."

      He reached for wine, and smiled. "Look you, stranger. In the Norlands, no one makes war in the winter. And no one ever heard of Ciaran. If you hoped for a reward from the city, you overshot badly."

      "The Lord Ciaran," said Stark, grimly controlling his anger, "will be battering at your gates within two days. And you will hear of him then."

      "Perhaps. You can wait for him—in a cell. And you can leave Kushat with the first caravan after the thaw. We have enough rabble here without taking in more."

      Thanis caught Stark by the cloak and held him back.

      "Sir," she said, as though it were an unclean word. "I will vouch for the stranger."

      The captain glanced at her. "You?"

      "Sir, I am a free citizen of Kushat. According to law, I may vouch for him."

      "If you scum of the Thieves' Quarter would practice the law as well as you prate it, we would have less trouble," growled the captain. "Very well, take the creature, if you want him. I don't suppose you've anything to lose."

      Lugh laughed.

      "Name and dwelling place," said the captain, and wrote them down. "Remember, he is not to leave the Quarter."

      Thanis nodded. "Come," she said to Stark. He did not move, and she looked up at him. He was staring at the captain. His beard had grown in these last days, and his face was still scarred by Thord's blows and made wolfish with pain and fever. And now, out of this evil mask, his eyes were peering with a chill and terrible intensity at the soft-bellied man who sat and mocked him.

      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, and then reached for parchment. "After all, it's a simple thing. 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 catacombs 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, vaguely glimpsed, who said he was Thanis' brother. There was a bed of skins and woven cloths.

      Stark slept.

      * * * * *

      Hands and voices called him back. Strong hands shaking him, urgent voices. He started up growling, like an animal suddenly awaked, still lost in the dark mists of exhaustion. Balin swore, and caught his fingers away.

      "What is this you have brought home, Thanis? By the gods, it snapped at me!"

      Thanis ignored him. "Stark," she said. "Stark! Listen. Men are coming. Soldiers. They will question you. Do you hear me?"

      Stark said heavily, "I hear."

      "Do not speak of Camar!"

      Stark got to his feet, and Balin said hastily, "Peace! The thing is safe. I would not steal a death warrant!"

      His voice had a ring of truth. Stark sat down again. It was an effort to keep awake. There was clamor in the street below. It was still night.

      Balin said carefully, "Tell them what you told the captain, nothing more. They will kill you if they know."

      A rough hand thundered at the door, and a voice cried, "Open up!"

      Balin sauntered over to lift the bar. Thanis sat beside Stark, her hand touching his. Stark rubbed his face. He had been shaved and washed, his wounds rubbed with salve. The belt was gone, and his blood-stained clothing. He realized only then that he was naked, and drew a cloth around him. Thanis whispered, "The belt is there on that peg, under your cloak."

      Balin opened the door, and the room was full of men.

      Stark recognized the captain. There were others, four of them, young, old, intermediate, annoyed at being hauled away from their beds and their gaming tables at this hour. The sixth man wore the jewelled cuirass of a noble. He had a nice, a kind face. Grey hair, mild eyes, soft cheeks. A fine man, but ludicrous in the trappings of a soldier.

      "Is this the man?" he asked, and the captain nodded.

      "Yes." It was his turn to say Sir.

      Balin brought a chair. He had a fine flourish about him. He wore a crimson jewel in his left ear, and every line of him was quick and sensitive, instinct with mockery. His eyes were brightly cynical, in a face worn lean with years of merry sinning. Stark liked him.

      He was a civilized man. They all were—the noble, the captain, the lot of them. So civilized that the origins of their culture were forgotten half an age before the first clay brick was laid in Babylon.

      Too civilized, Stark thought. Peace had drawn their fangs and cut their claws. He thought of the wild clansmen coming fast across the snow, and felt a certain pity for the men of Kushat.

      The noble sat down.

      "This is a strange tale you bring, wanderer. I would hear it from your own lips."

      Stark told it. He spoke slowly, watching every word, cursing the weariness that fogged his brain.

      The noble, who was called Rogain, asked him questions. Where was the camp? How many men? What were the exact words of the Lord Ciaran, and who was he?

      Stark answered, with meticulous care.

      Rogain sat for some time lost in thought. He seemed worried and upset, one hand playing aimlessly with the hilt of his sword. A scholar's hand, without a callous on it.

      "There is one thing more," said Rogain. "What business had you on the moors in winter?"

      Stark smiled. "I am a wanderer by profession."

      "Outlaw?" asked the captain, and Stark shrugged.

      "Mercenary is a kinder word."