MIRK

The last of Marune's suns, Cirse, sank behind Whispering Ridge. The sky 
flared and dimmed; darkness fell. Mirk had come to Scharrode.

Throughout the realm, lights were extinguished and doors bolted as the 
prudent sought safety. Others donned the cloak and boots of nightwalkers 
and slipped through the darkness seeking an unshuttered window and the woman 
waiting behind it. For mirk did strange things to the minds and bodies of 
the sober folk of Scharrode.

In the castle of Benbuphar Strang, the Kaiark Efraim felt the primal pull of 
darkness - and was drawn despite himself to the passage that led to 
Sthelany's door.

Her invitation had been clear.



Also by Jack Vance on the Ballantine Books list:

TRULLION: Alastor 2262

available at your local bookstore



MARUNE:

Alastor 933

Jack Vance


BALLANTINE BOOKS - NEW YORK

(another Zine-scan...)


This novel was serialized in the July and September issues of Amazing. 
Copyright <c) 1975 by Ultimate Publications, Inc.

Copyright (c) 1975 by Jack Vance

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright 
Conventions.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-19107

SBN 345-24518-0-150

First Printing: September, 1975

Cover art by Darrell Sweet

Printed in the United States of America

BALLANTINE BOOKS
A Division of Random House, Inc. 
201 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022 
Simultaneously published by 
Ballantine Books, Ltd., Toronto, Canada



Alastor Cluster, a node of thirty thousand live stars, uncounted dead hulks, 
and vast quantities of interstellar detritus, clung to the inner rim of the 
galaxy with the Unfortunate Waste before, the Nonestic Gulf beyond and the 
Gaean Reach a sparkling haze to the side. For the spacetraveler, no matter 
which his angle of approach, a remarkable spectacle was presented: 
constellations blazing white, blue, and red; curtains of luminous stuff, 
broken here, obscured there, by black storms of dust; starstreams wandering 
in and out; whorls and spatters of phosphorescent gas.

Should Alastor Cluster be considered a segment of the Gaean Reach? The folk 
of the Cluster, some four or five trillion of them on more than three 
thousand worlds, seldom reflected upon the matter, and indeed considered 
themselves neither Gaean nor Alastrid. The, typical inhabitant, when asked 
as to his origin, might perhaps cite his native world or, more usually, his 
local district, as if this place were so extraordinary, so special and 
widely famed that its reputation hung on every tongue of the galaxy.

Parochialism dissolved before the glory of the Connatic, who ruled Alastor 
Cluster from his palace on the world Numenes. The current Connatic, Oman 
Ursht, sixteenth of the Idite dynasty, often pondered the quirk of fate 
which had appointed him to his singular condition, only to smile at his own 
irrationality: no matter who occupied the position, that person would frame 
for himself the same marveling question.

The inhabited planets of the Cluster had little in common except their lack 
of uniformity. They were large and small, dank and dry, benign and perilous, 
populous and empty: no two alike. Some manifested tall mountains, blue seas, 
bright skies; on others clouds hung forever above the moors, and no variety 
existed except the alternation of night and day. Such a world, in fact, was 
Bruse-Tansel, Alastor 1142, with a population of two hundred thousand, 
settled for the most part in the neighborhood of Lake Vain, where they 
worked principally at the dyeing of fabrics. Four spaceports served 
Bruse-Tansel, the most important being that facility located at Carfaunge.



Chapter 1


The Respectable Mergan had achieved his post, Superintendent at the 
Carfaunge Spaceport, largely because the position demanded a tolerance for 
unalterable routine. Mergan not only tolerated routine; he depended upon it. 
He would have opposed the cessation of such nuisances as the morning rains, 
the glass lizards with their squeaks and clicks, the walking slimes which 
daily invaded the area, because then he would have been required to change 
established procedure.

On the morning of a day he would later identify as tenth Mariel Gaean(1) he 
arrived as usual at his office. Almost before he had settled behind his 
desk, the night porter appeared with a blank faced young man in a 
nondescript gray suit. Mergan uttered a wordless grumble; he had no taste 
for problems, at any time, least of all before he had composed himself for 
the day. The situation at the very least promised a disruption of routine. 
At last he muttered: "Well, Dinster, what do you have here?"

Dinster, in a piping over-loud voice, called out, "Sorry to bother you, sir, 
but what shall we do with this gentleman? He seems to be ill."

"Find him a doctor," growled Mergan. "Don't bring him here. I can't help 
him."

"It's not that kind of illness, sir. More mental, if you get my meaning."

"Your meaning escapes me," said Mergan. "Why not just tell me what's wrong?"

Dinster politely indicated his charge. "When I came on duty he was sitting 
in the waiting room and he's been there since. He hardly speaks; he doesn't 
know his name, nor anything about himself."

Mergan inspected the young man with some faint awakening of interest. 
"Hello, sir," he barked. "What's the trouble?"

The young man shifted his gaze from the window to Mergan, but offered no 
response. Mergan gradually allowed himself to become perplexed. Why had the 
young man's gold-brown hair been hacked short, as if by swift savage strokes 
of a scissors? And the garments: clearly a size too large for the spare 
frame!

"Speak!" commanded Mergan. "Can you hear? Tell me your name!"

The young man put on a thoughtful expression but remained silent.

"A vagabond of same sort," Mergan declared. "He probably wandered up from 
the dye-works. Send him off again down the road."

Dinster shook his head. "This lad's no vagabond. Look at his hands."

Mergan reluctantly followed Dinster's suggestion. The hands were strong and 
well kept and showed evidence neither of toil nor submersion in dye. The 
man's features were firm and even; the poise of his head suggested status. 
Mergan, who preferred to ignore the circumstances of his own birth, felt an 
uncomfortable tingle of deference and corresponding resentment. Again he 
barked at the young man: "Who are you? What is your name?"

"I don't know." The voice was slow and labored, and colored with an accent 
Mergan failed to recognize.

"Where is your home?"

"I don't know."

Mergan became unreasonably sarcastic. "Do you know anything?"

Dinster ventured an opinion. "Looks to me, sir, as if he came aboard one of 
yesterday's ships."

Mergan asked the young man: "What ship did you arrive on? Do you have 
friends here?"

The young man fixed him with a brooding dark-gray gaze, and Mergan became 
uncomfortable. He turned to Dinster. "Does he carry papers? Or money?"

Dinster muttered to the young man: "Excuse me, sir." Gingerly he groped 
through the pockets of the rumpled gray suit. "I can't find anything here, 
sir."

"What about ticket stubs, or vouchers, or tokens?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"It's what they call amnesia," said Mergan. He picked up a pamphlet and 
glanced down a list: "Six ships in, yesterday. He might have arrived on any 
of them." Mergan touched a button. A voice said: "Prosidine, arrival gate."

Mergan described the amnesiac. "Do you know anything about him? He arrived 
sometime yesterday."

"Yesterday was more than busy; I didn't take time to notice anything."

"Make inquiries of your people and notify me."

Mergan thought a moment, then called the Carfaunge hospital. He was 
connected to the Director of Admissions, who listened patiently enough, but 
made no constructive proposals. "We have no facilities here for such cases. 
He has no money, you say? Definitely not, then."

"What shall I do with him? He can't stay here!"

"Consult the police; they'll know what to do."

Mergan called the police, and presently an official arrived in a police van, 
and the amnesiac was led away.

At the Hall of Inquiry, Detective Squil attempted interrogation, without 
success. The police doctor experimented with hypnotism, and finally threw up 
his hands.

"A most stubborn condition; I have seen three previous cases, but nothing 
like this."

"What causes it?"

"Autosuggestion, occasioned by emotional stress. This is most usual. But 
here" - he waved toward the uncomprehending amnesiac - "my instruments show 
no psychic charge of any kind. He has no emotions, and I have no leverage."

Detective Squil, a reasonable man, asked: "What can he do to help himself? 
He is obviously no ruffian."

"He should take himself to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes."

Detective Squil laughed. "All very well. Who pays his fare?"

"The superintendent at the spaceport should be able to arrange passage, or 
so I should think."

Squil made a dubious sound but turned to his telephone. As he expected, the 
Respectable Mergan, having transferred responsibility to the police, wanted 
no further part of the situation. "The regulations are most explicit," said 
Mergan. "I certainly cannot do as you suggest."

"We can't keep him here at the station."

"He appears able-bodied; let him earn his fare, which after all is not 
exorbitant."

"Easier said than done, what with his disability."

"What generally happens to indigents?"

"You know as well as I do; they're sent out to Gaswin. But this man is 
mentally ill; he's not an indigent."

"I can't argue that, because I don't know. At least I've pointed out a 
course of action."

"What is the fare to Numenes?"

"Third class by Prydania Line: two hundred and twelve ozols."

Squil terminated the call. He swung about to face the amnesiac. "Do you 
understand what I say to you?"

The answer came in a clear voice. "Yes."

"You are ill. You have lost your memory. Do you realize this?"

There was a pause of ten seconds. Squil wondered if any response were 
forthcoming. Then, haltingly: "You have told me so."

"We will send you to a place where you can work and earn money. Do you know 
how to work?"

"No."

"Well, anyway, you need money: two hundred and twelve ozols. On Gaswin Moor 
you will earn three and a half ozols a day. In two or three months you will 
have earned enough money to take you to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes, 
where you will be cured of your illness. Do you understand all this?"

The amnesiac reflected a moment, but made no response.

Squil rose to his feet. "Gaswin will be a good place for you, and perhaps 
your memory will return." He dubiously considered the amnesiac's bland brown 
hair, which for mysterious reasons, someone had rudely cut short. "Do you 
have an enemy? Is there someone who does not like you?"

"I don't know. I can't remember any such person."

"What is your name?" shouted Squil, hoping to surprise that part of the 
brain which was withholding information.

The amnesiac's gray eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't know."

"Well, we have to find a name for you. Do you play hussade?"

"No."

"Think of that! A strong agile fellow like yourself! Still, we'll call you 
Pardero, after the great strike forward of the Schaide Thunderstones. So 
now, when someone calls out 'Pardero' you must respond. Is this understood?"

"Yes."

"Very well, and now you'll be an your way to Gaswin. The sooner you begin 
your work, the sooner you'll arrive on Numenes. I'll speak with the 
director; he's a good chap and he'll see to your welfare."

Pardero, as his name now would be, sat uncertainly.

Squil took pity on him. "It won't be so bad. Agreed, there are tough nuts at 
the work camp, but do you know how to handle them? You must be just a bit 
tougher than they are. Still, don't attract the attention of the 
disciplinary officer. You seem a decent fellow; I'll put in a word for you, 
and keep an eye on your progress. One bit of advice - no, two. First: never 
try to cheat on your work quota. The officials know all the tricks; they can 
smell out the sluggards as a kribbat smells out carrion. Second, do not 
gamble! Do you know what the word 'gamble' means?"

"No."

"It means to risk your money on games or wagers. Never be tempted or 
inveigled! Leave your money in the camp account! I advise you to form no 
friendships! Aside from yourself, there is only riff-raff at the camp. I 
wish you well. If you find trouble, call for Detective Squil. Can you 
remember that name?"

"Detective Squil."

"Good." Squil led the amnesiac out to a dock and put him aboard the daily 
transport to Gaswin. "A final word of advice! Confide in no one! Your name 
is Pardero; aside from this, keep your problems to yourself! Do you 
understand?"

"Yes."

"Good luck!"


The transport flew low under the overcast, close above the mottled black and 
purple moors, and presently landed beside a cluster of concrete buildings: 
the Gaswin Work Camp.

At the personnel office Pardero underwent entry formalities, facilitated by 
Squil's notification to the camp director. He was assigned a cubicle in a 
dormitory block, fitted with work boots and gloves, and issued a copy of 
camp regulations, which he studied without comprehension. On the next 
morning he was detailed into a work party and sent out to harvest pods from 
colucoid creeper, the source of a peculiarly rich red dye.

Pardero gathered his quota without difficulty. Among the taciturn group of 
indigents his deficiency went unnoticed.

He ate his evening meal in silence, ignoring the presence of his fellows, 
who at last had begun to sense that all was not well with Pardero.

The sun sank behind the clouds; a dismal twilight fell across the moors. 
Pardero sat to the side of the recreation hall, watching a comic melodrama 
on the holovision screen. He listened intently to the dialogue; each word 
seemed to find an instantly receptive niche inside his brain with a semantic 
concept ready at hand. His vocabulary grew and the range of his mental 
processes expanded. When the program was over he sat brooding, at last aware 
of his condition. He went to look into the mirror over the washbasin; the 
face which looked back at him was at once strange and familiar: a somber 
face with a good expanse of forehead, prominent cheekbones, hollow cheeks, 
dark gray eyes, a ragged thatch of dark gold hair.

A certain burly rogue named Woane attempted a jocularity. "Look yonder at 
Pardero! He stands like a man admiring a beautiful work of art!"

Pardero studied the mirror. Who was the man whose eyes stared so intently 
into his own?

Woane's hoarse murmur came from across the room. "Now he admires his 
haircut."

The remark amused Woane's friends. Pardero turned his head this way and 
that, wondering as to the motive behind the assault on his hair. Somewhere, 
it would seem, he had enemies. He turned slowly away from the mirror and 
resumed his seat at the side of the room.

The last traces of light left the sky; night had come to Gaswin Camp.

Something jerked deep at the bottom of Pardero's consciousness: a compulsion 
totally beyond his comprehension. He jumped to his feet. Woane looked around 
half-truculently, but Pardero's glance slid past him. Woane nevertheless saw 
or felt something sufficiently eery that his jaw dropped a trifle, and he 
muttered to his friends. All watched as Pardero crossed to the door and went 
out into the night.

Pardero stood on the porch. Floodlights cast a wan glow across the compound, 
now empty and desolate, inhabited only by the wind from the moors. Pardero 
stepped off the porch into the shadows. With no purpose he walked around the 
edge of the compound and out upon the moor; the camp became an illuminated 
island behind him.

Under the overcast, darkness was complete. Pardero felt an enlargement of 
the soul, an intoxication of power; as if he were an elemental born of the 
darkness, knowing no fear . . . He stopped short. His legs felt hard and 
strong; his hands tingled with competence. Gaswin Camp lay a half-mile 
behind him, the single visible object. Pardero took a deep throbbing breath, 
and again examined his consciousness, half-hoping, half-fearful of what he 
might find.

Nothing. Recollection extended to the Carfaunge spaceport. Events before 
were like voices remembered from a dream. Why was he here at Gaswin? To earn 
money. How long must he remain? He had forgotten, or perhaps the words had 
not registered. Pardero began to feel a suffocating agitation, a 
claustrophobia of the intellect. He lay down on the moor, beat his forehead, 
cried out in frustration.

Time passed. Pardero rose to his knees, gained his feet and slowly returned 
to the camp.


A week later Pardero learned of the camp doctor and his function. The next 
morning, during sick call, he presented himself to the dispensary. A dozen 
men sat on the benches while the doctor, a young man fresh from medical 
school, summoned them forward, one at a time. The complaints, real, 
imaginary, or contrived, were usually related to the work: backache, 
allergic reaction, congestion of the lungs, an infected lychbug sting. The 
doctor, young in years but already old in guile, sorted out the real from 
the fictitious, prescribing remedies for the first and irritant salves or 
vile-flavored medicines for the second.

Pardero was signaled to the desk and the doctor looked him up and down. 
"What's wrong with you?"

"I can't remember anything."

"Indeed." The doctor leaned back in his chair. "What is your name?"

"I don't know. Here at the camp they call me Pardero. Can you help me?"

"Probably not. Go back to the bench and let me finish up the sick call; 
it'll be just a few minutes."

The doctor dealt with his remaining patients and returned to Pardero. "Tell 
me haw far back you remember."

"I arrived at Carfaunge. I remember a spaceship. I remember the depot - but 
nothing before."

"Nothing whatever?"

"Nothing."

"Do you remember things you like, or dislike? Are you afraid of anything?"

"No."

"Amnesia typically derives from a subconscious intent to block out 
intolerable memories."

Pardero gave his head a dubious shake. "I don't think this is likely."

The doctor, both intrigued and bemused, uttered an uneasy half-embarrassed 
laugh. "Since you can't remember the circumstances, you aren't in a position 
to judge."

"I suppose that's true . . . Could something be wrong with my brain?"

"You mean physical damage? Do you have headaches or head pains? Any 
sensation of numbness or pressure?"

"No."

"Well, it's hardly likely a tumor would cause general amnesia in any event . 
. . Let me check my references . . ." He read for a few moments. "I could 
try hypnotherapy or shock. Candidly, I don't think I'd do you any Amnesia 
generally cures itself if left alone."

"I don't think I can cure myself. Something lies on my brain like a blanket. 
It suffocates me. I can't tear it loose. Can't you help me?"

There was a simplicity to Pardero's manner which appealed to the doctor. He 
also sensed strangeness: tragedy and drama beyond his conjecture.

"I would help you if I could," said the doctor. "With all my soul I would 
help you. But I wouldn't know what I should be doing. I'm not qualified to 
experiment on you."

"The police officer told me to go to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes."

"Yes, of course. This is best for you; I was about to suggest it myself."

"Where is Numenes? How do I go there?"

"You must go by starship. The fare is a little over two hundred ozols. That 
is what I have been told. You earn three and a half ozols a day - more if 
you exceed your quota. When you have two hundred and fifty ozols, go to 
Numenes. That is my best advice."


(1) Numerous systems of chronometry create confusion across Alastor Cluster 
and the Gaean Reach, despite attempts at reform. In any given locality, at 
least three systems of reckoning are in daily use: scientific chronometry, 
based upon the orbital frequency of the K-state hydrogen electron; 
astronomic time - 'Gaean Standard Time' - which provides synchronism across 
the human universe; and local time.



Chapter 2


Pardero worked with single-minded energy. Without fail he collected a half 
measure over his quota, and sometimes a total of two measures, which first 
excited jocular comment among his fellow workers, then sardonic sneers, and 
finally a cold, if covert, hostility. To compound his offenses Pardero 
refused to participate in the social activities of the camp, except to sit 
staring into the holovision screen, and thereby was credited with 
assumptions of superiority, which was indeed the case. He spent nothing at 
the commissary; despite all persuasions he refused to gamble, although 
occasionally he watched the games with a grim smile, which made certain of 
the players uneasy. Twice his locker was ransacked by someone who hoped to 
avail himself of Pardero's earnings, but Pardero had drawn no money from his 
account. Woane made one or two halfhearted attempts at intimidation, then 
decided to chastise the haughty Pardero, but he encountered such ferocious 
retaliation that he was glad to regain the sanctuary of the mess hall; and 
thereafter Pardero was strictly ignored.

At no time could Pardero detect any seepage through the barrier between his 
memory and his conscious mind. Always as he worked he wondered: "What kind 
of man am I? Where is my home? What do I know? Who are my friends? Who has 
committed this wrong against me?" He expended his frustration on the 
colucoid creeper and became known as a man possessed by as inner demon, to 
be avoided as carefully as possible.

For his part Pardero banished Gaswin to the most remote corner of his mind; 
he would take away as few memories as possible. The work he found tolerable; 
but he resented the name Pardero. To use a stranger's name was like wearing 
a stranger's clothes - not a fastidious act. Still the name served as well 
as any other; it was a minor annoyance.

More urgently unpleasant was the lack of privacy. He found detestable the 
close intimacy of three hundred other men, most especially at mealtimes, 
when he sat with his eyes fixed on his plate, to avoid the open maws, the 
mounds of food, the mastication. Impossible to ignore, however, were the 
belches, grants, hisses, and sighs of satiety. Surely this was not the life 
he had known in the past! What then had been his life?

The question produced only blankness, a void without information. Somewhere 
lived a person who had launched him across the Cluster with his hair hacked 
short and as denuded of identification as an egg. Some times when he 
pondered this enemy he seemed to hear wisps of possibly imaginary 
sound - echos of what might have been laughter, but when he poised his head 
to listen, the pulsations ceased.

The onset of darkness continued to trouble him. Often he felt urges to go 
forth into the dark - an impulse which he resisted, partly from fatigue, 
partly from a dread of abnormality. He reported his nocturnal restlessness 
to the camp doctor, who agreed that the tendency should be discouraged, at 
least until the source was known. The doctor commended Pardero for his 
industry, and advised the accumulation of at least two hundred and 
seventy-five ozols before departure, to allow for incidental expenses.

When Pardero's account reached two hundred and seventy-five ozols, he 
claimed his money from the bursar, and now, no longer an indigent, he was 
free to pursue his own destiny. He took a rather mournful leave of the 
doctor, whom he had come to like and respect, and boarded the transport for 
Carfaunge. He left Gaswin with a twinge of regret. He had known little 
pleasure here; still the place had given him refuge. He barely remembered 
Carfaunge, and the spaceport was no more than the recollection of a dream.

He saw nothing of Superintendent Mergan, but was recognized by Dinster the 
night porter, just coming on duty.

The Ectobant of the Prydania Line took Pardero to Baruilla, on Deulle, 
Alastor 2121, where he transferred to the Lusimar of the Gaean Trunk Line, 
and so was conveyed to Calypso Junction on Imber, and thence by the Wispen 
Argent to Numenes.

Pardero enjoyed the voyage: the multifarious sensations, incidents, and 
vistas amazed him. He had not imagined the variety of the Cluster: the 
comings and goings, the flux of faces, the gowns, robes, hats, ornaments, 
and bijouterie; the colors and lights and strains of strange music; the 
babble of voices; haunting glimpses of beautiful girls; drama, excitement, 
pathos; objects, faces, sounds, surprises. Could he have known all this and 
forgotten?

So far Pardero had not indulged in self-pity and his enemy had seemed a 
baleful abstraction. But how great and how callous the crime which had been 
performed upon him! He had been isolated from home, friends, sympathy, 
security; he had been rendered a neuter; his personality had been murdered.

Murder!

The word chilled his blood; he squirmed and winced. And from somewhere, from 
far distant, came the ghost of a sound: gusts of mocking laughter.

Approaching Numenes, the Wispen Argent first passed by Blazon, the next 
world out in orbit, to be cleared for landing, by the Whelm - a precaution 
to minimize the danger of an attack from space upon the Connatic's Palace. 
Having secured clearance; the Wispen Argent proceeded; Numenes slowly 
expanded.

At a distance of about three thousand miles that peculiar referential 
displacement occurred; instead of hanging off to the side, a destination 
across the void, Numenes became the world below, upon which the Wispen 
Argent descended - a brilliant panorama of white clouds, blue air, sparkling 
seas.

The Central Spaceport at Commarice occupied an area three miles in diameter, 
surrounded by a fringe of the tall jacinth palms and the usual spaceport 
offices, built in that low airy style also typical of Numenes.

Alighting from the Wispen Argent, Pardero rode a slideway to the terminal, 
where he sought information regarding the Connatic's Hospital. He was 
referred first to the Traveler's Aid Station, then to an office at the side 
of the terminal, where he was presented to a tall spare woman of 
indeterminate age in a white and blue uniform. She gave Pardero a laconic 
greeting. "I am Matron Gundal. I understand that you wish to be admitted to 
the Connatic's Hospital?"

"Yes."

Matron Gundal touched buttons, evidently to activate a recording mechanism. 
"Your name?"

"I am called Pardero. I do not know my true name."

Matron Gundal made no comment. "Place of origin?"

"I don't know."

"Your complaint?"

"Amnesia."

Matron Gundal gave him a noncommittal inspection, which perhaps indicated 
interest. "What about your physical health?"

"It seems to be good."

"An orderly will conduct you to the hospital." Matron Gundal raised her 
voice. "Ariel."

A blond young woman entered the room, her uniform somewhat at discord with 
her sunny good looks. Matron Gundal gave her directions: "Please conduct 
this gentleman to the Connatic's Hospital." To Pardero: "Have you luggage?"

"No."

"I wish you a quick recovery."

The orderly smiled politely at Pardero. "This way, please."

An aircab slid them northward across the blue and green landscape of Flor 
Solana, with Ariel maintaining an easy flow of conversation. "Have you 
visited Numenes before?"

"I don't know; I don't remember anything earlier than the last two or three 
months."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear this!" said Ariel in confusion. "Well, in case you 
don't know, there are no real continents here on Numenes, just islands. 
Everybody who lives here owns a boat."

"That seems very pleasant."

Ariel gingerly touched upon Pardero's disability, watching sidelong to see 
if he evinced sensitivity or discomfort. "What a strange sensation not to 
know yourself! How does it feel?"

Pardero considered a moment. "Well - it doesn't hurt."

"I'm relieved to bear that! Think: you might be almost anyone - perhaps rich 
and important!"

"More likely I'm someone very ordinary: a road-mender, or a wandering 
dog-barber."

"I'm sure not!" declared Ariel. "You seem - well . . ." she hesitated, then 
continued with a half-embarrassed laugh "- a very confident and intelligent 
person."

"I hope you are right." Pardero looked at her and sighed, wistful that her 
fresh blond charm must so soon pass from his life. "What will they do with 
me?"

"Nothing alarming. Your case will be studied by very clever persons using 
the most elaborate mechanisms. Almost certainly you will be cured."

Pardero felt a pang of uneasiness. "It's quite a gamble. I might easily be 
someone I don't want to be."

Ariel could not restrain a grin. "As I understand it, this is the reason 
persons become amnesiac in the first place."

Pardero made a glum sound. "Aren't you alarmed, riding with a man who likely 
is a shameful criminal?"

"I'm paid to be brave. I escort persons much more alarming than you."

Pardero looked out across Flor Solana Island. Ahead he saw a pavilion 
constructed of pale ribs and translucent panels, whose complexity was 
obscured behind jacinth palms and cinniborines.

As the aircab approached, six domes became evident, with wings radiating in 
six directions. Pardero asked: "Is this the hospital?"

"The hospital is everything you see. The Hexad is the computative center. 
The smaller buildings are laboratories and surgeries. Patients are housed in 
the wings. That will be your home until you are restored to health."

Pardero asked diffidently: "And what of you? Will I see you again?"

Ariel's dimples deepened. "Do you want to?"

Pardero soberly considered the range of his inclinations. "Yes."

Ariel said half-teasingly: "You'll be so preoccupied that you'll forget all 
about me."

"I never want to forget anything again."

Ariel chewed her lip thoughtfully. "You remember nothing of your past life?"

"Nothing."

"Maybe you have a family: someone who loves you, and children."

"I suppose this is possible . . . Somehow I suspect otherwise."

"Most men seem to suspect otherwise . . . Well, I'll have to think about it."

The aircab landed; the two alighted and walked along a tree-shaded avenue 
toward the Hexad. Ariel glanced at him sidewise, and perhaps his obvious 
foreboding excited her compassion. She said in a voice which she intended to 
be cheerful but impersonal: "I'm out here often and as soon as you've 
started your treatments I'll come to see you."

Pardero smiled wanly. "I'll look forward to the occasion."

She conducted him to the reception area, and spoke a few words to an 
official, then took her leave. "Don't forget!" she called over her shoulder, 
and the impersonality, intentionally or not, was gone from her voice. "I'll 
see you soon!"


"I am O.T. Kolodin," said a large rather rumpled man with an oversize nose 
and sparse untidy dark hair. "'O.T.' means 'Ordinary Technician'; just call 
me Kolodin. You're on my list, so we'll be seeing something of each other. 
Come along; I'll get you settled."

Pardero bathed, submitted to a physical examination, and was issued a pale 
blue lightweight suit. Kolodin showed him to his chamber along one of the 
wings, and the two took a meal on a nearby terrace. Kolodin, not too much 
older than Pardero but incalculably more sophisticated, took a lively 
interest in Pardero's condition. "I've never come in contact with such a 
case before. Fascinating! It's almost a shame to cure you!"

Pardero managed a wry smile. "I have doubts of my own. I'm told that I can't 
remember because of some thing I want to forget. I might not like being 
cured."

"It is a difficult position," Kolodin agreed. "Still, affairs may not be so 
bad after all." He glanced at his thumbnail, which responded with a set of 
glowing numbers. "In fifteen minutes we'll meet with M.T. Rady, who will 
decide upon your therapy."

The two returned to the Hexad. Kolodin ushered Pardero into the office of 
Master Technician Rady, and a moment later Rady himself appeared: a thin 
sharp-eyed man of middle age who already seemed to know the data relevant to 
Pardero's case. He asked: "The spaceship which brought you to Bruse-Tansel: 
how was it named?"

"I can't remember much about it."

Rady nodded and touched a square of coarse sponge to each of Pardero's 
shoulders. "This is an inoculation to facilitate a relaxed mind-state . . . 
Relax back into your chair. Can you fix your mind upon something pleasant?"

The room dimmed; Pardero thought of Ariel. Rady said: "On the wall you will 
see a pair of designs. I want you to examine them, or if you prefer, you may 
close your eyes and rest . . . In fact, relax completely, and listen only to 
my voice; and when I tell you to sleep, then you may sleep."

The designs on the wall, pulsed and swam; a soft sound, waxing and waning, 
seemed to absorb and obliterate all other sounds of the universe. The shapes 
on the wall had expanded to surround him, and the only reality was himself 
and his inner mind.

"I don't know." The voice sounded as if it were coming from a distant room, 
although it was his own voice. Odd. He heard a mumble whose significance he 
only half-heeded: "What was your father's name?"

"I don't know."

"What was your mother's name?"

"I don't know."

More questions, sometimes casual, sometimes urgent, and always the same 
response, and finally the cessation of sound.

Pardero awoke in an empty office. Almost immediately Rady returned, to stand 
looking down at Pardero with a faint smile.

Pardero asked: "What did you learn?"

"Nothing to speak of. How do you feel?"

"Tired."

"Quite normal. For the rest of the day, rest. Don't worry about your 
condition; somehow we'll get to the bottom of your case."

"Suppose there's nothing there? Suppose I have no memory?"

Rady refused to take the idea seriously. "Every cell in your body has a 
memory. Your mind stores facts on many levels. For instance you have not 
forgotten how to speak."

Pardero said dubiously: "When I arrived at Carfaunge, I knew very little. I 
could not talk. As soon as I heard a word I remembered its meaning and I 
could use it."

Rady gave a curt nod. "This is the basis of a therapy we might well try."

Pardero hesitated. "I might find my memory and discover myself to be a 
criminal."

Rady's eyes gleamed. "That is a chance you must take. The Connatic, after 
restoring your memory, might then decide to put you to death."

Pardero grimaced. "Does the Connatic ever visit the hospital?"

"Undoubtedly. "Undoubtedly. He goes everywhere."

"What does he look like?"

Rady shrugged. "In his official photographs he seems an important and 
imposing nobleman, because of his dress and accoutrements. But when he walks 
abroad, he goes quietly and is never recognized, and this is what he likes 
best. Four trillion folk inhabit Alastor Cluster, and it is said that the 
Connatic knows what each of them eats for breakfast."

"In that case," said Pardero, "perhaps I should simply go to ask the 
Connatic for the facts of my life."

"It might come to that."

The days passed, and then a week, and then two weeks. Rady attempted a dozen 
stratagems to loosen the blocked linkages in Pardero's mind. He recorded 
responses to a gamut of stimulations: colors, sounds, odors, tastes, 
textures; heights and depths; lights and degrees of darkness On. a more 
complex level he charted Pardero's reactions, overt, physiological, and 
cephalic, to absurdities and festivals, erotic conditions, cruelties and 
horrors, the faces of men, women, and children. A computational mechanism 
assimilated the results of the tests, compared them to known parameters, and 
synthesized an analog of Pardero's psyche.

Rady, when he finally assessed the results of his tests, found little 
enlightenment. "Your basic reflexes are ordinary enough; one anomaly is your 
reaction to darkness, by which you seem to be curiously stimulated. Your 
social perceptivity seems underdeveloped, for which the amnesia may be to 
blame. You appear to be assertive rather than retiring; your response to 
music is minimal and color symbology has little meaning for you - possibly 
by reason of your amnesia. Odors stimulate you rather more than I might 
expect - but to no significant degree." Rady leaned, back in his chair. 
"These tests might easily provoke some sort of conscious response. Have you 
noticed anything whatever?"

"Nothing."

Rady nodded. "Very well. We will try a new tack. The theoretical basis is 
this: if your amnesia has resulted from circumstances which you are 
determined to forget, we can dissolve the amnesia by bringing these events 
to your conscious attention again. In order to do this, we must learn the 
nature of the traumatic circumstances. In short we must learn your identity 
and home environment."

Pardero frowned and looked out the window. Rady watched intently. "You don't 
care to learn your identity."

Pardero gave him a crooked smile. "I did not say so."

Rady shrugged. "The choice is yours. You can walk out of here at any time. 
The Social Service will find you employment and you can start a new life."

Pardero shook his head. "I never could evade the pressure. Perhaps there are 
people who need me, who now grieve for me."

Rady said only: "Tomorrow we'll start the detective work."


An hour after twilight Pardero met Ariel at a cafe and reported the events 
of the day. "Rady admitted bafflement," said Pardero, with something like 
gloomy satisfaction. "Not in so many words of course. He also said that the 
only way to learn where I came from was to find out where I lived. In short, 
he wants to send me home. First we must find home. The detective work starts 
tomorrow."

Ariel nodded thoughtfully. Tonight she was not her usual self; in fact, 
thought Pardero, she seemed strained, and preoccupied. He reached out to 
touch her soft blond hair, but she drew back.

"And then?" she asked.

"Nothing much. He told me that if I were reluctant to proceed, now was the 
time to make a decision."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him that I had to go on, that perhaps somewhere people searched for 
me."

Ariel's blue eyes darkened sorrowfully. "I cannot see you anymore, Pardero."

"Oh? Why not?"

"For just the reasons you cited. Amnesiacs always wander away from their 
homes and then - well, form new attachments. Then their memory returns and 
the situation ends in tragedy." Ariel rose to her feet. "I'll say good-by 
now, before I change my mind." She touched his hand, then walked away from 
the table. Pardero watched her diminish down the avenue. He made no move to 
stop her.


Instead of one day, three days passed before O.T. Kolodin sought out 
Pardero. "Today we visit the Connatic's Palace and explore the Ring of 
Worlds."

"I'll enjoy the excursion. But why?"

"I've been looking into your past, and it turns out to be a hopeless tangle; 
or, more properly, a blur of uncertainties."

"I could have told you that myself."

"No doubt, but one must never take anything for granted. The facts, duly 
certified, are these. Sometime on tenth Mariel Gaean you appeared at 
Carfaunge Spaceport. This was an unusually busy day and you might have 
arrived aboard any of six ships of four different transport lines. The 
previous routes of these ships took them to a total of twenty-eight worlds, 
any of which might be your place of origin. Nine of these worlds are 
important junctions and it is possible that you made your voyage by two or 
even three stages. Amnesia would not be an insuperable objection. Stewards 
and depot personnel, taking you for a lackwit, would consult your ticket and 
shift you from ship to ship. In any case the number of worlds, depots, 
ships, and possible linkages becomes unmanageable. Or at least an inquiry of 
last resort. First we will visit the Connatic! Though I doubt if he will 
receive us personally."

"Too. bad! I would like to pay my respects."

They rode by aircab across Flor Solana to Moniscq, a town beside the sea, 
thence under the Ocean of Equatorial Storms by submarine tunnel to Tremone 
Island. An airbus flew them south, and presently the Connatic's so-called 
"palace" became visible, appearing first as a fragile shine, an 
unsubstantial glimmer in the air, which solidified into a tower of 
stupendous dimensions, standing upon five pylons, footed upon five islands. 
A thousand feet above the sea the pylons joined and flared, creating a dome 
of five groins, the underside of the first deck. Above rose the tower, up 
through the lower air, up through the sunny upper air, through a wisp of 
cirrus to terminate in the high sunlight. Kolodin asked casually: "Have you 
such towers on your home world?"(1)

Pardero glanced at him skeptically. "Are you trying to trick me? If I knew 
this, I wouldn't be here." He returned to contemplation of the tower. "And 
where does the Connatic live?"

"He has apartments at the pinnacle. Perhaps he stands up there now, by one 
of his windows. Again, perhaps not. It is never certain; after all, 
dissidents, rogues, and rebels are not unknown to Alastor, and precautions 
are in order. Suppose, for example, that an assassin were sent to Numenes in 
the guise of an amnesiac, or perhaps as an amnesiac with horrid instructions 
latent in his mind."

"I have no weapons," said Pardero. "I am no assassin. The very thought 
causes me to shudder."

"I must make a note of this. I believe that your psychometry also showed an 
aversion to murder. Well, if you are an assassin, the plan will not succeed, 
as I doubt if we shall see the Connatic today."

"Who then will we be seeing?"

"A certain demosophist named Ollave, who has access to the data banks and 
the collating machinery. Quite possibly we will today learn the name of your 
home world."

Pardero gave the matter his usual careful consideration. "And then what will 
happen to me?"

"Well," said Kolodin cautiously, "three options at least are open. You can 
continue therapy at the hospital, although I fear that Rady is discouraged. 
You cart accept your condition and attempt a new life. You can return to 
your home world."

Pardero made no comment, and Kolodin delicately forebore to put any further 
questions.

A slideway conveyed them to the base of the near pylon, from which 
perspective the tower's proportions could no longer be sensibly discerned, 
and only the sensation of overwhelming mass and transcendent engineering 
remained.

The two ascended in an elevator bubble; the sea, the shore, and Tremone 
Island dropped below.

"The first three decks and the six lower promenades are reserved for the use 
and pleasure of tourists. Here they may wander for days enjoying simple 
relaxation or, at choice, exotic entertainments. They may sleep without 
charge in simple chambers, although luxurious apartments are available at 
nominal expense. They may dine upon familiar staples or they may test every 
reputable cuisine. of the Cluster and elsewhere, again at minimal cost. 
Travelers come and go by the millions; such is the Connatic's wish. Now we 
pass the administrative decks, which house the government agencies and the 
offices of the Twenty-Four Agents . . . Now we pass the Ring of Worlds, and 
up to the College of Anthropological Sciences, and here is our destination. 
Ollave is a man most knowledgeable and, if anything can be learned he will 
learn it."

They stepped forth into a lobby tiled in blue and white. Kolodin spoke the 
name Ollave toward a black disk, and presently Ollave appeared. He was a man 
of undistinguished appearance, his face sallow and pensive, with a long thin 
nose and black hair receding from a narrow forehead. He greeted Kolodin and 
Pardero in a voice unexpectedly heavy and took them into a sparsely 
furnished office. Pardero and Kolodin sat in chairs and Ollave settled 
behind leis desk. Ollave addressed Pardero: "As I understand the situation, 
you remember nothing of your early life."

"This is true."

"I cannot give you your memory," said Ollave, "but if you are native to 
Alastor Cluster, I should be able to determine your world of origin, perhaps 
the precise locality of your home district."

"How will you do that?"

Ollave indicated his desk. "I have on record your anthropometry, 
physiological indices, details as to your somatic chemistry, psychic 
profile - in fact all the information Technicians Rady and Kolodin have been 
able to adduce. Perhaps you are aware that residence upon any particular 
world in any specific society, and participation in any way of life leaves 
traces, mental and physical. These traces unfortunately are not absolutely 
specific, and some are too subtle to be reliably measured. For instance, if 
you are characterized by blood type RC3, it is then unlikely that your home 
world is Azulias. Your intestinal bacteria furnish clues, as does the 
musculature of your legs, the chemical composition of your hair, the 
presence and nature of any body fungus or internal parasite; the pigments of 
your skin. If you make use of gestures these may be typified: Other social 
reflexes such as areas and degrees of personal modesty are also indicative, 
but these require long and patient observation and again may be obscured by 
the amnesia. Dentition and dental repairs sometimes offer a clue, as does 
hairstyling. So now: do you understand the process? Those parameters to 
which we can assign numerical weights are processed in a computer, which 
will then present us a list of places in descending order of probability.

"We will prepare two other such lists. To those worlds most convenient to 
Carfaunge Spaceport we will assign probability factors, and we will try to 
codify your cultural reflexes: a complex undertaking, as the amnesia no 
doubt has muted much of this data, and you have in the meantime acquired a 
set of new habits. Still, if you will step into the laboratory, we will try 
to make a reading."

In the laboratory Ollave sat Pardero in a massive chair, fitted receptors to 
various parts of his body, and adjusted a battery of contacts to his head. 
Over Pardero's eyes he placed optical hemispheres and clamped earphones to 
his ears.

"First we establish your sensitivity to archetypal concepts. Amnesia may 
well dampen or distort the responses, and according to M.T. Rady yours is an 
extraordinary case. Still; if the cerebellum only is occluded other areas of 
the nervous system will provide information. If we get any signals whatever, 
we will assume that their relative strength has remained constant. The 
recent overlay we will try to screen out. You are to do nothing, merely sit 
quiet; attempt neither to feel nor not to feel; your internal faculties will 
provide us all we want to know." He closed the hemispheres over Pardero's 
eyes. "First, a set of elemental concepts."

To Pardero's eyes and ears were presented scenes and sounds: a sunlit 
forest, surf breaking upon a beach, a meadow sprinkled with flowers, a 
mountain valley roaring to a winter storm; a sunset, a starry night, a view 
over a calm ocean, a city street, a road winding aver placid hills, a 
spaceship.

"Now another series," came Ollave's voice. Pardero saw a campfire surrounded 
by shadowy figures, a beautiful nude maiden, a corpse dangling from a 
gibbet, a warrior in black steel armor galloping on a horse, a parade of 
harlequins and clowns, a sailboat plunging through the waves, three old 
ladies sitting on a bench.

"Next, musics."

A series of musical sounds entered Pardero's ears: a pair of chords, several 
orchestral essays, a fanfare, the music of a harp, a jig, and a merrydown.

"Now faces."

A stern and grizzled man stared at Pardero, a child, a middle-aged woman, a 
girl, a face twisted into a sneer, a boy laughing, a man in pain, a woman 
weeping.

"Vehicles."

Pardero saw boats, chariots, landvehicles, aircraft, spaceships.

"The body."

Pardero saw a hand, a face, a tongue, a nose, an abdomen, male and female 
genital organs, an eye, an open mouth, buttocks, a foot.

"Places."

A cabin beside a lake, a palace of a dozen domes and cupolas in a garden, a 
wooden hut, an urban tenement, a houseboat, a temple, a laboratory, the 
mouth of a cave.

"Objects."

A sword, a tree, a coil of rope, a mountain crag, an energy gun, a plow with 
a shovel and hoe, an official proclamation with a red seal, flowers in a 
vase, books on a shelf, an open book on a lectern, carpenter's tools, a 
selection of musical instruments, mathematical adjuncts, a retort, a whip, 
an engine, an embroidered pillow, a set of maps and charts, draughting 
instruments and blank paper.

"Abstract symbols."

Patterns appeared before Pardero's vision: combinations of lines, 
geometrical shapes, numbers, linguistic characters, a clenched fist, a 
pointing finger, a foot with small wings growing from the ankles.

"And finally . . ." Pardero saw himself - from a distance, then close at 
hand. He looked into his own face.

Ollave removed the apparatus. "The signals were extremely faint but 
perceptible. We have recorded your psychometrics and now can establish your 
so-called cultural index."

"What have you learned?"

Ollave gave Pardero a rather queer look. "Your reactions are inconsistent, 
to use an understatement. You would seem to derive from a most remarkable 
society. You fear the dark, yet it challenges and exalts you. You fear 
women; you are made uneasy by the female body - still the concept of 
femininity tantalizes you. You respond positively to martial tactics, heroic 
encounters, weapons and uniforms; on the other hand you abhor violence and 
pain. Your other reactions are equally contradictory. The question becomes, 
do all these strange responses form a pattern, or do they indicate 
derangement? I will not speculate. The data have been fed into an integrator 
together with the other material I mentioned. No doubt the report is ready 
for us."

"I am almost afraid to examine it," murmured Pardero. "I would seem to be 
unique."

Ollave made no further comment; they returned to the office, where O.T. 
Kolodin waited patiently. From a register Ollave drew forth a square of 
white paper. "Here is our report." In a manner perhaps unconsciously 
dramatic he studied the printout. "A pattern has appeared." He read the 
sheet again. "Ah yes . . . Eighteen localities on five worlds are 
identified. The probabilities for four of these worlds, with seventeen of 
the localities, aggregate three percent. The probability for the single 
locality on the fifth world is rated at eighty-nine percent, which under the 
circumstances is equivalent to near-certainty. In my opinion, Master 
Pardero, or whatever your name, you are a Rhune from the Rhune Realms, east 
of Port Mar on the North Continent of Marune, Alastor 933."


(1) A drab translation of the word geisling, which carries warmer and dearer 
connotations.



Chapter 3


In the blue- and white-tiled lobby Kolodin asked Pardero: "Well - so you are 
a Rhune. What then? Do you recognize the word?"

"Not at all."

"I suspected not."

Ollave joined them. "Let's go acquaint ourselves with this world of yours. 
The Ring is directly below; Chamber 933 will be on Level Five. To the 
descendor!"

As the bubble dropped them down the levels, Kolodin discoursed upon the Ring 
of Worlds. "- one of the few areas controlled by entrance permit. Not so in 
the early days. Anyone might visit his world's chamber and there perform 
whatever nuisance entered his head, such as writing his name on the wall, or 
inserting a pin into the globe at the site of his home, or altering the 
lineage of local nobility; or placing scurrilous reports into the records. 
As a result we must now declare ourselves."

"Luckily my credentials will facilitate the matter," aid Ollave drily.

The formalities accomplished, an attendant took them to that portal numbered 
933 and allowed them admittance.

In the center of the chamber a globe ten feet in diameter floated close 
above the floor, rotating easily to the touch. "And there you see Marune," 
said Kolodin. "Does it appear familiar? . . . As I expected."

Ollave touched the globe. "A small dense world of no great population. The 
color gradients represent relief; Marune is a most rugged world. Notice 
these peaks and chasms! The olive green areas are polar tundra; the smooth 
blue metal is open water: not a great deal, relatively speaking. Note too 
these vast equatorial bogs! Certainly there is little habitable land." He 
touched a button; the globe sparkled with small pink light-points. "There 
you see the population distribution: Port Mar seems to be the largest city. 
But feel free to look around the chamber; perhaps you will see something to 
stimulate your memory."

Pardero moved here and there, studying the exhibits, charts, and cases with 
only tentative interest. Presently he asked in a rather hollow voice: "How 
far away is this planet?"

Kolodin took him to a three-dimensional representation of Alastor Cluster. 
"Here we are. on Numenes, beside this yellow star." He touched a button, a 
red indicator blinked, near the side of the display. "There is Marune, 
almost at the Cold Edge, in the Fontinella Wisp. Bruse-Tansel is somewhere 
about there, where those grid lines come together." He moved to another 
display. "This represents the local environment: a four-star group. Marune 
is" - he touched a button - "at the end of the red arrow, orbiting close 
around the orange dwarf Furad. The green star is Cirse, the blue dwarf is 
Osmo, the red dwarf is Maddar. A spectacular location for a planet, among 
such a frolic of stars! Maddar and Cirse swing close around each other; 
Furad, with Marune keeping its monthly orbit, curves around Osmo; the four 
stars dance a fine saraband down the Fontinella Wisp."

Then Kolodin read from a placard on the wall. "'On Marune, day and night do 
not alternate as is the case with most planets. Instead, there are varying 
conditions of light, depending upon which sun or suns rule the sky; and 
these periods are designated by a specific nomenclature. Aud, isp, red 
rowan, green rowan, and umber are the ordinary gradations. Night occurs at 
intervals regulated by a complex pattern, on the average about once every 
thirty days.

"'Most of Marune is poorly adapted to human habitation and the population is 
small, divided about equally between agriculturists of the lowland slopes 
and residents of the several cities, of which Port Mar is by far the most 
important. East of Port Mar are the Mountain Realms, inhabited by those 
aloof and eccentric warrior-scholars known as Rhunes, whose numbers are not 
accurately known. The native fauna includes a quasi-intelligent biped of 
placid disposition: the Fwai-chi. These creatures inhabit highland forests 
and are protected from molestation both by statute and by local custom. For 
more detailed information, consult the catalogue.'"

Pardero went to the globe and presently discovered Port Mar. To the east 
rose a succession of enormous mountain ranges, the high crags rising past 
the timber line, up past snow and glaciers, into regions where rain and 
snowfall no longer existed. A multitude of small rivers drained the region, 
wandering along narrow upland valleys, expanding to become lakes, pouring 
over precipices to reconstitute themselves in new lakes or new streams 
below. Certain of the valleys were named: Haun, Gorgetto, Zangloreis, 
Eccord, Wintaree, Disbague, Morluke, Tuillin, Scharrode, Ronduce, a dozen 
others, all sounding of an odd or archaic dialect. Some of the names lay 
easy on his tongue, as if he well knew their proper pronunciation; and when 
Kolodin, peering over his shoulder, read them off, he noticed the faulty 
inflections, though he told Kolodin nothing of this.

Ollave called him and indicated a tall glass case. "What do you think of 
this?"

"Who are they?"

"An eiodarkal trismet."

"Those words mean nothing to me."

"They are Rhune terms, of course; I thought you might recognize them. An 
'eiodark' is a high-ranking baron; 'trisme' is an institution analogous to 
marriage. 'Trismet' designates the people involved."

Pardero inspected the two figures. Both were represented to be tall, spare, 
dark-haired, and fair of complexion. The man wore a complicated costume of 
dark red cloth, a vest of black metal strips, a ceremonial helmet contrived 
of black metal and black fabric. The woman wore garments somewhat simpler: a 
long shapeless gown of gray gauze, white slippers, a loose black cap which 
framed the white starkly modeled features.

"Typical Rhunes," said Ollave. "They totally reject cosmopolitan standards 
and styles. Notice them as they stand there. Observe the cool and 
dispassionate expressions. Notice also, their garments have no elements in 
common, a clear signal that in the Rhune society male and female roles 
differ. Each is a mystery to the other; they might be members of different 
races!" He glanced sharply at Pardero. "Do they suggest anything to you?"

"They are not strange, no more than the language was strange at Carfaunge."

"Just so." Crossing the chamber to a projection screen, Ollave touched 
buttons. "Here is Port Mar, on the edge of the highlands."

A voice from the screen supplied a commentary to the scene. "You view the 
city Port Mar as you might from an aircar approaching from the south. The 
time is aud, which is to say, full daylight, with Furad, Maddar, Osmo, and 
Cirse in the sky."

The screen displayed a panorama of small residences half-concealed by 
foliage: structures built of dark timber and pink-tan stucco. The roofs rose 
at steep pitches, joining in all manner of irregular angles and eccentric 
gables: a style quaint and unusual. In many cases the houses had been 
extended and enlarged, the additions growing casually from the old 
structures like crystals growing from crystals. Other structures, abandoned, 
had fallen into ruins. "These houses were built by Majars, the original 
inhabitants of Marune. Very few pure-blooded Majars remain; the race is 
almost extinct, and Majartown is falling into disuse. The Majars, with the 
Rhunes, named the planet, which originally was known as 'Majar-Rhune'. The 
Rhunes, arriving upon Marune, decimated the Majars, but were expelled by 
the Whelm into the eastern mountains, where to this day they are allowed no 
weapons of energy or attack."

The angle of view shifted to a hostelry of stately proportions. The 
commentator spoke: "Here you see the Royal Rhune Hotel, invariably 
patronized by those Rhunes who must visit Port Mar. The management is 
attentive to the special and particular Rhune needs."

The view shifted across a river to a district somewhat more modern. "You now 
observe the New Town," said the commentator. "The Port Mar College of Arts 
and Technics, situated nearby, claims a distinguished faculty and almost ten 
thousand students, deriving both from Port Mar and from the agricultural 
tracts to the south and west. There are no Rhunes in attendance at the 
college."

Pardero asked Ollave, "And why is that?"

"The Rhunes prefer their own educational processes."

"They seem an unusual people."

"In many respects."

"And I am one of these remarkable persons."

"So it would seem. Let us look into the Mountain Realms." Ollave consulted 
an index. "First I'll show you one of the autochthones: the Fwai-chi, as 
they are called." He touched a button, to reveal a high mountainside patched 
with snow and sparsely forested with gnarled black trees. The view expanded 
toward one of these trees, to center upon the rugose brown-black trunk, 
which stirred and moved. Away from the tree shambled a bulky brown-black 
biped with a loose pelt, all shags and tatters. The commentator spoke: "Here 
you see a Fwai-chi. These creatures, after their own fashion, are 
intelligent, and as such they are protected by the Connatic. The shags of 
its skin are not merely camouflage against the snow bears; they are organs 
for the production of hormones and the reproductive stimule. Occasionally 
the Fwai-chi will be seen nibbling each other; they are ingesting a stuff 
which reacts with a bud on the wall of their stomachs. The bud develops into 
an infant, which in due course is vomited into the world. Along the trailing 
fringes of other shags other semivital stimules are produced.

"The Fwai-chi are placid, but not helpless if provoked too far; indeed they 
are said to possess important parapsychic competence, and no one dares 
molest them."

The view shifted, down the mountainside to the valley floor. A village of 
fifty stone houses occupied a meadow beside the river; from a bluff a tall 
mansion, or castle, overlooked the valley. To Kolodin's eye, the mansion, or 
castle, evinced an archaic overelaboration of shape and detail; additionally 
the proportions appeared cramped, the construction disproportionately heavy, 
the windows too few, too tall and narrow. He put to Pardero a question: 
"What do you think of this?"

"I don't remember it." Pardero raised his hands to his temples, pressed and 
rubbed. "I feel pressure; I want to see no more."

"Certainly not," declared Ollave jauntily. "We'll go at once." And he added: 
"Come up to my office; I'll pour you a sedative, and you'll feel less 
perturbation."

Returning to the Connatic's Hospital, Pardero sat silently for most of the 
trip. At last he asked Kolodin: "How soon can I go to Marune?"

"Whenever you like," said, Kolodin, and then added, in the tentative voice 
of a person hoping to persuade a captious child: "But why hurry? Is the 
hospital so dreary? Take a few weeks to study and learn, and to make some 
careful plans."

"I want to learn two names: my own and that of my enemy."

Kolodin blinked. He had miscalculated the intensity of Pardero's emotions. 
"Perhaps no enemy exists," stated Kolodin somewhat ponderously. "He is not 
absolutely necessary to your condition."

Pardero managed a small sour smile. "When I arrived at the Carfaunge 
spaceport, my hair had been hacked short. I considered it a mystery until I 
saw the simulated Rhune eiodark. Did you notice his hair?"

"It was combed straight over the scalp and down across the neck."

"And this is a distinctive style?"

"Well - it's hardly common, though not bizarre or unique. It is distinctive 
enough to facilitate identification."

Pardero nodded gloomily. "My enemy intended that no one should identify me 
as a Rhune. He cut my hair, dressed me in a clown's suit, then put me on a 
spaceship and sent me across the Cluster, hoping I would never return."

"So it would seem. Still, why did he not simply kill you and roll you into a 
ditch? How much more decisive!"

"Rhunes fear killing, except in war: this I have learned from Ollave."

Kolodin surreptitiously studied Pardero who sat brooding across the 
landscape. Remarkable the alteration! In a few hours, from a person 
uninformed, vague, and confused, Pardero had become a man purposeful and 
integrated; a man, so Kolodin would guess, of strong passions under stern 
control, and after all was not this the way of the Rhunes? "For the sake of 
argument, let us assume that this enemy exists," said Kolodin laboriously. 
"He knows you; you do not know him. You will arrive at Port Mar at a 
disadvantage, and perhaps at considerable risk."

Pardero seemed almost amused. "So then, must I avoid Port Mar? I reckon on 
this risk; I intend to prepare against it."

"And how will you so prepare?"

"First I want to learn as much as possible about the Rhunes."

"Simple enough," said Kolodin. "The knowledge is in Chamber 933. What next?"

"I have not decided."

Sensing evasion, Kolodin pursed his lips. "The Connatic's law is exact: 
Rhunes are allowed neither energy weapons nor airvehicles."

Pardero grinned. "I am no Rhune until I learn my identity."

"In a technical sense, this is true," said Kolodin cautiously.


Something over a month later Kolodin accompanied Pardero to the Central 
Spaceport at Commarice, and out across the field to the Dylas Extranuator. 
The two said goodbye at the embarkation ramp. "I probably will never see you 
again," said Kolodin, and much as I would like to know the outcome of your 
quest, I probably will never learn."

Pardero replied in a flat voice, "I thank you for your help and for your 
personal kindness."

From a Rhune, thought Kolodin, even an occluded Rhune, this was almost 
effusiveness. He spoke in a guarded voice: "A month ago you hinted at your 
need for a weapon. Have you obtained such an item?"

"No," said Pardero. "I thought to wait until I was beyond the range of the 
Connatic's immediate attention, so to speak."

With furtive glances to left and right Kolodin tucked a small carton into 
Pardero's pocket. "You are now carrying a Dys Model G Skull-splitter. 
Instructions are included in the package. Don't flourish it about; the laws 
are explicit. Good-by, good luck, and communicate with me if possible."

"Again, thank you." Pardero clasped Kolodin's shoulders, then turned away 
and boarded the ship.

Kolodin returned to the terminal and ascended to the observation deck. Half 
an hour later he watched the black, red and gold spaceship loft into the 
air, slide off and away from Numenes.



Chapter 4


During the month previous to his departure, Pardero spent many hours in 
Chamber 933 along the Ring of Worlds. Kolodin occasionally kept him company; 
Oswen Ollave, as often, came down from his offices to discuss the perplexing 
habits of the Rhunes.

Ollave prepared a chart which he insisted that Pardero memorize.

 ______________________________________________________
|          |          |          |          |          |
|          |  FURAD   |   OSMO   |  MADDAR  |  CIRSE   |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|          |          |          |    X     |    X     |
|   AUD    |    X     |    X     |   EITHER OR BOTH    |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|          |          |          |          |          |
|   ISP    |          |    X     |    X     | WITH OR  |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|    X     |
|  CHILL   |          |          |          | WITHOUT  |
|   ISP    |          |    X     |          |          |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|          |          |          |    X     |    X     |
|  UMBER   |    X     |          |   EITHER OR BOTH    |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|   LORN   |          |          |          |          |
|  UMBER   |    X     |          |          |          |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|          |          |          |          |          |
|  ROWAN   |          |          |    X     |    X     |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|   RED    |          |          |          |          |
|  ROWAN   |          |          |    X     |          |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|  GREEN   |          |          |          |          |
|  ROWAN   |          |          |          |    X     |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|
|          |          |          |          |          |
|   MIRK   |          |          |          |          |
|__________|__________|__________|__________|__________|

"The chart indicates Marune's ordinary conditions of daylight(1), during 
which the character of the landscape changes profoundly. The population is 
naturally affected, and most especially the Rhunes." Ollave's voice had 
taken on a pedantic suavity, and he enunciated his words with precision. 
"Port Mar is hardly notable for sophistication. The Rhunes, however, 
consider Port Mar a most worldly place, characterized by shameless 
alimentation, slackness, laxity, and a kind of bestial lasciviousness to 
which they apply the term 'sebalism.'

"In the Old Town at Port Mar a handful of exiles live - young Rhunes who 
have rebelled against their society, or who have been ejected for lapses of 
conduct. They are a demoralized, miserable, and bitter group; all criticize 
their parents, who, so they claim, have withheld counsel and guidance. To 
a certain extent this is true; Rhunes feel that their precepts are 
self-evident even to the understanding of a child - which of course they are 
not; nowhere in the Cluster are conventions more arbitrary. For instance, 
the process of ingesting food is considered as deplorable as the final 
outcome of digestion, and eating is done as privately as possible. The child 
is supposed to arrive at this viewpoint as well as other Rhune conventions 
automatically. He is expected to excel in arcane and impractical skills; he 
must quell his sebalism."

Pardero stirred restlessly. "You have used this word before; I do not 
understand it."

"It is the special Rhune concept for sexuality, which the Rhunes find 
disgusting. How then do they procreate? It is cause for wonder. But they 
have solved the problem with elegance and ingenuity. During mirk, in the 
dark of the suns, they undergo a remarkable transformation. Do you wish to 
hear about it? If so, you must allow me a measure of discursiveness, as the 
subject is most wonderful!

"About once a month, the land grows dark, and the Rhunes become restless. 
Some lock themselves into their homes; others array themselves in odd 
costumes and go forth into the night where they perform the most astonishing 
deeds. The baron whose rectitude is unquestioned robs and beats one of his 
tenants. A staid matron commits daring acts of unmentionable depravity. No 
one who allows himself to be accessible is safe. What a mystery then! How to 
reconcile such conduct with the decorum of daylight? No one tries to do so; 
night-deeds are considered hardships for which no one is held responsible, 
like nightmares. Mirk is a time of unreality. Events during mirk are unreal, 
and guilt has no basis.

"During mirk, sebalism is rampant. Indeed, sexual activity occurs only as a 
night-deed, only in the guise of rape. Marriage - 'trisme,' as it is called 
- is never considered a sexual pairing, but rather an alliance - a joining 
of economic or political forces. Sexual acts, if they occur, will be 
night-deeds - acts of purported rape. The male participant wears a black 
garment over his shoulders, arms, and upper chest, and boots of black cloth. 
Over his head he wears a man-mask. His torso is naked. He is purposely 
grotesque, an abstraction of male sexuality. His costume depersonalizes him 
and maximizes the fantasy or unreal elements. The man enters the chamber 
where the woman sleeps, or pretends to sleep; and in utter silence 
copulation occurs. Neither virginity nor its absence is significant, nor are 
either so much as a subject for speculation. The Rhune dialect contains no 
such word.

"So there you have the state of 'trisme.' Between trismetics friendship may 
exist, but the two address each other formally. Intimacy between any two 
people is rare. Rooms are large, so that folk need not huddle together, nor 
even approach. No person purposely touches another; in fact the occupations 
which require physical contact, such as barbering, doctoring, 
clothes-fitting, are considered pariah trades. For such services the Rhunes 
journey into Port Mar. A parent neither strikes nor caresses his child; a 
warrior attempts to kill his enemy at a distance, and weapons such as swords 
and daggers have only ceremonial function.

"Now allow me to describe the act of eating. On those rare occasions when a 
Rhune is forced to dine in the company of others he ingests his food behind 
a napkin, or at the back of a device unique to Marune: a screen on a metal 
pedestal, placed before the diner's face. At formal banquets no food is 
served - only wafts of varied and complicated odors, the selection and 
presentation being considered a creative skill.

"The Rhunes lack humor. They are highly sensitive to insult; a Rhune will 
never submit to ridicule. Lifelong friends must reckon with each other's 
sensibilities and then rely upon a complicated etiquette to lubricate social 
occasions. In short, it seems as if the Rhunes deny themselves all the usual 
human pleasures. What do they substitute?

"In the first place, the Rhune is exquisitely sensitive to his landscapes of 
mountain, meadow, forest, and sky - all changing with the changing modes of 
day. He reckons his land by its aesthetic appeal; he will connive a lifetime 
to gain a few choice acres. He enjoys pomp, protocol, heraldic minutiae; his 
niceties and graces are judged as carefully as the figures of a ballet. He 
prides himself on his collection of sherliken scales; or the emeralds which 
he has mined, cut, and polished with his own hands; or his Arah magic 
wheels, imported from halfway across the Gaean Reach. He will perfect 
himself in special mathematics, or an ancient language, or the lore of 
fanfares, or all three, or three other abstrusities. His calligraphy and 
draftsmanship are taken for granted; his life work is his Book of Deeds, 
which he executes and illustrates and decorates with fervor and exactitude. 
A few of these books have reached the market; in the Reach they command 
enormous prices as curios.

"The Rhune is not a likeable man. He is so sensitive as to be truculent; he 
is contemptuous of all other races than the Rhune. He is self-centered, 
arrogant, unsympathetic in his judgments.

"Naturally I allude to the typical Rhune, from whom an individual may 
deviate, and everything I have said applies no less to the women as the men.

"The Rhunes display correspondingly large virtues: dignity, courage, honor, 
intellects of incomprehensible complexity - though here again, individuals 
may differ from the norm.

"Anyone who owns land considers himself an aristocrat, and the hierarchy 
descends from kaiark, through kang, eiodark, baronet, baron, knight, and 
squire. The Fwai-chi have retreated from the Realms, but still make their 
pilgrimages through the upper forests and along the high places. There is no 
interaction between the two races.

"Needless to say, among a people so passionate, proud, and reckless, and so 
anxious to expand their land holdings, conflict is not unknown. The force of 
the Connatic's Second Edict and, more effectively, an embargo upon energy 
weapons, has eliminated formal war. But raids and forays are common, and 
enmities last forever. The rules of warfare are based upon two principles. 
First, no man may attack a person of higher rank than himself; second, since 
blood violence is a mirk-deed, killing is achieved at a distance with 
blast-bolts; aristocrats however use swords and so demonstrate fortitude. 
Ordinary warriors will not look at a man in the face and kill him; such an 
act haunts a man forever - unless the act is done by mirk, when it becomes 
no more than a nightmare. But only if unplanned. Premeditated murder by mirk 
is vile murder."

Pardero said, "Now I know why my enemy sent me off to Bruse-Tansel instead 
of leaving me dead in a ditch."

"There is a second argument against murder: it cannot be concealed. The 
Fwai-chi detect crimes, and no one escapes; it is said that they can taste a 
dead man's blood and cite all the circumstances of his death."


On this evening Pardero and Kolodin chose to spend the night in the tourist 
chambers on the lower decks of the tower. Kolodin made a videophone call and 
returned with a slip of paper, which he handed to Pardero. "The results of 
my inquiries. I asked myself, what ship leaving Port Mar would land you at 
Carfaunge Spaceport on tenth Mariel Gaean? Traffic Central's computer 
provided a name and a date. On 2 Ferario Gaean the Berenicia of the Black 
and Red Line departed Port Mar. More than likely you were aboard."

Pardero tucked the paper into his pocket. "Another matter which concerns me: 
how do I pay my passage to Marune? I have no money."

Kolodin made an expansive gesture. "No difficulties there. Your 
rehabilitation includes an extra thousand ozols for just this purpose. Any 
more worries?"

Pardero grinned. "Lots of them."

"You'll have an interesting time of it," said Kolodin.


The Dylas Extranuator drove out past the Pentagram, circled the diadem in 
the horn of the Unicorn, and coasted into Tsambara, Alastor 1317. Here 
Pardero made connection with a ship of the Black and Red Line which, after 
touching into a number of remote little places, veered off along the 
Fontinella Wisp and presently approached an isolated system of four dwarfs 
respectively orange, blue, green, and red.

Marune, Alastor 933, expanded below, to show a surface somewhat dark and 
heavy textured below its fleets and shoals of clouds. The ship descended and 
settled upon the Port Mar Spaceport. Pardero and a dozen other passengers 
alighted, surrendered their last ticket coupon, passed through the lobby and 
out upon the soil of Marune.

The time was isp. Osmo glared blue halfway up the southern sky; Maddar rode 
at the zenith; Cirse peered over the northeast horizon. The light was a 
trifle cold, but rich with those overtones provided by Maddar and Cirse, so 
that objects cast a three-phase shadow.

Pardero halted before the terminal, looked around the landscape, across the 
sky, inhaled a deep breath, exhaled. The air tasted fresh, cool, and tart, 
unlike both the dank air of Bruse-Tansel and the warm sweet air of Numenes. 
The suns sliding in different directions across the sky, the subtle lights, 
the taste of the air, soothed an ache in his mind he had not heretofore 
noticed. A mile to the west the structures of Port Mar stood clear and 
crisp; beyond the land fell away. The view seemed not at all strange. Whence 
came the familiarity? From research in Chamber 933? Or from his own 
experience? To the east the land swelled and rose in receding masses of ever 
higher mountains, reaching up to awesome heights. The peaks gleamed white 
with snow and gray with granite scree; below, bands of dark forest muted the 
slopes. Mass collided with light to create shape and shadow; the clarity of 
the air as it swept through the spaces was almost palpable.

The waiting bus sounded an impatient chime; Pardero slowly climbed aboard, 
and the bus moved off along the Avenue of Strangers toward Port Mar.

The attendant made an announcement: "First stop, the Traveler's Inn. Second, 
the Outworld Inn. Then the Royal Rhune Hotel. Then over the bridge into New 
Town for the Cassander Inn and the University Inn."

Pardero chose the Outworld Inn which seemed sufficiently large and 
impersonal. Imminence hung in the air, so heavy that his enemy must also be 
oppressed.

Pardero cautiously surveyed the lobby of the Outworld Inn, but saw only 
off-world folk who paid him no heed. The hotel personnel ignored him. So 
far, so good.

He took a lunch of soup, cold meat, and bread in the dining room, as much to 
compose himself as to appease his appetite. He lingered at the table 
reviewing his plans. To broadcast the fewest ripples of disturbance, he must 
move softly, delicately, working from the periphery inward.

He left the hotel and sauntered back up the Avenue of Strangers toward the 
green-glass dome of the spaceport terminal. As he walked, Osmo dipped low 
and sank behind the western edge of Port Mar. Isp became rowan, with Cirse 
and Maddar yet in the sky, to produce a warm soft light that hung in the air 
like haze.

Arriving at the terminal, Pardero entered and went to the reception desk. 
The clerk came forward - a small portly man with the cinnamon skin and 
golden eyes of an upper-caste Majar, one of those who lived in the timber 
and stucco houses on the slopes at the back of Old Town.

"How may I serve you, sir?"

Clearly Pardero aroused in his mind no quiver of recognition.

"Perhaps you can provide me some information," said Pardero. "On or about 2 
Ferario, I took passage aboard the Berenicia of the Black and Red Line. One 
of the other passengers asked me to perform a small errand, which I was 
unable to achieve. Now I must notify him but I have forgotten his name, and 
I would like to glance at the relevant passenger list."

"No difficulties here, sir; the ledger is easily consulted." A display 
screen lit up; the clerk turned a knob; figures and listings flicked past. 
"Here we are at 2 Ferario. Quite correct, sir. The Berenicia arrived, took 
aboard eight passengers, and departed."

Pardero studied the passenger list. "Why are the names in different columns?"

"By order of the Demographical Institute, so that they may gauge traffic 
between the worlds. Here are transients upon Marune taking departure. These 
names - only two, as you see - represent folk of Marune bound for other 
worlds."

"My man would be one of these. Which ones took passage to Bruse-Tansel?"

The clerk, somewhat puzzled, consulted the list "Neither. Baron Shimrod's 
destination was Xampias. The Noble Serle Glaize boarded the ship on an 
'open' ticket."

"What sort of ticket is this?"

"It is often purchased by a tourist who lacks a fixed destination. The 
ticket provides a stipulated number of travel-units; when these are 
exhausted the tourist purchases further units to fit his particular needs."

"This 'open ticket' used by Serle Glaize, how far might it have taken him? 
To Bruse-Tansel, for instance?"

"The Berenicia does not put into Bruse-Tansel, but let me see. One hundred 
and forty-eight ozols to Dadarnisse Junction; to Bruce-Tassel one hundred 
and two ozols . . . Yes, indeed. You will notice that the Noble Serle Glaize 
bought an open ticket to the value of two hundred and fifty ozols: to 
Bruce-Tassel exactly."

"So: Serle Glaize. This is my man." Pardero reflected upon the name. It 
lacked all resonance, all familiar flavor. He passed two ozols across the 
counter to the clerk, who took them with grave courtesy.

Pardero asked: "Who sold the ticket to Serle Glaise?"

"The initial is 'Y'; that would be Yanek, on the next shift."

"Perhaps you could telephone Yanek and ask if he recalls the circumstances. 
I will pay five ozols for significant information."

The clerk eyed Pardero sidelong. "What sort of information do you consider 
significant?"

"Who bought the ticket? I doubt if Serle Glaize did so himself. He must have 
come with a companion whose identity I wish to learn."

The clerk went to a telephone and spoke in a guarded manner, from tune to 
time glancing over his shoulder toward. Pardero. At last he returned, his 
manner somewhat subdued. "Yanek barely recalls the matter. He believes that 
the ticket was bought by a person in a black Rhune cape, who also wore a 
gray casque with a visor and malar flaps, so that his features made no 
impression upon Yanek. The time was busy; Yanek was preoccupied and noticed 
no more."

"This is not the information I require," Pardero grumbled. "Is there anyone 
who can tell me more?"

"I can think of no one, sir."

"Very well." Pardero counted down another two ozols. "This is for your kind 
cooperation."

"Thank you, sir. Allow me to make a suggestion. The Rhunes who visit Port 
Mar without exception use the Royal Rhune Hotel. Information, however, may 
be hard to come by."

"Thank you for the suggestion."

"Are you not a Rhune yourself, sir?"

"After a fashion, yes."

The clerk nodded and uttered a soft chuckle. "A Majar will mistake a Rhune 
never indeed, oh never . . ."


In a pensive mood Pardero returned along the Avenue of Strangers. The 
learned computations of M.T. Rady, the sociopsychic deductions of Oswen 
Ollave had been validated. Still, by what obscure means had the Majar 
recognized him? His features were not at all peculiar; his pigmentation was 
hardly distinctive; his clothes and hairstyle were, by cosmopolitan 
standards, ordinary enough; in short, he differed little from any other 
guest at the Outworld Inn. No doubt he betrayed himself by unconscious 
gestures or attitudes; perhaps he was more of a Rhune than he felt himself 
to be.

The Avenue of Strangers ended at the river; as Pardero reached the bridge 
Madder slanted behind the western lowlands; Cirse moved slowly up the sky: 
green rowan. Green ripples flickered across the water; the white walls of 
New Town shone pale apple-green. Along the riverfront festoons of lights 
appeared, indicating places of entertainment: beer gardens, dance pavilions, 
restaurants. Pardero scowled at the brashness of the scene, then gave a soft 
rueful snort. Had he surprised a set of Rhune attitudes surfacing through 
his amnesia?

Pardero turned into the narrow Street of Brass Bones, which curved gradually 
up-slope, between ancient structures of age-blackened wood. The shops facing 
out upon the street uniformly showed a pair of high windows, a brass-bound 
door, and only the most unobtrusive indication as to their wares, as if each 
strove to exceed his neighbor in reserve.

The Street of Brass Boxes ended in a dim shadowed square, surrounded by 
curio shops, bookstores, specialty houses of many varieties. Pardero saw his 
first Rhunes, moving from shop to shop, pondering the merchandise, 
indicating their needs to the Majar shopkeepers with indifferent flicks of 
the finger. None of them so much as glanced toward Pardero, which caused him 
irrationally mixed feelings.

He crossed the square and turned up the Avenue of Black Jangkars to an 
arched portal in a stone wall. He passed beneath and approached the Royal 
Rhune Hotel. He halted before the vestibule. Once inside the Royal Rhune 
there could be no turning back; he must accept the consequences of his 
return to Marune.

Through the tall doors stepped two men and a woman - the men wearing 
costumes of beige and black with dark red sashes, so similar as to suggest 
military uniforms; the woman, almost as tall as either of the men, wore a 
tight blue-gray body suit, with an indigo cape draping from black 
epaulettes: a mode considered suitable far visits to Port Mar, where the 
formal gauze gowns of the Realms were inappropriate. The three marched past 
Pardero, each allowing him a single glance. Pardero sensed no flicker of 
recognition. Small cause for surprise since the Rhunes numbered well over a 
hundred thousand.

Pardero pushed aside the tall gaunt doors which seemed a part of the Rhune 
architectural environment. The lobby was an enormous high-ceilinged room 
with sounds echoing across a bare russet and black tile floor. The chairs 
were upholstered in leather. The central table displayed a variety of 
technical magazines and at the far end of the room a rack held brochures 
advertising tools, chemicals, craft supplies, papers and inks, rare woods 
and stones. A tall narrow arch flanked by columns of fluted green stone 
communicated with the office. Pardero looked briefly around the lobby and 
passed through the arch.

A clerk of advanced age rose to his feet and approached the counter; despite 
age, a bald head, and unctuous wattles, his manner was alert and 
punctilious. In an instant he assessed Pardero, his garments and mannerisms, 
and performed a bow of precisely calibrated courtesy. "How may we oblige 
you, sir?" As he spoke a trace of uncertainty seemed to enter his manner.

"Several months ago," said Pardero, "about the first of Ferario to be more 
precise, I was a guest at this hotel, and I wish to refresh my 
recollections. Will you be so good as to show me the records for this date?"

"As you require, Your Dignity."(2) The clerk turned Pardero a second 
half-surreptitious side-glance, and his manner altered even further, 
becoming tinged with doubt, or uneasiness, or even anxiety. He bent with an 
almost audible creaking of vertebrae and elevated a leather-bound ledger to 
the counter. With a reverential flourish he parted the covers, and one by 
one turned the pages, each of which. displayed a schematic chart of the 
hotel's accommodations, with notations in inks of various colors. "Here, 
Dignity, is the date you mention. If you choose to advise me, I will assist 
you."

Pardero inspected the ledger, but could not decipher the archaic calligraphy.

In a voice meant to convey an exquisite and comprehensive discretion the 
clerk spoke on. "On this phase our facilities were not overextended. In our 
'Sincere Courtesy' wing, we housed the trismets(3) of various gentlefolk. 
You will notice the chambers so indicated. In our 'Approbation' 
accommodations we served the Eiodark Torde and the Wirwove Ippolita, with 
their respective trismets. The 'Altitude' suite was occupied by the Kaiark 
Rianlle of Eccord, the Kraike Dervas, the Lissolet Maerio. In the 
'Hyperion' suite we entertained the late Kaiark Jochaim of Scharrode, may 
his ghost be quickly appeased, with the Kraike Singhalissa, the Kangs Efraim 
and Destian, and the Lissolet Sthelany." The clerk turned his trembling and 
dubious smile upon Pardero. "Do I not now have the honor of addressing His 
Force the new Kaiark of Scharrode?"

Pardero said somewhat ponderously: "You recognize me then?"

"Yes, Your Force, now that I have spoken with you. I admit to confusion; 
your presence has altered in a way which I hardly know how to explain. You 
seem, shall we say, more mature, more controlled, and of course your foreign 
garments enhance these differences. But I am certain that I am right." The 
clerk peered in sudden doubt. "Am I not, Your Force?"

Pardero smiled coolly. "How could you demonstrate the fact one way or the 
other without my assurance?"

The clerk muffled an exclamation. Muttering under his breath he brought to 
the counter a second leather-bound volume, twice the size of the ledger. He 
glanced peevishly toward Pardero, then turned thick pages of pale brown 
parchment.

Pardero asked: "What book is that?"

The clerk looked up from the pages, and now his gray old lips sagged 
incredulously. "I have here the Great Rhune Almanac. Are you not familiar 
with it?"

Pardero managed a curt nod. "Show me the folk who occupied the Hyperion 
suite."

"Inexorable Force, I was about to do so." The clerk turned pages. On the 
left were genealogical charts, ladders, linkages, and trees, indited in rich 
inks of various colors; on the right photographs were arranged in patterns 
relative to the charts: thousands upon thousands of names, an equal number 
of likenesses. The clerk turned pages with maddening deliberation. At last 
he halted, pondered a moment, then tapped the page with his finger. "The 
lineage of Scharrode."

Pardero could restrain himself no longer. He turned the volume about and 
studied the photographs.

Halfway down the page a pale-haired man of middle maturity looked forth. His 
face, angular and bleak, suggested an interesting complexity of character. 
The forehead might have been that of a scholars the wide mouth seemed 
composed against some unwelcome or unfashionable emotion, such as humor. 
The superscription read: Jochaim, House of Benbuphar, Seventy-ninth Kaiark.

A green linkage led to the still face of a woman, her expression 
unfathomable. The caption read: Alferica, House of Jent. Below, a heavy 
maroon line led to the countenance of an unsmiling young man: a face which 
Pardero recognized as his own. The caption read: Efraim, House of Benbuphar, 
Kang of the Realm.

At least I now know my name, thought Pardero. I am Efraim, and I was Kang, 
and now I am Kaiark. I am a man of high rank! He looked up at the clerk, 
surprising a shrewd and intent scrutiny. "You are curious," said Efraim. 
"There is no mystery. I have been off-planet and have just returned. I know 
nothing of what has happened in my absence. The Kaiark Jochaim is dead?"

"Yes, Your Force. There has been uncertainty and confusion, so I understand. 
You have been the subject of concern, since now, of course, you are the 
Eightieth Kaiark, and the allowable lapse has almost transpired."

Efraim nodded slowly. "So now I am Kaiark of Scharrode." He returned to the 
almanac, conscious of the clerk's gaze.

The other faces on the page were three. From Jochaim a second green line 
descended to the face of a handsome dark-haired woman with a pale high 
forehead, blazing black eyes, a keen high-bridged nose. The caption 
identified her as Kraike Singhalissa. From Singhalissa vermilion lines led 
first to a dark-haired young man with the aquiline features of his mother: 
Kang Destian, and a girl, dark-haired and pale, with pensive features and a 
mouth drooping at the corners, a girl in fact of rather remarkable beauty. 
The caption identified her as the Lissolet Sthelany.

Efraim spoke in a voice he tried to keep matter-of-fact: "What do you recall 
of our visit here to Port Mar?"

The clerk reflected. "The two trismets, of Scharrode and Eccord, arrived in 
concert, and in general conducted themselves as a single party. The younger 
persons visited New Town, while their elders transacted business. Certain 
tensions became evident. There followed a discussion of the visit to New 
Town, of which several of the older persons disapproved. Most exercised were 
the Kraike Singhalissa, and the Kaiark Rianlle, who thought that the 
expedition lacked dignity. When you failed to appear by isp 25 of the Third 
Cycle, everyone felt concern; evidently you had failed to apprise anyone of 
your departure."

"Evidently," said Efraim. "Did mirk occur during our visit?"

"No; there was no mirk."

"You heard no remarks, you recall no circumstances which might explain my 
departure?"

The clerk looked puzzled. "A most curious question, Your Force! I remember 
nothing of consequence, though I was surprised to hear that you had 
acquainted yourself with that off-world vagabond." He sniffed. "No doubt he 
took advantage of your condescension; he is known as a persuasive rogue."

"Which off-world vagabond is this?"

"What? Do you not remember exploring New Town with the fellow Lorcas?"

"I had forgotten his name. Lorcas, you say?"

"Matho Lorcas. He consorts with New Town trash; he is fugleman for all these 
sebal cretins at the university."

"And when did Kaiark Jochaim die?"

"Soon after his return to Scharrode, in battle against Gosso, Kaiark of 
Gorgetto. You have returned opportunely. In another several days you would 
no longer be kaiark, and I have heard that Kaiark Rianlle has proposed a 
trisme to unite the realms of Eccord and Scharrode. Now that you 
are returned, conditions may be altered." The clerk turned pages in the 
almanac. "Kaiark Rianlle is an intense and determined man." The clerk tapped 
a photograph. Efraim saw a handsome distinguished face, framed by a casque 
of shining silver ringlets. The Kraike Dervas, looked forth blankly; her 
face seemed to lack distinctive character. The same was true of the Lissolet 
Maerio, who stared forth expressionlessly, but who nonetheless displayed a 
youthful if rather vacuous prettiness.

The clerk asked cautiously: "Do you plan to stay with us, Force?"

"I think not. And I wish you to say nothing whatever of my return to Marune. 
I must clarify certain circumstances."

"I quite understand, Force. Thank you very much indeed!" - this last for the 
ten ozols which Efraim had placed on the counter.

Efraim emerged from the hotel into a melancholy umber. He walked slowly back 
down the Avenue of Black Jangkars, and coming once more to the square he now 
took time to walk around, and with awe and wonder investigated the shops. 
Could there exist anywhere in all Alastor Cluster a richer concentration of 
the arcane, the esoteric, the special? And Efraim wondered what had been his 
own fields of erudition, his own unique virtuosities. Whatever they were, he 
retained none of them; his mind was a blank.

Somewhat mournfully he proceeded down the Street of Brass Boxes to the 
river. New Town appeared quiet. Festoons of lights still glowed along the 
riverfront, but the beer gardens and cafes lacked animation. Efraim turned 
away, walked up the Avenue of Strangers to the Outworld Inn. He went to his 
chamber and slept.

He dreamt a series of vivid dreams and awoke in a flush of excitement. After 
a moment he tried to reform the shattered images into focus so that he might 
grasp the meanings which had marched across his sleeping mind. To no avail. 
Composing himself, he slept once more until a gong announced the hour of 
breakfast.


(1) These are the modes recognized by the folk of Port Mar. Both the Majars 
and the Rhunes make more elaborate distinctions.

The progression of the modes is rendered complex by reason of the diurnal 
rotation of Marune, the revolution of Marune around Furad,the motion of 
Furad and Osmo around each other, the orbital motions of Madder and Cirse, 
around each other and jointly around the Furad-Osmo system. The planes of no 
two orbiting systems are alike.

The Fwai-chi, who lack all knowledge of astronomy, can reliably predict the 
modes for as far in the future as anyone cares to inquire.

Among the low mountains south of Port Mar live a 'lost' community of about 
ten thousand Majars, decadent, inbred, and gradually diminishing in numbers. 
These folk are slavishly affected by the modes of day. They regulate their 
moods, diet, attire, and, activities by the changes. During mirk, the Majars 
lock themselves in their huts, and by the light of oil lamps chant 
imprecations against Galula the Goblin who mauls and eviscerates anyone 
unlucky enough to be abroad after dark. Some such entity as Galula indeed 
exists, but has never been satisfactorily identified.

The Rhunes, as proud and competent as the Majars are demoralized, are also 
strongly affected by the changing modes. Behavior proper during one mode may 
be considered absurd or in poor taste during another. Persons advance their 
erudition and hone their special skills during aud, isp, and amber. Formal 
ceremonies tend to take plane during isp, as well as during the remarkable 
Ceremony of Odors. It may be noted that music is considered hyperemotional 
and inducive to vulgar conduct; it is never heard in the Rhune Realms. Aud 
is the appropriate time to go forth to battle, to conduct litigation, fight 
a duel, collect rent. Green rowan is a time for poetry and sentimental 
musing; red rowan allows the Rhune slightly to relax his etiquette. A man 
may condescend to take a glass of wine in company with other men, all using 
etiquette screens; women similarly may sip cordials or brandy. Chill isp 
inspires the Rhune with a thrilling ascetic exultation, which completely 
supersedes lesser emotions of love, hate, jealousy, greed. Conversation 
occurs in a hushed archaic dialect; brave ventures are planned; gallant 
resolves sworn; schemes of glory proposed and ratified, and many of these 
projects become fact, and go into the Book of Deeds.

(2) The all-purpose honorific, somewhat more respectful than a simple 'sir,' 
to be applied to Rhunes of indeterminate status.

(3) Trismet: The group of persons resulting from a 'trisme,' the Rhune 
analog of marriage. These persons might be a man and leis trismetic female 
partner; or a man, the female partner, one or more of her children (of which 
the man may or may not be the sire). 'Family' approximates the meaning of 
'trismet' but carries a package of inaccurate and inapplicable connotations. 
Paternity is often an uncertain determination; rank and status, therefore, 
are derived from the mother.



Chapter 5


Efraim emerged from the hotel into that phase sometimes known as half-aud. 
Furad and Osmo ruled the sky, to produce a warm yellow light, which 
connoisseurs of such matters considered fresh, effervescent, and gay, but 
lacking the richness and suavity of full aud. He stood for a moment 
breathing the cool air. His melancholy had diminished; better to be Kaiark 
Efraim of Scharrode than Efraim the butcher, or Efraim the cook, or Efraim 
the garbage collector.

He set off along the Avenue of Strangers. Arriving at the bridge, instead of 
veering left into the Street of Brass Boxes he crossed into New Town, and 
discovered an environment totally different from that of Old Town.

The geography of New Town, so Efraim would discover, was simple. Four 
thoroughfares paralleled the river: the Estrada, which terminated at the 
university; the Avenue of the Agency; then the Avenue of Haune and the 
Avenue of Douaune, after Osmo's two small dead planets.

Efraim walked westward along the Estrada, examining the cafes and beer 
gardens with wistful interest. To his present perspective they seemed almost 
flagrantly innocent. He stepped into one of the beer gardens and glanced 
toward the young man and girl who sat huddled so closely together. Could he 
ever feel so easily licentious in full view of everyone? Perhaps even now he 
had not escaped the strictures of his past, which after all was less than 
six months gone.

He approached a portly man in a white apron who seemed to be the manager. 
"Sir, are you acquainted with a certain Matho Lorcas?"

"Matho Lorcas? I do not know the gentleman."

Efraim continued west along the Estrada and presently at a booth devoted to 
the sale of off-world periodicals the name 'Matho Lorcas' sparked 
recognition. The girl attendant pointed along the avenue: "Ask there, in the 
Satyr's Cave. You might find him at work. If not, they know his dwelling."

Matho Lorcas was indeed at work, serving mugs of beer along the bar. He was 
a tall young man with a keen vivacious face. His dark hair was cut short in 
a casual and unassuming style. When he spoke his thin crooked mouth worked 
dozens of changes across his face. Efraim watched him a moment before 
approaching. Matho Lorcas was a person whose humor, intelligence, and easy 
flamboyance might well excite the antagonism of less favored individuals. 
Hard to suspect malice, or even guile, in Matho Lorcas. The fact remained 
that soon after making Lorcas' acquaintance Efraim had been rendered 
mindless and shipped off across the Cluster.

Efraim approached the bar and took a seat; Lorcas approached Efraim asked: 
"You are Matho Lorcas?"

"Yes indeed!"

"Do you recognize me?"

Lorcas gave Efraim a frowning scrutiny. His face cleared. "You are the 
Rhune! I forget your name."

"Efraim, of Scharrode."

"I remember you well, and the two girls you escorted. How grave and proper 
their behavior! You have changed! In fact you seem a different person. How 
goes life in your mountain realm?"

"As usual, or so I suppose. I am most anxious to have a few words with you. 
When will you be free?"

"At any time. Right now, if you like; I am bored with the work. Ramono! Take 
charge of affairs!" He ducked under the bar and asked of Efraim: "Will you 
take a mug of beer? Or perhaps a glass of Del wine?"

"No thank you." Efraim had decided upon a policy of caution and reserve. "It 
is early in the day for me."

"Just as you like. Come, let us sit over here where we can watch the river 
flow by. So. Do you know, I have often wondered about you, and how you 
eventually - well, shall we say, accommodated yourself to your dilemma, 
pleasant though it might have been."

"How do you mean?"

"The two beautiful girls you escorted - though I realize in the Mountain 
Realms things aren't done quite so easily."

Aware that he must seem dense and dull, Efraim asked: "What do you recall of 
the occasion?"

Lorcas held up his hands in protest. "So long ago? After so many other 
occasions? Let me think . . ." He grinned. "I deceive you. In truth, I've 
thought long and often of those two girls, so alike, so different, and oh, 
how wasted in those ineffable Mountain Realms! They walk and talk like 
enchanted blocks of ice - though I suspect that one or the other, or both, 
under the proper circumstances might easily melt; and I for one would 
rejoice to arrange such circumstances. You consider me sebal? I'm far worse; 
I'm positively chorastic!"(1) He glanced sidelong toward Efraim. "You don't 
seem appalled, or even shocked. For a fact you are a person different from 
the earnest young Kang of six months ago."

"This may well be true," said Efraim without impatience. "Returning to that 
occasion, what happened?"

Lorcas turned Efraim another quizzical side-glance. "You don't remember?"

"Not well."

"Odd. You seemed quite alert. You recall how we met?"

"Not too well."

Lorcas gave a half-incredulous shrug. "I had just stepped out of the 
Caduceus Book Shop. You approached and asked directions to the Fairy 
Gardens, where at the time Galligade's Puppets were entertaining. The mode 
as I recall was low aud, going into umber, which always seems to me to be a 
rather festive time. I noted that you and the Kang Destian - so I recall his 
name - escorted not one but two pretty girls, and I'd never had the 
opportunity to meet a Rhune before, so I volunteered to conduct you in 
person. At the Fairy Gardens we found that Galligade had just finished his 
show and the disappointment of the girls prompted me to a spasm of insane 
altruism. I insisted on acting as your host not my usual conduct, I assure 
you. I ordered a bottle of wine and etiquette screens for those who 
considered them necessary, and so there we were: the Lissolet Sthelany, 
observing me with aristocratic detachment, the other girl - I forget her 
name -"

"The Lissolet Maerio."

"Correct. She was only a trifle more cordial, though, mind you, I'm making 
no complaints. Then there was the Kang Destian, who was sardonic and surly, 
and yourself, who behaved with elegant formality. You were the first Rhunes 
I'd met, and when I found you to be of royal blood, I thought my efforts and 
ozols well spent.

"So we sat and drank the wine and listened to the music. More accurately, I 
drank wine. You and the Lissolet Maerio, thoroughly daring, sipped behind 
your etiquette screens. The other two declared themselves uninterested. The 
girls watched the students and marveled at the crassness and sebalism. I 
fell in love with the Lissolet Sthelany, who of course was oblivious. I used 
all my charm; she studied me with fascinated revulsion and presently she and 
Destian returned to the hotel.

"You and the Lissolet Maerio remained until Destian came back with orders 
that Maerio return to the hotel. You and I were left alone. I was due at the 
Three Lanterns; you walked up Jibberee Hill with me. I went to work; and you 
returned to the hotel: that's all there is to it."

Efraim heaved a deep sigh. "You did not accompany me to the hotel?"

"No. You went off by yourself, in a most unsettled mood. If I may make bold 
to ask - why are you so concerned about this evening?"

Efraim saw no reason to hold back the truth. "On that evening I lost my 
memory. I remember arriving at Carfaunge, on Bruse-Tansel, and I finally 
made my way to Numenes and the Connatic's Hospital. The experts declared me 
a Rhune. I returned to Port Mar; I arrived yesterday. At the Royal Rhune 
Hotel I learned my name, and I find that I am now the Kaiark of Scharrode. 
Other than this I know nothing. I recognize no one and nothing; my past is a 
blank. How can. I conduct my own affairs responsibly, much less those of the 
Realm? I must set things right. Where do I start? How do I proceed? Why was 
my memory taken from me? Who took me to the spaceport and put me aboard the 
spaceship? How shall I explain myself to my people? If the past is empty, 
the future seems full, of concern and doubt and confusion. And I suspect 
that I will find little sympathy at home."

Lorcas gave a soft ejaculation, and sat back, his eyes glistening, "Do you 
know, I envy you. How lucky you are, with the mystery of your own past to 
solve!"

"I lack all such enthusiasm," said Efraim. "The past looms over me; I feel 
stifled. My enemies know me; I can only grope for them. I go out to 
Scharrode blind and helpless."

"The situation is not without compensations," murmured Lorcas. "Most people 
would gladly rule a Mountain Realm, or any realm whatever. Not a few would 
be pleased to inhabit the same castle with the Lissolet Sthelany."

"These compensations are all very well, but they do not expose my enemy."

"Assuming that the enemy exists."

"He exists. He put me aboard the Berenicia and paid my fare to Bruse-Tansel."

"Bruse-Tansel is not close. Your enemy would seem not to lack funds."

Efraim grunted. "Who knows how much money of my own I carried? Perhaps I 
paid my own fare out to the limit of my pocketbook."

"This would be a fine sardonic touch," Lorcas agreed. "If true, your enemy 
has style."

"Another possibility exists," mused Efraim. "I may be looking at the matter 
backwards."

"An interesting thought. In what exact regard?"

"Perhaps I committed some horrid deed which I could not bear to contemplate, 
thus inducing amnesia, and some person - my friend rather than my enemy - 
sent me away from Marune so that I might escape the penalty for my acts."

Lorcas uttered an incredulous laugh. "Yom conduct in my presence was quite 
genteel."

"So how then, immediately after parting from you, did I lose my memory?"

Lorcas considered a moment. "This might not be so mysterious after all."

"The savants on Numenes were baffled. But you have gained an insight, into 
my problems?"

Lorcas grinned. "I know someone who isn't a savant." He jumped. to his feet. 
"Come along, let's visit this man."

Efraim dubiously arose. "Is it safe? You might be the guilty person. I don't 
want to end up on Bruse-Tansel a second time."

Lorcas chuckled. "You are a Rhine no longer. The Rhunes lack all humor; 
their lives are so strange that the absurd seems merely another phase of 
normality. I am not your secret enemy, I assure you. In the first place I 
lack the two or three hundred ozols to send you to Bruse-Tansel."

Efraim followed Lorcas out upon the avenue. Lorcas said: "We are bound for a 
rather peculiar establishment. The proprietor is an eccentric. Unkind folk 
consider him disreputable. At the moment he is out of vogue, owing to the 
efforts of the Benkenists, who are currently all the rage around the 
college. They affect a stoic imperturbability to everything except their 
inner norms, and Skogel's numbered mixtures seriously interfere with 
normality. As for me, I reject all fads except those of my own devising. Can 
you imagine what now preoccupies me?"

"No."

"The Mountain Realms. The genealogies; the waxing and waning of fortunes, 
the poetry and declamations, the ceremonial fumes, the gallantries and 
romantic postures, the eruditions, and scholarship. Do you realize that 
Rhune monographs circulate throughout the Cluster and the Gaean Reach as 
well? Do you realize that sport is unknown among the Realms? There are 
neither games nor frivolous recreations, not even among the children?"

"The thought never occurred to me. Where are we going?"

"Yonder, up the Street of the Clever Flea . . . Naturally you would not know 
how the street got its name." As they walked, Lorcas recounted the ribald 
legend. Efraim listened with only half an ear. They turned the corner into a 
street of marginal enterprises: a booth selling fried clams, a gambling 
arcade, a cabaret decorated with red and green lights, a bordello, a novelty 
shop, a travel agency, a store which displayed in the show window a stylized 
Tree of Life, the golden fruit labeled in a flowing unreadable script. Here 
Lorcas paused. "Let me do the talking, unless Skogel asks you a direct 
question. He has a queer manner which antagonizes everyone, but which I 
happen to know is spurious. Or at least I strongly suspect as much. In any 
event, be surprised at nothing; also, if he quotes a price, agree, no matter 
what your reservations. Nothing puts him off like haggling. Come along then; 
let's try our luck." He entered the shop with Efraim following slowly 
behind.

From the dimness at the back of the shop Skogel appeared: a man of medium 
stature, thin as a post with long arms and a round waxen face, above which 
rose spikes of dust-brown hair. "Pleasant modes," said Lorcas. "Have you 
collected yet from our friend Boodles?"

"Nothing. But I expected nothing and dealt with him accordingly."

"How so?"

"You know his requirements. He received only tincture of cacodyl in water, 
which may or may not have served his purposes."

"He made no complaints to me, though in truth he has seemed somewhat subdued 
of late."

"If he chooses, he may come to me for consolation. And who is this 
gentleman? Something about him seems Rhune, something else says out-world."

"You are right in both directions. He is a Rhune who has spent an 
appreciable time on Numenes, and Bruse-Tansel as well. You instantly wonder 
why. The answer is simple - he has lost his memory. I told him that if 
anyone could help him it would be you."

"Bah. I don't stock memories in boxes, neatly labeled like so many 
cathartics. He'll have to contrive his own memories. Isn't this easy 
enough?"

Lorcas looked at Efraim with an expression of rueful amusement. "Contrary 
fellow that he is, he wants his own memories back."

"He won't find them here. Where did he lose them? That's the place to look."

"An enemy stole his memory and put him on a ship to Bruse-Tansel. My friend 
is anxious to punish this thief, hence his set chin and gleaming eyes."

Skogel, throwing back his head, laughed and slapped the counter. "That's 
more like it! Too many wrongdoers escape with whole skins and profit! 
Revenge! There's the word! I wish you luck! Good modes, sir." And Skogel, 
turning his back, stalked stiff-legged back into the dimness of his shop. 
Efraim stared after him in wonder, but Lorcas signaled him to patience. 
Presently Skogel stalked forward. "And what do you require on this 
occasion?"

Lorcas said: "Do you recall your remarks of a week ago?"

"In regard to what?"

"Psychomorphosis."

"A large word," grumbled Skogel. "I spoke it at random."

"Would any of this apply to my friend?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"And the source of this psychomorphosis?"

Skogel put his hands on the counter and leaning forward scrutinized Efraim 
with owlish intensity. "You are a Rhune?"

"What is your name?"

"I seem to be Efraim, Kaiark of Scharrode."

"Then you must be wealthy."

"I don't know whether I am or not."

"And you want the return of your memory?"

"Naturally."

"You have come to the wrong place. I deal in commodities of other sorts." 
Skogel slapped the counter and made as if to turn away again.

Lorcas said smoothly: "My friend insists that you at least accept a fee, or 
honorarium, for your advice."

"Fee? For words? For guesses and hypotheses? Do you take me for a man 
without shame?"

"Of course not!" declared Lorcas. "He only wants to learn where his memory 
went."

"Then this is my guess, and he may have it free of cost. He has eaten 
Fwai-chi shag." Skogel indicated the shelves, cases, and cabinets of his 
shop, which were stocked with bottles of every size and shape, crystallized. 
herbs, stoneware jugs, metal oddments, tins, phials, jars, and an 
unclassifiable miscellaneity of confusing scope. "I will reveal a truth," 
declared Skogel portentously. "Much of my merchandise, on a functional 
level, is totally ineffective. Psychically, symbolically, subliminally, the 
story is different! Each item exerts its own sullen strength, and sometimes 
I feel myself in the presence of elementals. With an infusion of spider 
grass, mixed perhaps with pulverized devil's eye, I achieve astounding 
results. The Benkenists, idiots and witlings as they are, aver that only the 
credulous are affected; they are wrong! Our organisms swim in a paracosmic 
fluid, which no one can comprehend; none of our senses find scope or 
purchase, so to speak. Only by operative procedures, which the Benkenists 
deride, can we manipulate this ineffable medium; and by so stating, am I 
therefore a charlatan?" Skogel slapped the counter with split-faced grin of 
triumph.

With delicate emphasis Lorcas inquired: "And what of the Fwai-chi?"

"Patience!" snapped Skogel. "Allow me my brief moment of vanity. After all, 
I do not veer too far astray."

"By all means," said Lorcas hastily. "Declaim to your heart's content."

Not altogether mollified, Skogel took up the thread of his remarks. "I have 
long speculated that the Fwai-chi interact with the paracosmos somewhat more 
readily than men, although they are a taciturn race and never explain their 
feats, or perhaps they take their multiplex environment for granted. In any 
event, they are a most peculiar and versatile race, which the Majar, at 
least, appreciate. I refer of course to that final. poor fragment of the 
race who live over the hill." Skogel looked truculently from Lorcas to 
Efraim, but neither challenged his opinion.

Skogel continued. "A certain shaman of the Majars fancies to consider 
himself in my debt, and not too long ago he invited me to Atabus to witness 
an execution. My friend explained an innovation in Majar justice: the 
suspect, or the adjudged - among the Majars the distinction is slight - is 
dosed with Fwai-chi shag, and his reactions, which range from torpor through 
hallucination, antics, convulsions, frantic feats of Agility, to instant 
death, are noted. The Majar are nothing but a pragmatic folk; they take a 
lively interest in the capabilities of the human organism, and consider 
themselves great scientists. In my presence they administered a golden-brown 
gum from dorsal Fwai-chi shags, and the suspect at once fancied himself four 
different persons who conducted a vivacious conversation among themselves 
and the onlookers, employing a single tongue and larynx to produce two and 
sometimes three voices simultaneously. My host described some of the other 
effects he had witnessed, and mentioned a certain shag whose exudation 
blotted away human memory. I therefore suggest that your friend has been 
dosed with Fwai-chi shag." He peered from one to the other, showing a small 
trembling smile of triumph. "And that, in short, is my opinion."

"All very well," said Lorcas, "but how is my friend to be cured?"

Skogel made a careless gesture. "No cure is known, for the reason that none 
exists. What is gone, is gone."

Lorcas looked ruefully at Efraim. "So there you have it. Someone dosed you 
with Fwai-chi shag."

"I wonder who," said Efraim. "I wonder who."

Lorcas turned to speak to Skogel, but the shopkeeper had disappeared into 
the dim chamber at the rear of his establishment.


Lorcas and Efraim returned along the Street of the Clever Flea to the 
Estrada, Efraim pensive and grim. Lorcas, after darting half a dozen glances 
toward his companion, could no longer contain his curiosity. "So now what 
will you do?"

"What must be done."

Ten paces later Lorcas said: "You evidently have no fear of death."

Efraim shrugged.

Lorcas asked: "How will you achieve this business?"

"I must return to Scharrode," said Efraim. "Is there any other way? My enemy 
is someone I know well; would I drink with a stranger? In Port Mar were the 
following persons: Kaiark Jochaim, who is dead, the Kraike Singhalissa, the 
Kang Destian, the Lissolet Sthelany. Then, from Eccord, the Kaiark Rianlle, 
the Kraike Dervas, and the Lissolet Maerio. And, conceivably, Matho Lorcas, 
except in this case, why would you take me to Skogel7"

"Precisely so," said Lorcas. "On that distant occasion I dosed you only with 
good wine from which you took no harm."

"And you saw nothing significant, nothing suspicious, nothing dire?"

Lorcas reflected. "I noticed nothing overt. I felt stifled passion and flows 
of emotion, but where they led I could not divine. To be candid, I expected 
strange personalities among the Rhunes, and I made no attempt to understand 
what I saw. Without a memory you will also be handicapped."

"Very likely. But now I am Kaiark and everyone must go at my pace. I can 
recover my memory at leisure. What is the best transportation to Scharrode?"

"There's no choice," said Lorcas. "You hire an aircar and fly out." He 
looked casually up into the sky, which Cirse was about to depart. "If you 
permit, I will accompany you."

"What is your interest in the affair?" asked Efraim suspiciously.

Lorcas responded with an airy gesture. "I have long wished to visit the 
Realms. The Rhunes are a fascinating people and I am anxious to learn more 
about them. And, if the truth be known, I am anxious to pursue one or two 
acquaintances."

"You might not enjoy your visit. I am Kaiark, but I have enemies and they 
might not distinguish between us."

"I rely upon the notorious Rhune revulsion against violent conduct, which 
they abandon only during their incessant wars. And who knows? You might find 
a companion useful."

"Perhaps. Who is this acquaintance whom you are anxious to cultivate? The 
Lissolet Sthelany?"

Lorcas nodded glumly. "She is an intriguing young woman; in fact, I will go 
so far as to say that she represents a challenge. As a rule, pretty ladies 
find me sympathetic, but the Lissolet Sthelany barely notices my existence."

Efraim gave a sour chuckle. "In Scharrode the situation will be worse rather 
than better."

"I expect no true triumphs; still, if I can persuade her to alter her 
expression from time to time, I will consider the journey a success."

"I doubt if all will go so easily. The Rhunes find outland manners coarse 
and vulgar."

"You are Kaiark; your orders must be obeyed. If you decree tolerance, then 
the Lissolet Sthelany must instantly bend to your will."

"It will be an interesting experiment," said Efraim. "Well then, make 
yourself ready; we leave at once!"


(1) Chorasm: Sebalism carried to a remarkable extreme.



Chapter 6


During early isp Efraim arrived at the office of the local air transport 
service, to find that Lorcas had already hired an aircar of no great 
elegance - its metalwork stained by long exposure to the elements, the glass 
of the dome clouded, the flanges around the pods cratered and corroded. 
Lorcas said apologetically: "It's the best available, and quite dependable; 
in a hundred and two years the engine has never failed, or so I'm told."

With a skeptical eye Efraim surveyed the vehicle. "If it flies us to 
Scharrode, I don't care what it looks like."

"Sooner or later the craft will collapse, most likely in mid-air. Still the 
alternative is shank's mare along the Fwai-chi trails. The terrain is most 
impressive, nor would you make so dignified an arrival."

"There is something in what you say," Efraim admitted. "Are you ready to 
leave?"

"At any time. But let me make a suggestion. Why not send a message ahead to 
prepare them for your coming?"

"So that someone can fly out and shoot us down?"

Lorcas shook his head. "Aircars are banned to the Rhunes, for just this 
reason. The present issue is one of dignity, and if I may presume to advise 
you, a Kaiark announces his arrival so that a formal reception may be 
arranged. I will speak for you, as your aide, which will lend dignity to the 
occasion."

"Very well, do as you like."

"The Kraike Singhalissa is now the head of the household?"

"So I would suppose."

At a videophone as antiquated as the aircar, Lorcas put through a call.

A footman in a black and scarlet uniform responded. "I speak for Benbuphar 
Strang. Please state your business."

"I want a few words with the Kraike Singhalissa," said Lorcas. "I have 
important information to transmit."

"You must call at some other time. The Kraike is in consultation regarding 
the investiture."

"Investiture? Of whom?"

"Of the new Kaiark."

"And who will this be?"

"The present Kang Destian, who is next in order of succession."

"And when does the investiture occur?"

"In one week's time, when the present Kaiark is to be declared derelict."

Lorcas laughed. "Please inform the Kraike that the investiture may be 
canceled, since Kaiark Efraim is immediately returning to Scharrode."

The footman stared into the screen. "I cannot take responsibility for such 
an announcement."

Efraim stepped forward. "Do you recognize me?"

"Ah, Force,(1) indeed I do!"

"Deliver the message as you heard it from the Noble Matho Lorcas."

"Instantly, Force!" The footman inclined himself in a stiff bow, and faded 
in a dazzle of halations.

The two returned to the aircar and clambered aboard. Without ceremony the 
pilot clamped the ports, opened the throttle and the ancient aircraft, 
creaking and vibrating, lurched up and away to the east.

With the pilot, who identified himself as Tiber Flaussig, talking over his 
shoulder and ignoring both altimeter and the terrain below, the aircraft 
cleared the ridges of the First Scarp with a hundred yards to spare. As if 
by afterthought the pilot lifted the craft somewhat higher, although the 
land at once fell away a thousand feet to become an upland plain. A hundred 
sprawling lakes reflected the clouds; scour and deep-willow grew in isolated 
copses, with a gnarled catafalque tree here and there. Thirty miles east the 
Second Scarp thrust crags of naked rock up past the clouds. Flaussig, 
discussing certain outcrops below, declared them rich sources of such gems 
as tourmaline, peridot, topaz, and spinel - all protected from human 
exploitation by reason of Fwai-chi prejudice. "They claim this as one of 
their holy places, and so reads the treaty. They care no more for the jewels 
than for common stones; but they can smell a man from fifty miles away and 
lay on him their curse of a thousand itches, or a fiery bladder, or piebald 
skin. The area is now avoided."

Efraim pointed ahead to the looming scarp. "In a single minute we will all 
be crushed to pulp, unless you quickly raise this craft at least two 
thousand feet."

"Ah yes," said Flaussig. "The scarp approaches, and we will give it due 
respect." The aircar rose at a stomach-gripping rate, and from the engine 
box came a stuttering wheeze which caused Efraim to twist about in alarm. 
"Is this vehicle finally disintegrating?"

Flaussig listened with a puzzled frown. "A mysterious sound certainly, one 
which I have not heard before. Still, were you as old as this vehicle, your 
viscera would also produce odd noises. Let us be tolerant of the aged."

As soon as the craft once more flew a level course the disturbing sounds 
dwindled into silence. Lorcas pointed ahead toward the Third Scarp, still 
fifty miles ahead. "Start now to ascend, in a gradual manner. The aircar is 
more likely to survive such treatment."

Flaussig acceded to the request, and the vehicle rose at a gradual angle to 
meet the prodigious bulk of the Third Scarp. Below passed a desolation of 
ridges, cols, chasms, and, rarely, a small forested valley. Flaussig waved 
his hand around the fearsome landscape. "Within the range of vision, around 
the whole of the cataclysmic tumble, live perhaps twenty fugitives: 
desperados, condemned criminals, and the like. Commit no crimes in Port Mar 
or here is where you will wind up."

Neither Lorcas nor Efraim saw fit to comment.

A cleft appeared; the aircar glided through with rock walls close to right 
and left and great buffets of wind thrusting the craft from side to side; 
then the cleft fell away and the aircar flew over a landscape of peaks, 
cliffs, and river valleys. Flaussig waved his hand in another inclusive arc. 
"The Realms, the glorious Realms! Beneath us now Waierd, guarded by the 
Soldiers of Silence . . . And now we fly across the realm Sherras. Notice 
the castle in the lake . . ."

"How far to Scharrode?"

"Yonder, over the crags. That is the answer given to all such questions. Why 
do you visit a place so dour?"

"Curiosity, perhaps."

"You'll learn nothing from them; they're as tight as stones, like all 
Rhunes. Below now and behind those great trees is the town Tangwill, home to 
no more than two or three thousand. The Kaiark Tangissel is said to be 
insane for women, so he keeps captives in deep dungeons where they don't 
know whether or not it is mirk, and he visits them during all the periods of 
the month, except during mirk when he's off on his prowling."

"Nonsense," muttered Efraim, but the pilot paid no heed.

"The great spire to the left is called Ferkus -"

"Up, man, up!" screamed Lorcas. "You're running us into the ridge!"

With a petulant gesture Flaussig jerked the aircraft high, to skim that crag 
to which Lorcas had made reference; for a period he flew in sullen silence. 
Below the ground rose and fell, and Flaussig, disdaining further altitude, 
veered back and forth among crystalline crags, grazed precipices, skirted 
glaciers and mounds of scree, the better to display his insouciant control 
over aircraft, landscape, and passengers. Lorcas made frequent 
expostulations, which Flaussig ignored, and at last guided the aircar down 
into an irregular valley three to four miles wide and fifteen miles long. At 
the eastern end a cascade fell two thousand feet into a lake, with nearby 
the town Esch. Away from the lake flowed a slow river, curving across a 
meadow and under Benbuphar Strang, then back and forth from pool to pool to 
the far western end of the valley, where it departed through a narrow gorge.

Near Esch the valley had been tamed to cultivation; the fields were enclosed 
by dense hedges of bramble berry, as if to hide them from view. In other 
such fields grazed cattle, while the slopes to either side of the valley 
were planted as orchards. Elsewhere meadows alternated with forests of 
banice, white oak, shrack, interstellar yew; through the clear air the 
foliages - dark green, crimson, sooty ocher, pale green - glowed like colors 
painted on black velvet. Efraim half-smiled to the fleeting brush of a 
sudden poignant emotion. Perhaps an exhalation from his occluded memory? 
Such twinges had been occurring with increasing frequency. He glanced at 
Lorcas to find him also staring about in wistful wonder. "I have heard how 
the Rhunes cherish each stone of the landscape," said Lorcas. "The reason is 
clear. The Realms are small segments of Paradise."

Flaussig, having unloaded the scanty luggage, now stood in an expectant 
attitude. Lorcas spoke with slow and careful diction. "The fee was prepaid 
in Port Mar. The management wished to make sure of their money, no matter 
what else happened."

Flaussig smiled politely. "In circumstances like the present, a gratuity is 
usually extended."

"Gratuity?" exclaimed Efraim in a passion. "You are lucky to escape a 
penalty for criminal ineptitude!"

"Further," said Lorcas, "remain here until his Force the Kaiark permits you 
to leave. Otherwise he will order his secret agent in Port Mar to meet you 
and break every bone in your body."

Flaussig bowed in a state of injured dignity. "It shall be as you wish. Our 
firm has built its reputation upon service. Had I known I was transporting 
grandees of Scharrode, I would have used more formality, since appropriate 
behavior is also a watchword at our firm."

Lorcas and Efraim had already turned toward Benbuphar Strang, a castle of 
black stone, umber tile, timber; and stucco, built to the dictates of that 
peculiar gaunt style typical of the Rhunes. The chambers of the first floor 
were enclosed by walls thirty feet high, with tall narrow windows, 
elaborating above into a complicated system of towers, turrets, promenades, 
bays, balconies, and eyries. This was home, mused Efraim, and this was 
terrain over which he had walked a thousand times. He looked westward along 
the valley, across the pools and meadows, past the successive silhouettes of 
the forests, the colors muted by the haze, until they became purple-gray 
shadow under the far crags: he had looked across this vista ten thousand 
times . . . He felt no recollection.

He had been recognized from the town. Several dozen men in black jackets and 
buff pantaloons hurried forth, with half as many women in gray gauze gowns.

The men, approaching, performed complicated gestures of respect, then came 
forward, halting at a distance precisely reckoned by protocol.

Efraim asked, "How have things gone during my absence?"

The most venerable of the men responded: "Tragically, Force. Our Kaiark 
Jochaim was pierced by a Gorget bolt. Otherwise not badly, but not well. 
There have been doubts and misgivings. From Torre a band of warriors invaded 
our land. The Kang Destian ordered out a force, but there was little 
correspondence in rank(2); and no great combat ensued. Our blood boils for 
revenge upon Gosso of Gorgetto. The Kang Destian has delayed retaliation; 
when will he order forth our power? Remember, from the crest of Haujefolge 
our sails command his castle. We can invade, then while Gosso sweats and 
wheezes, we can drop down a force and take Gorgance Strang."

"First things first," said Efraim. "I now go to Benbuphar Strang to discover 
what irregularities, if any, exist. Have you information, or even 
suspicions, in this regard?"

The sage performed another gesticulation of a ritual effacement. "I would 
never reflect upon Benbuphar irregularities, let alone give them voice."

"Do so now," said Efraim. "You will be doing your Kaiark a service."

"As you will, Force, but remember, by the nature of things, we of the town 
know nothing. Uncharitable persons blink askance at the Kraike Singhalissa's 
projected trisme with Kaiark Rianlle of Eccord."

"What?" exclaimed Efraim. "And how is it to be with the Kraike Dervas?"

"She is to be rusticated, or so goes the rumor. Such is Singhalissa's price 
for the Dwan Jar, where Rianlle yearns to build a pavilion. This at least is 
common knowledge: We learn also of trisme between the Kang Destian and the 
Lissolet Maerio. If these trismes were to take place, what then? Does it not 
seem that Rianlle would sit high in the counsels of Scharrode? Still, now 
that you are at hand, and Kaiark by right, the question is moot." 

"I am pleased with your candor," said Efraim. "What else has occurred during 
my absence?"

"Nothing of consequence, although, in my opinion, the mood of the realm has 
become slack. Loons and villains wander by mirk, instead of remaining at 
home to guard their households; and then when light returns, we are 
reluctant to unbolt our doors, for fear of finding a corpse on the porch. 
Again, now that you are home, the evil influences must subside."

He bowed and withdrew; Efraim and Lorcas proceeded across the commons toward 
the castle, after first dismissing the sullen Flaussig and sending him back 
to Port Mar.

As they approached, a pair of heralds appeared on the twin bartizans over 
the portal; lifting coiled bronze sad-horns they blew a set of agitated 
fanfares: The portals swung wide; a platoon of guards stood at attention, 
and out marched four heralds playing further fanfares: wild excited 
progressions of sounds, just perceptibly contrapuntal.

Efraim and Lorcas passed through a vaulted tunnel iota a courtyard. In a 
tall-backed chair sat the Kraike Singhalissa; beside her stood the Kang 
Destian, dark eyebrows lowering.

The Kraike rose to her feet, to stand almost as tall as Destian; she was a 
woman of obvious force, with lustrous eyes and angular features. A gray 
turban contained her dark hair; her gray gauze gown seemed dull and 
characterless until the eye took note of the subtle play of light, the 
shadow of the half-concealed figure.

Singhalissa spoke in a high sweet voice: "We give you a ritual welcome, 
although you have returned at an inconvenient time; why should we deny it? 
In less than a week the legitimacy of your tenure would have dissolved; as 
certainly you have instructed yourself. It seems far from civil that you. 
have neglected to notify us of your plans, inasmuch as we have providently 
taken steps to transfer the succession."

"Your points are well-taken," said Efraim. "I could not dispute them if they 
were not founded upon incorrect premises. I assure you that my difficulties 
have far exceeded yours. Nevertheless, I am sorry that you have been 
inconvenienced and I sympathize with Destian's disappointment."

"No doubt," said Destian. "May we inquire the circumstances of your long 
absence?"

"Certainly; you are entitled to an explanation. At Port Mar I was drugged, 
placed aboard a spaceship, and sent far off across the Cluster. I 
encountered many difficulties and succeeded in returning to Port Mar only 
yesterday. As soon as possible I hired an aircar and was conveyed to 
Scharrode."

Destian's mouth compressed even deeper at the corners. He shrugged and 
turned away.

"Most curious;" said Singhalissa, in her high clear voice. "Who worked this 
malignant deed?"

"I will discuss the matter with you in detail, at some future time."

"As you please." She inclined her head toward Lorcas. "And who is this 
gentleman?"

"I wish to present my friend, the Noble Matho Lorcas. He has given me 
invaluable assistance and will be our guest. I believe that he and the Kang 
Destian became casually acquainted at Port Mar."

Destian scrutinized Lorcas a brief three seconds. Then, muttering something 
under his breath, he turned away. Lorcas said gravely, "I recall the 
occasion perfectly; it is a pleasure to renew the acquaintance."

At the back of the colonnade, in the shadow of one of the tall portals, the 
form of a young woman seemed gradually to materialize. Efraim saw her to be 
the Lissolet Sthelany, slight and supple in her nimbus of translucent gray 
gauze. Her eyes, like those of the Kraike, were somber and lustrous, but her 
features were pensive rather than minatory, delicate rather than crisp, and 
only remotely similar to those of either Singhalissa or Destian. She was 
further differentiated by her expression of detachment and indifference. 
Efraim and Lorcas both might have been strangers for all the animation of 
her greeting. Lorcas had found Sthelany fascinating at Port Mar, and his 
interest, so Efraim noticed, had not diminished - almost too obviously, 
although no one troubled to take note.

Singhalissa, sensing Sthelany's presence, spoke over her shoulder. "As you 
see, the Kaiark Efraim is again with us. He has suffered outrageous 
indignities; some unknown person has played him a series of malicious 
tricks."

"Indeed!" remarked Sthelany in a soft voice. "I am dismayed to hear this. 
Still, one cannot expect to roam the back alleys of Port Mar and evade the 
consequences. As I recall, he was in the most questionable company."

"We are all disturbed by the situation," said Singhalissa. "The Kaiark of 
course has our sympathy. He has brought as his guest the Noble Matho 
Lorcas, or so I believe his name to be: his friend from Port Mar."

The Lissolet's acknowledgment of the introduction, if any less emphatic, 
would have been undetectable. She spoke to Efraim in a voice as clear and 
sweet as that of Singhalissa, "Who performed these heartless acts upon you?"

Singhalissa answered for Efraim. "The Kaiark prefers not to enlarge upon the 
matter at this time."

"But we are most interested! These indignities offend us all!"

"That is true enough," said the Kraike.

Efraim had been listening with a sour grin. "I can tell you very little. I 
am as puzzled as you are - perhaps more so."

"More so? I know nothing."

The Kraike said abruptly, "The Kaiark and his friend have had a fatiguing 
journey and will wish to refresh themselves." She addressed herself to 
Efraim. "I assume that you will now occupy the Grand Chambers?"

"It would seem appropriate that I do so."

Singhalissa turned and beckoned to a grizzled heavy-shouldered man who wore, 
over the black and scarlet Benbuphar livery, a black velvet mantle 
embroidered in silver and a black velvet tricorn cap. "Agnois, bring a 
selection of the Kaiark's effects down from the North Tower."

"At once, Your Presence." Agnois the First Chamberlain departed.


The Kraike Singhalissa ushered Efraim along a dim hall hung with portraits 
of all the dead kaiarks, each, by the urgency of his gaze and the poise of 
his upraised hand, straining to communicate his wisdom across the ages.

A pair of tall iron-bound doors barred the way, with a gorgon's head of 
oiled black iron at the center of each; perhaps contrived by a kaiark's 
cogence(3). Singhalissa halted by the doors; Efraim stepped forward to fling 
them wide but could not discover the mechanism which controlled the latch. 
Singhalissa said drily, "Allow me," then pressed a boss. The doors swung 
open.

They entered a long antechamber, or trophy room. Cases lined the walls, 
displaying curios, collections, artifacts; objects of stone, wood, fired 
clay, glass; insects preserved in transparent cubes; sketches, paintings, 
calligraphy; Books of Life, a thousand other volumes and portfolios, 
monographs unnumbered. A long table occupied the center of the room, on 
which glowed a pair of lamps in green glass shades. Above the cases 
portraits of kaiarks and kraikes stared down at those who passed below.

The trophy room opened on a vast high-ceilinged room paneled in wood almost 
black with age. Rugs patterned in maroon, blue, and black covered the floor; 
tall narrow windows overlooked the valley.

The Kraike indicated a dozen cases along the wall. "These are Destian's 
belongings; he assumed that he would be occupying these chambers; he is 
naturally annoyed by the turn of events." She stepped to the wall and 
touched a button; almost at once Agnois the First Chamberlain appeared. 
"Yes, Your Presence?"

"Remove the Kang Destian's belongings."

"At once, Presence." He departed.

"How, may I ask, did the Kaiark meet his death?"

The Kraike looked sharply at Efraim. "You have heard nothing of this?"

"Only that he was killed by the Gorgets."

"We know little more. They came as mirk-men and one of them shot a bolt at 
Jochaim's back. Destian planned a foray of vengeance immediately after his 
investiture."

"Destian can order a foray whenever he chooses. I will put no hindrance in 
his way."

"You intend not to participate?" The Kraike's clear voice tinkled with a 
cool emotion.

"I would be foolish to do so, while there are mysteries to be clarified. Who 
knows but what I also might die of a Gorget bolt?"

"You must act as your wisdom directs. When you are rested you will find us 
in the hall. With your permission I will now leave you."

Efraim bowed his head. "I am grateful for your solicitude."

The Kraike departed. Efraim stood alone in the ancient parlor. In the air 
hung a redolence of leather bookbindings, waxed wood, old fabric, and also a 
faint mustiness of disuse. Efraim went to look out one of the tall windows, 
each protected by an iron shutter. The time was green rowan; the light lay 
wan across the landscape.

He turned away and gingerly began to explore the chambers of the Kaiark. The 
parlor was furnished with massive pieces, well-worn and not uncomfortable, 
if somewhat stately and ponderous. At one end of the room cases ten feet 
tall displayed books of every description. Efraim wondered what had been 
Jochaim's special virtuosities. For that matter, what had been his own?

In a sideboard he found various flasks of liquor, for the Kaiark's private 
ingestion. A rack displayed a dozen swords; evidently weapons of fame and 
glory.

A portal nine feet tall and three feet wide opened into an octagonal sitting 
room. A segmented glass dome high above, flooded the chamber with light. A 
green rug covered the floor; the wall panels were painted to represent views 
over Scharrode from several high vantages: the work, no doubt, of some 
long-dead kaiark who had professed the rendering of painted landscapes. A 
spiral stairs led aloft to a balcony, which led to an exterior promenade. 
Across the sitting room a short hall led into the Kaiark's wardrobe. 
Uniforms and formal dress hung in closets; chests contained shirts and 
underlinen; on shelves were ranged dozens of boots, shoes, sandals, 
slippers: all glossy with polish, brushed and burnished. Kaiark Jochaim had 
been a punctilious man. The personal belongings, the garments and uniforms 
communicated nothing. Efraim felt uneasy and resentful; why had not these 
garments long ago been discarded?

A tall door opened on the Kaiark's bed chamber: a relatively small room 
plainly furnished; the bed was little more than a cot, with a hard thin 
mattress. Efraim saw room for change here; he had no present taste for 
asceticism. A short hall opened first upon a bathroom and watercloset, then 
upon a small chamber furnished with a table and chair: the Kaiark's 
refectory. Even as Efraim examined the room a dumbwaiter rumbled up from the 
cellar kitchens, bringing a tureen of soup, a loaf of bread, a plate of 
leeks in oil, a quantity of black-brown cheese, and a tankard of beer. The 
service, as Efraim would learn, was automatic; every hour the collation 
would be renewed, and the Kaiark never need suffer the embarrassment of 
calling for food.

Efraim discovered himself to be hungry and ate with good appetite. Returning 
into the hall, he noted that it continued to a flight of dark winding 
stairs. A noise from the bedroom attracted his attention. He returned to 
find a pair of valets removing the garments of the dead Kaiark and arranging 
in their stead a wardrobe conspicuously less ample: presumably the clothes 
he had left in his old quarters.

"I go now to bathe," Efraim told one of the valets. "Lay out something 
suitable for me to wear."

"With haste, Force!"

"Also, remove this bed, and bring in something larger and more comfortable."

"Immediately, Force!"

Half an hour later Efraim inspected himself in the mirror. He wore a gray 
coat over a white shirt, black breeches, black stockings, and black velvet 
shoes - garments suitable for informal occasions within the castle. The 
clothes hung loosely on his body; he had lost weight since the episode at 
Port Mar.

The stairs at the back of the hall had not yet been explored. He climbed 
twenty feet to a landing, where he opened a door and looked out into a hall.

He stepped through. The door seemed to be a section of the paneling, 
invisible when closed. As he stood examining the door and speculating upon 
its purpose, the Lissolet Sthelany emerged from a chamber at the end of the 
hall. At the sight of Efraim. she hesitated. then approached slowly, her 
face averted. The green rays of Cirse, shining from the window at the end of 
the hall, backlighted her figure; Efraim wondered hour he had ever 
considered the gauze gowns drab. He watched her as she approached, and it 
seemed that her cheeks became suffused with a faint flush. Modesty? 
Annoyance? Excitement? Her expression gave no indication as to her feelings.

Efraim stood watching as she drew nearer. Evidently she intended to continue 
past, without acknowledging his presence. He leaned forward, half of a mind 
to put his arm around her waist. Sensing his intent, she stopped short and 
turned him an alarmed glance. No question as to her beauty, thought Efraim; 
she was enchanting, perhaps the more so for the peculiar Rhune 
predispositions.

She spoke in a light colorless voice: "Why do you bolt so precipitously from 
the mirk-hole? Do you intend to startle me?"

"Mirk-hole?" Efraim looked blankly over his shoulder at the passage. "Yes, 
of course. I had not considered . . ." Meeting her wondering gaze he stopped 
short. "No matter. Come down to the Grand Chamber, if you will. I would like 
to talk with you." He held open the door but Sthelany recoiled in amazement.

"Through the mirk-way?" She stared from Efraim to the passage, then gave a 
cool trill of laughter: "Do you care so little for my dignity?"

"Of course not," Efraim declared hastily. "I am absentminded of late. Let us 
go by the ordinary route."

"At your convenience, Force." She waited.

Efraim, recalling nothing of the castle's internal plan, reflected a moment, 
then set off down the corridor in the direction which seemed most logically 
to lead to the Kaiark's chambers.

Sthelany's cool voice came from behind him. "Does Your Awesome Presence 
first intend to inspect the tapestry collection?"

Efraim halted and reversed his direction. He walked past the Lissolet 
without comment and continued to a bend in the hall, which gave upon a 
foyer. Before him wide stone stairs flanked by heavy balustrades and archaic 
lamps of wrought iron led down to the main floor. Efraim descended, with the 
Lissolet coming demurely behind him. With only a second or two of hesitation 
he headed for the Kaiark's chambers.

He opened the tall doors with the gorgon's heads without difficulty, and 
ushered Sthelany into the trophy room. He closed the door sad pulled a chair 
away from the table for her use. Giving him her now familiar glance of 
sardonic perplexity she asked: "Why do you do that?"

"So that you may sit, and hopefully relax, and so that we may talk at our 
ease."

"But I may not sit in your presence, under the eyes of your ancestors!" She 
spoke in a mild and reasonable voice. "Do you wish me to suffer a ghost 
blight?"

"Naturally not. Let us go into the parlor, where the portraits will not 
trouble you."

"Again, this is most unconventional."

Efraim lost patience. "If you don't care to talk with me, you certainly have 
my permission to go."

Sthelany leaned gracefully back against the table. "If you order me to talk, 
I must obey."

"Naturally I will not give such an order."

"What do you wish to talk about?"

"I don't really know. Truth to tell, I am puzzled. I have undergone a 
hundred strange experiences; I have seen thousands of new faces; I have 
visited the Connatic's Palace on Numenes . . . Now that I have returned, the 
customs of Scharrode seem strange."

Sthelany considered the matter. "For a fact you seem a different person. The 
old Efraim was rigorously correct."

"I wonder . . . I wonder . . ." mused Efraim. He looked up to find Sthelany 
watching him intently. "So you notice a difference in me?"

"Of course. If I did not know you so well I would think you a different 
man - especially in view of your peculiar absentmindedness."

After a moment Efraim said, "I confess to confusion. Remember, I did not 
realize I was Kaiark until yesterday. And arriving here, I discover an 
atmosphere of resentment, which is not at all pleasant."

Sthelany showed surprise at Efraim's ingenuousness. "What would you expect? 
Singhalissa may no longer call herself Kraike; she lacks all legitimate 
place here at Benbuphar Strang. No less do I and Destian; we all must make 
plans for dreary old Disbague. We live here at your sufferance. It is a sad 
turn of events for us."

"I am not anxious that you leave, unless you wish to go." Sthelany gave an 
indifferent shrug. "My feelings are of interest only to myself."

"Incorrect. I am interested in your feelings."

Again Sthelany shrugged. "Naturally, I prefer Scharrode to Disbague."

"I see. Tell me, what is your recollection of events in Port Mar during 
those hours before I disappeared?"

Sthelany grimaced. "They were neither edifying nor entertaining. As you will 
recall, we stayed at the hotel, which was quite decent and proper. You, 
Destian, Maerio, and I decided to walk through the town to a place called 
the Fairy Gardens, where we were to watch puppets. All warned us against the 
vulgarity we were sure to encounter. But we considered ourselves indomitably 
callous and crossed the bridge, some of us not altogether enthusiastically. 
You asked directions of atypical young man of the place, capricious and 
hedonistic - in fact, I believe him to be the same person who accompanied 
you here. He led us to the Fairy Gardens, but the puppets were gone. Your 
friend, Lorca, or Lortha, whatever his name, insisted on pouring a bottle of 
wine, so that we should, guzzle and gargle and swell out our intestinal 
tracts in full view of all. Forgive my language; I can only report the 
truth. Your acquaintance showed no shame, and ridiculed matters of which he 
knew nothing. While you conversed, quite enthusiastically, as I recall, with 
the Lissolet Maerio, this Lorca became remarkably familiar with me, and 
indeed made some utterly witless proposals. Destian and I left the Fairy 
Gardens. Maerio, however, remained with you. She is really much too 
tolerant. We returned to the hotel, where the Kaiark Rianlle became quite 
perturbed. He sent Destian to escort Maerio back to the hotel, which he did, 
leaving you in the company of your friend."

"And shortly after," said Efraim, "I was drugged and sent off across space!"

"I should ask your friend what he knows of the matter."

"Bah," said Efraim shortly. "Why would he play me such a trick? Somewhere I 
have gained an enemy, but I cannot suspect Lorcas."

"You have gained many enemies," said Sthelany in her soft sweet voice. 
"There are Gosso of Gorgetto and Sansevery of Torre, both of whom owe you 
blood, and both expect your reprisals. The Kraike Singhalissa and the Kang 
Destian are much disadvantaged by your presence. The Lissolet Maerio 
suffered from pour ebullience at Port Mar; neither she nor the Kaiark 
Rianlle will readily forgive you. As for the Lissolet Sthelany" - she paused 
and looked sidelong at Efraim; in someone else he might have suspected 
coquetry - "I reserve my thoughts for myself alone. But I wonder if I can 
any longer contemplate trisme with you."

"I hardly know what to say," Efraim muttered.

Sthelany's eyes glowed. "You seem distrait and not at all concerned. Of 
course, you have dismissed the compact as trivial, or even forgotten it."

Efraim made a lame gesture. "I have become absentminded . . ."

Sthelany's voice trembled. "For reasons beyond my imagination, you seek to 
wound me."

"No, no! So much has happened; I am truly confused!"

Sthelany inspected him with skeptically raised eyebrows. "Do you remember 
anything whatever?"

Efraim rose to his feet and started into the parlor, then imagining 
Sthelany's emotion should he offer her a cordial, returned slowly to the 
table.

Sthelany watched his every move. "Why have you returned to Scharrode?"

Efraim laughed hollowly. "Where else could I rule a realm and command the 
obedience of a person as beautiful as yourself?"

Sthelany abruptly stood back, her face pale save for spots of color in her 
cheeks. She turned to leave the trophy room.

"Wait!" Efraim stepped forward, but the Lissolet shrank back with a slack 
jaw, suddenly helpless and frightened. Efraim said: "If you were of a mind 
to trisme, you must have thought well of me."

Sthelany regained her composure. "This does not necessarily follow; and now 
I must leave."

Swiftly she departed the chamber. Like a wraith she fled down the corridor, 
across the Great Hall, in and out of a shaft of green light from the star 
Cirse, and then she was gone.

Efraim signaled Agnois the First Chamberlain.

"Take me to the chambers of the Noble Matho Lorcas."


Lorcas had been lodged on the second level of Minot Tower, in rooms of 
grotesque and exaggerated amplitude. Hoary beams supported a ceiling almost 
invisible by reason of height and dimness; the walls, which were faced with 
carved stone plaques - again the product of someone's cogence - showed a 
thickness of five feet where the four tall windows opened to a view of the 
northern mountains. Lorcas stood with his back to a fireplace ten feet wide 
and eight feet high, in which a disproportionately small fire was burning. 
He looked at Efraim with a rueful grin. "I am not at all cramped, and there 
is much to be learned in the documents yonder." He indicated a massive case 
thirty feet long and ten feet high. "I discover dissertations, 
contradictions, and reconsiderations of these same dissertations; and 
reconsiderations of the contradictions and contradictions of the 
reconsiderations - all indexed and cross-indexed in the red and blue volumes 
yonder. I plan to use some of the more discursive reconsiderations for fuel, 
unless I am furnished a few more sticks for my fire."

The Kraike Singhalissa hoped to awe and quell this flippant Port Mar 
upstart, so Efraim suspected. "If you are uncomfortable, a change is easily 
made."

"By no means!" declared Lorcas. "I enjoy the grandeur; I am accumulating 
memories to last a lifetime. Come join me by this miserable fire. What have 
you learned?"

"Nothing of consequence. My return has pleased no one."

"And what of your recollections?"

"I am a stranger."

Lorcas ruminated a moment. "It might be wise to visit your old chambers, and 
examine your belongings."

Efraim shook his head. "I don't care to do so." He dropped into one of the 
massive chairs and slumped back, legs outthrust across the flags. "The idea 
oppresses me." He glanced about the walls. "Two or three sets, of ears no 
doubt are listening to our conversation. The walls are shot with mirk-ways." 
He jumped to his feet. "We had best look into the matter."

They returned to the Kaiark's chambers; Destian's effects had been removed. 
Efraim touched the button to summon Agnois, who, upon entering, performed a 
stiff bow, which almost imperceptibly seemed to lack respect. Efraim smiled. 
"Agnois, I plan many changes at Benbuphar Strang, possibly including new 
staff. You may let it be known that I am carefully evaluating the conduct of 
everyone, from top to bottom."

"Very good, Your Force." Agnois, bowing again, displayed considerably more 
verve.

"In this regard, why have you denied the Noble Lorcas suitable fires? I 
consider this an incredible failure of hospitality."

Agnois grew pink in the face; his lumpy nose twitched. "I was given to 
understand, Force - or better to say - in actuality I must plead guilty of 
oversight. The matter will be repaired at once."

"A moment, I wish to discuss another matter. I presume that you are 
acquainted with the affairs of the house?"

"Only to the extent which might be considered discreet and proper, Your 
Force."

"Very well. As you may know I have been victimized in a most mysterious 
manner, and I intend to get to the bottom of the business. May I, or may I 
not, rely upon you for total cooperation?"

Agnois hesitated only an instant, then seemed to heave a doleful sigh. "I am 
at your service, Force, as ever."

"Very good. Now, let me ask you, is anyone overhearing our present 
conversation?"

"Not to my knowledge, Force." He went on reluctantly: "I suppose that such a 
possibility might be said. to exist."

"Kaiark Jochaim kept an exact chart of the castle, with all its passages and 
mirk-holes." Efraim spoke at sheer hazard, on the assumption that among so 
many records and so much careful lore, a detailed chart of the castle's 
mirk-ways must inevitably be included. "Bring this article to the table; I 
wish to examine it."

"Very well, Force, if you will furnish a key to the Privy Case."

"Certainly. Where is Kaiark Jochaim's key?"

Agnois blinked. "Perhaps it bides with the Kraike."

"Where might I find the Kraike at this moment?"

"She refreshes herself(4) in her chambers."

Efraim made an impatient gesture. "Take me there. I wish a word or two with 
her."

"Force, do you order me to precede you?"

"Yes, lead the way."

Agnois bowed. He swung smartly around, conducted Efraim out into the Great 
Hall, up the stairs, along a corridor into the Jaher Tower, and halted 
before a tall door studded with garnets. At Efraim's signal he thrust the 
central garnet and the door swung wide. Agnois stood aside, and Efraim 
marched into the foyer of the Kraike's private chambers. A maid appeared, 
and performed a quick, supple curtsey. "Your orders, Force?"

"I wish an immediate word with Her Presence."

The maid hesitated; then taking fright at Efraim's expression disappeared 
the way she had come. A minute passed, two minutes. Then Efraim pushed 
through the door despite a muffled exclamation from Agnois.

He stood in a long sitting room hung with red and green tapestry, furnished 
with gilt wood settees and tables. Through an opening to the side he sensed 
movement; he went on swift strides to the portal and so discovered the 
Kraike Singhalissa at a small cabinet built into the wall, into which at the 
sight of Efraim she thrust a small object and slammed the door shut. 
Swinging about she faced Efraim, eyes glowing in fury. "Your Force has 
forgotten the niceties of conduct."

"All this to the side," said Efraim, "I desire that you open the cabinet."

Singhalissa's face became hard and gaunt. "The cabinet contains only 
personal treasures."

Efraim turned to Agnois. "Bring an axe, at once."

Agnois bowed. Singhalissa made an inarticulate sound. Turning to the wall 
she tapped a concealed button. The door to the cabinet opened. Efraim spoke 
to Agnois. "Bring what you find to the table."

Agnois, gingerly brought forth the contents of the cabinet: several leather 
portfolios and on top an ornate key of iron and silver, which Efraim took 
up. "What is this?"

"The key to the Privy Case."

"And this other matter?"

"These are my private papers," declared Singhalissa in a voice of metal. "My 
contracts of trisme, the birth documents of the Kang and the Lissolet."

Efraim glanced through the portfolios. The first showed an intricate 
architectural plan. He glanced at Singhalissa who stared back coldly. Efraim 
signaled to Agnois. "Look through. these documents; return to Her Presence 
the effects she describes. All others, set aside."

Singhalissa settled herself into a chair and sat stiffly. Agnois leaned his 
heavy back over the table, peering diffidently into the documents. He 
finished and pushed one group of papers aside. "These concern the personal 
affairs of the Kraike. The others more properly belong in the Privy Case."

"Bring them along." With the coldest of nods to Singhalissa, Efraim departed 
the chamber.

He found Matho Lorcas where he had left him, lounging in a massive 
leather-backed chair, examining a history of the wars between Scharrode and 
that realm known as Slaunt, fifty miles south. Lorcas put aside the volume 
and rose to his feet, "What did you learn?"

"About what I expected. The Kraike has no intention of accepting defeat - 
not quite so easily." Efraim went to the Privy Case; applied the key and 
threw wide the heavy doors. For a moment ha regarded the contents: sheaves 
of documents, tallies; certificates, handwritten chronicles. Efraim turned 
away. "One time or another I must examine these. But for now" - he looked 
across the room to where Agnois stood, stiff and silent as a piece of 
furniture. "Agnois."

"Yes, Your Force."

"If you feel that you can serve me with single-minded loyalty, you may 
continue in your present post. If not, you may resign at this moment, 
without prejudice."

Agnois spoke in a soft voice: "I served Kaiark Jochaim many years; he 
discovered no fault with me. I will continue to serve the rightful Kaiark."

"Very good. Find suitable materials and prepare s sketch of Benbuphar 
Strang, indicating the chambers used by the various members of the 
household."

"At once, Force."

Efraim went to the massive central table, seated himself, and began to 
examine the documents he had taken from Singhalissa. He found what appeared 
to be a ceremonial protocol, certifying the lineage of the House of 
Benbuphar, beginning in ancient times and terminating with his own name. In 
crabbed Old Rhune typescript, Kaiark Jochaim acknowledged Efraim, son of the 
Kraike Alferica, from Cloudscape Castle(5), as his successor. A second 
portfolio contained correspondence between Kaiark Jochaim and Kaiark Rianlle 
of Eccord. The most recent file dealt with Rianlle's proposal that Jochaim 
cede a tract of land known as Dwan Jar, the Whispering Ridge, to Eccord, in 
consideration of which Rianlle would offer the Lissolet Maerio in trisme to 
the Kong Efraim. Jochaim politely refused to consider the proposal, stating 
that trisme between Efraim and Sthelany was under consideration; Dwan Jar 
could never be relinquished for reasons of which the Kaiark Rianlle was well 
aware.

Efraim spoke across the table to Agnois. "Why does Rianlle want the Dwan 
Jar?"

Agnois looked up wonderingly. "For the same reason as always, Force. He 
would build his mountain eyrie on Point sheen where the way is convenient to 
and from Belrod Strang. The Kaiark Jochaim, you will remember, refused to 
indulge the Kaiark Rianlle in his urgent caprice, citing an ancient compact 
with the Fwai-chi."

"The Fwai-chi? Why should the matter concern them?"

"The Whispering Ridge harbors one of their sanctuaries,(6) Force." Agnois 
spoke tonelessly, as if he had decided never again to display surprise at 
Efraim's vagueness.

"Yes, of course." Efraim opened the third folder and discovered a set of 
architectural sketches depicting various aspects of Benbuphar Strang. He 
noticed Agnois averting his gaze in conspicuous disinterest. Here, thought 
Efraim, were the secret ways of the castle.

The drawings were elaborate and not readily comprehensible. The Kraike might 
or might not have made copies of this document. At the very least she had 
pored over the plans in grim fascination; she undoubtedly knew the secret 
ways as well as she knew the open corridors.

"That will be all for the moment," Efraim told Agnois. "Under no 
circumstances discuss our affairs with anyone! If you are questioned, 
declare that the Kaiark has explicitly forbidden discussion, hints, or 
intimations of any sort!"

"As you command, Force." Agnois raised his faded blue eyes to the ceiling. 
"Allow me, Force, if you will, a personal remark. Since the disfunction of 
the Kaiark Jochaim, affairs at Benbuphar Strang have not gone altogether 
well, although the Kraike Singhalissa is, of course, a positive force." He 
hesitated, then spoke as if the words were forced from his throat by an 
irresistible inner pressure. "Your return naturally interferes with the 
plans of the Kaiark Rianlle, and his amicability cannot be taken for 
granted."

Efraim attempted to seem puzzled and sagacious at the same time. "I have 
done nothing to antagonize Rianlle - nothing purposeful certainly."

"Perhaps not, but purpose means nothing if Rianlle discovers himself to be 
thwarted. Effectively, you have annulled the trisme between the Kang 
Destian and the Lissolet Maerio, and Rianlle will no longer derive profit 
from a trisme between himself and the Kraike Singhalissa."

"He values the Dwan Jar that highly?"

"Evidently so, Force."

Efraim hardly troubled to dissemble his ignorance. "Might he then attack by 
force?"

"Nothing can be considered impossible."

Efraim music a sign of dismissal; Agnois bowed and departed.

Isp became umber. Efraim and Lorcas traced, retraced, simplified, coded, and 
rendered comprehensible the plans to Benbuphar Strang. The passage leading 
up from the back of the refectory seemed no more than a simple shortcut to 
the second floor of Jaher Tower. The true mirk-ways radiated from a chamber 
to the side of the Grand Parlor; passages threaded every wall of the castle, 
intersecting, opening into nodes, ascending, descending, each coded with 
horizontal stripes of color, each overlooking chambers, corridors, and halls 
through an assortment of peepholes, periscopes, gratings, and 
image-amplifiers.

From the chambers of the former Kang Efraim and the current Kang Destian 
radiated less extensive passages, which could be entered by secret means 
from the Kaiark's Kirk ways. With a gloomy shiver, Efraim pictured himself 
in his grotesque man mask purposefully striding these secret corridors, and 
he wondered into whose chambers he had thrust wide the door. He pictured the 
face of the Lissolet Sthelany: pale and taut, her eyes blazing, her mouth 
half-parted in an emotion she herself would not know how to interpret . . . 
He returned his attention to the red portfolio, and for the  tenth time 
inspected the index which accompanied it, where the locks and springs 
controlling each exit were described in detail, together with the alarms 
intended to thwart illicit passage along the Kaiark's mirk-ways. Exit from 
the terminal chamber - the so-called "Sacarlatto" - was barred by an iron 
door, thus protecting the Kaiark from intrusion, and other such doors 
blocked the passages at strategic nodes.

Efraim and Lorcas, having achieved at least a superficial acquaintance with 
the maze, rose to their feet and considered the wall of the Grand Parlor. 
Silence was heavy in the chamber.

"I wooden" mused Lorcas, "I wonder . . . Might someone intend us 
unpleasantness? A pitfall or a poison web? Perhaps I am oppressed by the 
atmosphere. Rhunes, after all, are not allowed to murder - except by mirk."

Efraim made an impatient gesture; Lorcas had accurately verbalized his own 
mood. He went to the wall, touched a succession of bosses. A panel slid 
aside; they climbed a flight of stone steps and entered the Sacarlatto. They 
walked upon a dark crimson carpet, under a chandelier of twenty scintillas. 
Upon each panel of the black- and red-enameled wainscoting hung a carved 
marble representation of a man-mask in low relief, so that the object lay 
near-flat against the panel. Each mask depicted a different distortion; each 
bore a legend in cryptic symbols. At six stations, mirrors and screens 
provided views across the Grand Parlor. Lorcas spoke in a hushed voice, 
which was further attenuated by a quality of the chamber. "Do you smell 
anything?"

"The carpet. Dust."

"I have a most sensitive nose. I detect a fragrance, an herbal essence."

Standing stiff and white-faced in the gloom, the two men seemed a pair of 
antique mannequins.

Lorcas spoke again. "The same essence hangs in the air after Singhalissa has 
passed."

"You believe then that she was here?"

"Very recently - watching us and listening as we worked. Notice, the iron 
door is ajar."

"We will close it; and now I will sleep. Later we will lock off the other 
doors and there will be no more prowling and spying."

"Leave this in my hands! I am fascinated by such matters and I am not at all 
tired."

"As you like. Remember, the Kraike may have set out alarms of her own."

"I will be careful."


(1) The term tsernifer, here translated as 'Force', refers to that pervasion 
of psychological power surrounding the person of a kaiark. The word is more 
accurately rendered as irresistible compulsion, elemental wisdom, 
depersonalized force. The appellative 'Force' is an insipid dilution.

(2) Rhune warfare is controlled by rigid convention. Several types of 
engagement are recognized. In formal combat, fighting occurs between persons 
of equal rank. If a person of high caste attacks one of low caste, the 
low-caste person may protect, retreat, or retaliate. If a low-caste person 
attacks a person of high caste, he is reprimanded by everyone. The weapons 
employed are swords, used only for thrusting, and lances.

On occasion the raiders come masked; they are then known as "mirk-men" and 
treated as bandits. All weapons may be legitimately used against mirk-men, 
including the so-called "bore," which propels a short arrow or bolt by means 
of an explosive charge.

Occasionally large-scale battles occur, when the total manpower of one Realm 
is mobilized against that of another.

Warriors trained to the use of sky-sails command special prestige. The rules 
of sky-fighting are even more complex than those governing warfare afoot.

(3) The word cogence is used to express that fervent erudition and virtuosity 
of the Rhunes.

(4) The dialect of the Rhunes is rife with delicate ambiguities. The term 
'to refresh oneself' is susceptible to several interpretations. In this case 
it may be supposed that the Kraike indulges herself in a nap.

(5) Rhune lineage is reckoned through the mother owing to the unregulated 
circumstances of procreation, although in many cases father and son are 
mutually aware of their relationship.

(6) Inexact translation. More accurately: place of spiritual regeneration, 
stage of pilgrimage, phase of the life-road.


Chapter 7


In the Kaiark's sleeping chamber, Efraim awoke and lay in the dimness.

On the mantlepiece a clock showed the mode to be aud, with Furad and Maddar 
about to set and abandon the sky to chill isp. A second dial reported Port 
Mar Local Time, and Efraim saw that he had slept seven hours - rather longer 
than he had intended.

He looked up toward the high ceiling, contemplating the condition in which 
he found himself. His advantages were easily enumerated. He ruled a 
beautiful mountain realm from a castle of archaic glamour. He had at least 
partially thwarted his enemy, or enemies; at this moment he, or she, or 
they, would be brooding long slow thoughts. Benbuphar Strang harbored 
antagonists, but to what purpose? These persons were at hand when his memory 
was smothered . . . The thought caused Efraim to shiver with rage and raise 
up from his couch.

He bathed and took a dismal breakfast of cold meat, bread, and fruit in the 
refectory. Had he not known the quality of Rhune custom he might have 
regarded the food as a purposeful affront . . . He speculated as to the 
advisability of innovation: why should the Rhunes conduct themselves with 
such exaggerated daintiness when trillions of other folk feasted in public, 
with never a concern for their alimentary processes? His own single example 
would only arouse revulsion and censure; he must think further on the 
matter.

On the racks and shelves of his dressing room he discovered what he took to 
be his wardrobe of six months before - a somewhat scanty wardrobe, he 
reflected. He pulled out a mustard-colored tunic with black frogging and 
dark red lining, and looked it over: a jaunty garment which no doubt on some 
informal occasion had set off young Kang Efraim to advantage.

Efraim made a soft sound and examined the other garments. He tried to 
remember the Kaiark Jochaim's wardrobe, at which he had barely glanced, and 
could only summon an impression of understated elegance, kaiarkal restraint.

Efraim went thoughtfully into the Grand Parlor and summoned Agnois, who 
seemed uneasy. He shifted his pale blue gaze aside, and as he bowed the 
fingers of his big white hands kneaded and twisted.

Before Efraim could speak, Agnois said: "Your Force, the Eiodarks of 
Scharrode wish an audience, as soon as convenient. They will meet you in two 
hours if that suits Your Force."

"The audience can wait," growled Efraim. "Come along with me." He led Agnois 
to the dressing room, where he paused and turned a cold stare upon Agnois, 
causing the chamberlain to blink. "As you know, I have been away from 
Scharrode a matter of six months."

"Yes, Force."

"I have had many experiences, including an accident which has unfortunately 
obscured portions of my memory. I tell you this in absolute confidence."

"I will naturally respect this confidence, Your Force," stammered Agnois.

"I have forgotten many small niceties of Rhune custom, and I must rely upon 
your assistance. For instance, these garments: can this be the whole of my 
former wardrobe?"

Agnois licked his lips. "No, Your Force. The Kraike made a selection of 
certain garments; these were then brought here."

"These of course are garments I wore as Kang?"

"Yes, Force."

"They seem somewhat jaunty and extravagant in cut. Do you consider them 
suitable for a person of my present status?"

Agnois pulled at his pale pendulous nose. "Not altogether, Your Force."

"If I wore these before the eiodarks they would consider me frivolous and 
irresponsible - a callow young fool, in fact."

"I world suspect as much."

"What precisely were Singhalissa's instructions?"

"She ordered me to transfer these garments; she further suggested that any 
interference in Your Force's preferences might be considered insolence, both 
by Your Force and by the Noble Singhalissa herself."

"She told you, in effect, to help me make a fool of myself. Then she 
summoned the eiodarks to an audience."

Agnois spoke hurriedly: "This is accurate, Force, but -"

Efraim cut him short. "Postpone the audience with the eiodarks. Explain that 
I must study the events of the last six months. Then remove these garments. 
Instruct the tailors to prepare me a suitable wardrobe. In the meantime 
bring here whatever can be salvaged from my old wardrobe."

"Yes, Force."

"Further, inform the staff that the Noble Singhalissa will no longer exert 
authority. I am bored with these petty intrigues. She is to be known not as 
the 'Kraike' but as the Wirwove of Disbague."

"Yes, Your Force."

"Finally, Agnois, I am astounded that you failed to notify me of 
Singhalissa's intentions."

Agnois cried out in frustration: "Force, I intended to obey the Noble 
Singhalissa's instructions to the letter; but nonetheless, by one means or 
another, I planned to protect Your Force's dignity. Indeed, you divined the 
ploy before I had opportunity to alter the situation!"

Efraim gave a curt nod. "Lay out garments at least temporarily appropriate."


Efraim dressed and went out into the Grand Parlor, half-expecting to find 
Matho Lorcas awaiting him. The room was empty. Efraim stood irresolute a 
moment, then turned as Agnois entered the chamber. Efraim seated himself in 
a chair.

"Tell me how the Kaiark Jochaim died."

"Nothing, Force, is surely known. Semaphores warned of mirk-men riding down 
over the Tassenberg from Gorgetto. The Kaiark sent two troops to attack 
their flank and led a third force to punish the fore-riders. The mirk-men 
raced for Suban Forest, then retreated up the defiles toward Horsuke. 
Suddenly the slopes swarmed with Gorget boremen - the Schardes had been 
lured into an ambush. Jochaim ordered retreat, and the Scharde warriors 
fought their way back down the gorge. Somewhere along the way Jochaim took a 
bolt in his back, and died."

"In the back? Had Jochaim taken flight? This is hard to believe!"

"It is my understanding that he had stationed himself on a knoll where he 
commanded the disposition of his forces. Evidently a mirk-man had slipped 
around through the rocks and discharged his bore from the rear."

"Who was he? What was his rank?"

"He was never killed, nor captured, Force. Indeed he was never seen. The 
Kang Destian assumed command of the troops and brought them safely back into 
Scharrode; and the folk of both Scharrode and Gorgetto expect that an awful 
retaliation must take place. Gorgetto is said to be an armed camp."

Efraim, suddenly stifled by his ignorance, pounded his fists upon the arms 
of his chair. "I feel like the fool in a game of blindman's bluff. I must 
inform myself; I must learn more of the realm."

"This, Force, may be accomplished without delay; you need merely consult the 
archives, or if you prefer, the Kaiarkal Pandects along the Wall yonder - 
the volumes in the green and red bindings," Agnois spoke eagerly, relieved 
that Efraim should be distracted from the episode of the wardrobe.


For three hours Efraim explored the history of Scharrode. Between Gorgetto 
and Scharrode had existed centuries of strife. Each had dealt the other 
cruel blows. Eccord had been sometimes an ally; sometimes a foe, but 
recently had gained greatly in power and now outmatched Scharrode. Disbague 
occupied a small shadowed valley high in the Gartfang Rakes, and was 
considered of small consequence, though the Disbs were credited with a dark 
deviousness, and many of the women were witches.

Efraim reviewed the noble lineages of Scharrode and learned something of 
trismes which united them with other realms. He read about himself: of his 
participation in arrays, exercises, and campaigns; he learned that he was 
considered bold, persistent, and somewhat assertive. In pressing for 
innovation he seemed often to have been at odds with Jochaim, who insisted 
upon tradition.

He read of his mother, the Kraike Alferica, who had drowned in a boating 
accident on Lake Zule during a visit to Eccord. A list of those present at 
the obsequies included the then Lissolet Singhalissa of Urrue Strang in 
Disbague. Very shortly thereafter, Jochaim contracted a new trisme, and 
Singhalissa came to live at Benbuphar Strang, along with her children 
Destian and Sthelany, who were both conceived out of trisme, a circumstance 
neither unusual nor consequential.

Bloated with facts, Efraim put aside the Pandects and rising to his feet he 
stretched and slowly paced the Grand Parlor. At a sound he looked up, 
expecting Matho Lorcas, but found only Agnois. Efraim continued his 
deliberations. He must reach a decision in connection with the Noble 
Singhalissa. She had attempted to conceal a number of important documents, 
then had tried to embarrass and demean him. If he simply adopted a manner of 
lofty disdain, she would certainly attempt new intrigues. Nonetheless - 
because of the revulsion which Singhalissa aroused in him - he felt an 
unconquerable reluctance toward dealing harshly with her; such acts created 
an intimacy of their own, like that hateful empathy between the torturer and 
his victim. Still, he must make some sort of response, lest she consider him 
futile and indecisive.

"Agnois, I have come to a decision. The Noble Singhalissa is to be 
transferred from her present suite into that now occupied by friend Matho 
Lorcas. Bring the Noble Lorcas to more congenial quarters in the Jaher 
Tower. Attend to this at once. I want no delay."

"Your orders shall be carried out! May I venture a comment?"

"Certainly."

"Why not send her back to Disbague? At Urrue Strang she would seem to be at 
a safe distance."

"The suggestion is sensible. However, she might not remain at Disbague, but 
set about organising troubles from all directions. Here, at least, she is 
under my eye. Again, I do not know that person who dealt me harm six months 
ago. Why expel Singhalissa until I learn the truth? Also" - Efraim 
hesitated. If Singhalissa departed, Sthelany almost certainly would depart 
too, but he did not care to explain as much to Agnois.

He walked up and down the parlor wondering how much Agnois knew of 
mirk-deeds about the castle, and how, much Agnois could tell him in regard 
to Sthelany. What was her usual conduct during mirk? Did she bolt her door 
and bar her windows, as fearful maidens were wont to do? Where was Sthelany 
now? In fact: "Where is Matho Lorcas?"

"He accompanies the Lissolet Sthelany; they walk in the Garden of Bitter 
Odors."

Efraim grunted and continued his pacing. As he might have expected. He gave 
Agnois a brusque gesture. "See that the Noble Singhalissa is moved to her 
new quarters at once. You need supply no explanations; your orders are 
simple, and explicit. No, wait! You may say that I am angry with you for 
bringing useless old clothes to my wardrobe."

"Very well, Force." Agnois hurried from the chamber. After a moment Efraim 
followed. Passing through the silent reception hall, he went out upon the 
terrace. Before him spread the distant landscape, placid in the halcyon 
light of umber. Matho Lorcas came conning up the steps. "So ho!" cried 
Lorcas, in what Efraim considered unnatural cheer, or perhaps he was 
nervously gay. "I wondered how long you intended to sleep."

"I've been awake for hours. What have you been doing?"

"A great deal. I explored passages out of the Sacarlatto. For your 
information the passages leading to the chambers of both the Noble 
Singhalissa and the Lissolet Sthelany are obstructed - sealed off with walls 
of masonry. When mirk arrives, you must turn your attention elsewhere."

"Singhalissa has been busy."

"She overrates the magnetism of her precious body," said Lorcas. "Sthelany 
is a different matter."

"It appears that you must seduce her by more conventional means," said 
Efraim in a morose voice.

"Ha hah! I would expect more success chiseling through the masonry. Still, 
either method is a challenge, and I am stimulated by challenges. What a 
triumph for the liberal philosophy should I succeed!"

"True. If you want to see how the land lays, why not invite her to take 
lunch with you?"

"Oh, I know how the land lays. I learned the entire map six months ago in
Port Mar. In a certain sense we're old friends."

Agnois stepped forth from the Reception Hall, his lined gray face limp and 
loose under the velvet tricorn emblematic of his office. He saluted Efraim. 
"The Noble Singhalissa states that she is most distressed by your orders, 
and that she finds them incomprehensible."

"You offered her my remark in regard to the wardrobe?"

"I did, Force, and she professed bewilderment. She urges that you condescend 
to receive her at an inhalation,(1) in order to discuss the matter."

"Certainty," said Efraim. "In, let us say, two hours, when umber becomes 
green rowan, if yonder phase-dial is faithful."

"Two hours, Force? She used an urgent form of speech, and evidently wishes 
the benefit of your wisdom at once."

"I am suspicious of Singhalissa's immediacies," said Efraim. "Two hours 
will enable you to provide exactly proper garments for me, and for the Noble 
Matho Lorcas. Additionally, I have certain arrangements to make."

Agnois departed, puzzled and resentful. For the tenth time Efraim wondered 
as to the advisability of replacing him. With his special knowledge, Agnois 
was almost indispensable; but Agnois also was given to vacillation and at 
the mercy of the last personality with whom he had come into contact.

Efraim said to Lorcas: "You would like to attend an inhalation, I take it?"

"Of course. It will be an unforgettable experience - one among many, if I 
may say so."

"Then meet me in the Grand Parlor in two hours. Your quarters have been 
changed to the Jaher Tower, incidentally, I am transferring Singhalissa to 
those you now occupy." Efraim grinned. "I hope to teach her not to play 
tricks on the Kaiark."

"I doubt if you'll succeed," said Lorcas. "She knows tricks you've never 
thought of. If I were you I'd look in my bed for snakes before jumping under 
the covers."

"Yes," said Efraim. "No doubt you are right." He entered the castle, crossed 
the reception hall, passed along the Corridor of Ancestors, but instead of 
entering the Trophy Room, turned aside into a corridor paved with brown and 
white tiles, and so came to a chamber which served as office, bursary, and 
domestic headquarters. A bench by the side wall supported an ancient 
communicator.

Efraim closed and locked the door. He addressed himself to the communicator 
code-book, then pressed a set of discolored old buttons. The screen glowed 
with pale light, showing sudden jagged disks of carmine red as the summons 
sounded at the opposite end of the connection.

Three or four minutes passed. Efraim sat patiently. To expect a crisp 
response would have been unrealistic.

The screen glowed green, powdered into fugitive dots which reformed to 
display the visage of a pale old man with locks of lank white hair dangling 
past his ears. He peered at Efraim with a half-challenging, half-myopic 
glare and spoke in a rattling croak. "Who calls Gorgance Strang, and for 
what purpose?"

"I am Efraim, Kaiark of Scharrode. I wish to speak with your master the 
Kaiark."

"I will announce that Your Force awaits him."

Another five minutes passed, then upon the screen appeared a massive 
copper-colored face from which hung a great beak of a nose and a deep 
pendulum of a chin. "Kaiark Efraim, you have returned to Scharrode. Why do 
you call me, when no such communication has occurred for a hundred years."

"I call you, Kaiark Gosso, for knowledge. While I was absent, mirk-men from 
Gorgetto entered Scharrode. During this raid the Kaiark Jochaim suffered 
death from a Gorget bolt, which burst open his back."

Gosso's eyes contracted to ice-blue slits. "So much may be fact. What then? 
We await your onslaught. Send over your mirk-men; we will impale them on 
ridgeline saplings. Marshal your noblemen, advance upon us with open faces. 
We will face you rank for rank and slaughter the best of Scharrode."

"I did not call to inquire the state of your emotions, Gosso. I am not 
interested in rhodomontade."

Gosso's voice became profoundly deep. "Why, then, have you called?"

"I find the circumstances of Kaiark Jochaim's death peculiar. In the melee 
of mirk-men and Scharde troops, he commanded from the rear. Did he turn his 
back to the flight? Unlikely. So then, who among your mirk-men killed the 
Scharde Kaiark?"

"No one has asserted such a triumph," rambled Gosso. "I made careful 
inquiry, to no avail."

"A provocative situation."

"From your point of view, indeed." Gosso's eyelids relaxed slightly; he 
moved back into his chair. "Where were you during the raid?"

"I was far away - at Numenes and the Connatic's Palace. I have learned many 
new things, and one of them is this the raids and onslaughts between 
Gorgetto and Scharrode amount to mutual catastrophe. I propose a truce."

Gosso's ropy mouth drew back to display his teeth, not a grin, so Efraim 
presently realized, but a grimace of reflection.

"What you say is true enough," said Gosso at last. "There are few old men 
either in Gorgetto or Scharrode. Still, everyone must die sooner or later, 
and if the warriors of Gorgetto are denied the raiding of Scharrode, how 
will I keep them occupied?"

"I have troubles of my own. No doubt you can find a way."

Gosso cocked his head to the side. "My warriors may protest such an insipid 
existence. The raids drain their energies, and life is easier for me."

Efraim said shortly: "You can notify those who question your authority that 
I am resolved to end the raids. I can offer honorable peace; or I can 
assemble all my forces and totally destroy Gorgetto. As I study the Pandects 
I see that this is within my capabilities, if at the cost of many lives. 
Most of these many lives will be Gorget, inasmuch as we command the heights 
with our sails. It appears to me that the first choice makes the fewest 
demands upon everybody."

Gosso gave a sardonic caw of laughter: "So it might appear. But never forget 
we have rejoiced in the slaughter of Schardes for a thousand years. In 
Gorgetto a boy does not become a man until he kills his Scharde. Still, you 
seem to be serious and I will consider the matter."


The Salon of Sherdas and Private Receptions occupied the third level of the 
squat Arjer Skyrd Tower. Instead of the modestly proportioned chamber Efraim 
had expected, he found a hall seventy feet long and forty feet wide, with a 
floor of black and white marble blocks. Six tall windows admitted floods of 
that curious olive-green light characteristic of umber passing into green 
rowan. Marble pilasters broke the wall into a series of bays, color-washed a 
pale russet. In each stood a massive urn three feet tall carved from black 
brown porphyry: the product of a cogence. The urns contained white sand and 
plumes of dry grass, without odor. A table ten feet wide and twenty feet 
long supported four etiquette screens. At each side of the table a chair had 
been placed.

Agnois hurried forward. "Your Force has arrived a trifle early; our 
arrangements, I fear to say, are incomplete."

"I came early intentionally." Efraim inspected the chamber, them the table. 
He asked in a soft voice: "The Kaiark Jochaim frequented this salon?"

"Indeed, Force, when the company was not numerous."

"Which place was reserved for him?"  

"Yonder, Force, is the Kaiark's place." Agnois indicated the far side of the 
table.

Efraim, now accustomed to the unconscious signals which indicated Agnois' 
moods, eyed him attentively. "That is the chair used by Kaiark Jochaim? It 
is precisely like the others; they are identical."

Agnois hesitated. "These are the chairs ordered out by the Noble 
Singhalissa."

Efraim controlled his voice with an effort. "Did I not instruct you to 
disregard Singhalissa's orders?"

"I recall something of the sort, Force," said Agnois lamely, "but I tend to 
obey her by reflex, especially in small matters such as this."

"Do you consider this a small matter?"

Agnois grimaced and licked his lips. "I had not analyzed it along such 
lines."

"But the chair is not that chair customarily used by the Kaiark?"

"No, Your Force."

"In fact, it is a chair quite unsuitable to the dignity of a Kaiark - 
especially under the present conditions."

"I suppose that I must agree with you, Force."

"So again, Agnois, you have at worst conspired, at best cooperated, with 
Singhalissa in her attempts to make me a buffoon and so diminish my 
authority."

Agnois uttered a cry of anguish. "By no means, Force! I acted in all 
innocence!"

"Set the table to rights, instantly!"

Agnois turned a side-look toward Lorcas. "Shall I seat five, Your Force?"

"Leave it at four."

The offending chair was removed; another more massive, inlaid with 
carnelians and turquoises, was brought in. "Notice, Force," said Agnois 
effusively, "the small mesh here by your ear, by which the Kaiark can 
receive messages and advice."

"Very good," said Efraim. "I will expect you to stand in concealment and 
advise me as to etiquette and custom."

"With pleasure, Your Force!"

Efraim seated himself and placed Lorcas at the end of the table to his right.

Lorcas said reflectively: "These tricks are really rather petty - not what 
one might expect of Singhalissa."

"I don't know what to expect from Singhalissa. I imagine that her aim is to 
demonstrate me a fool as well as an amnesiac, so that the eiodarks will 
eject me in favor of Destian."

"You'd do well to pack her off."

"I suppose so. Still -"

Singhalissa, Sthelany, and Destian entered the chamber. Efraim and Lorcas 
politely rose to their feet. Singhalissa came a few steps forward, then 
halted, regarding the two remaining chairs with pinched nostrils. She then 
spared a quick glance for the stately chair which Efraim occupied. "I am 
somewhat baffled," she said. "I envisioned an informal discussion, in which 
all opinions might most expeditiously be aired."

Efraim replied in an even voice: "I could not conceive a conference on a 
basis other than propriety. But I am surprised to see the Squire Destian; 
from the arrangements I understood that only you and the Noble Sthelany 
planned to attend our conference. Agnois, be so good as to arrange another 
place there, to the left of Her Dignity the Wirwove. Sthelany, be so good as 
to seat yourself in this chair to my left."

Smiling a faint vague smile, Sthelany took her seat. Singhalissa and Destian 
stood aside with dour faces as Agnois rearranged the table. Efraim watched 
Sthelany surreptitiously, as always wandering what went on in her brain. At 
this moment she seemed indolent, careless, and totally introverted.

Singhalissa and Destian at last were seated; Efraim and Lorcas gravely 
returned to their own places. Singhalissa made a small movement, but Lorcas 
gave a peremptory rap on the table with his knuckles, causing Singhalissa 
and Destian to look at him questioningly. Sthelany was studying Efraim with 
an interest almost embarrassingly intent.

Efraim spoke. "The present circumstances are strained, and certain of you 
have been forced to accept an attenuation of prospects. In reference to the 
events of the last six months, I remind you that I have been the chief 
victim. Excepting, of course, the Kaiark Jochaim, who was robbed of his 
life. Nevertheless, the inconveniences I personally have suffered have made 
me callous of lesser complaints, and it is on this basis that we hold our 
discussion."

Sthelany's smile became even more vague; Destian's sneer was almost audible. 
Singhalissa gripped the arms of her chair with long fingers, so tightly 
that bones shone luminous through the skin. Singhalissa replied: "Needless 
to say, we all must adapt to changing circumstances; it is sheer futility to 
do otherwise. I have conferred long and earnestly with the Noble Destian and 
the Lissolet Sthelany; we all are perplexed by your misfortunes. You have 
been a victim of unconventional violence,(2) which I understand is not 
uncommon at Port Mar." Singhalissa's flick of a glance toward Lorcas was 
almost too swift to be sensed. "You were doubtless waylaid by some 
off-worlder, for reasons beyond my comprehension."

Efraim grimly shook his head. "This theory commands low probability, 
especially in view of certain other facts. I was almost certainly beset by a 
Rhune enemy, for whom our standards of decency have lost all meaning."

Singhalissa's high sweet voice became a trifle strident. "We cannot evaluate 
undisclosed facts, but in any event your enemy is unknown to us. I only 
wonder if, after all, there has not been a mistake."

For the first time Lorcas spoke. "To clarify matters once and for all, are 
you giving His Force to understand that in the first place, none of you have 
knowledge of the event at Port Mar, and secondly, that none of you have 
received information regarding this event, and thirdly, that none of you can 
guess who might be responsible?"

No one answered. Efraim said gently: "The Noble Matho Lorcas is my friend 
and counselor; his question is a fair one. What of you, Squire Destian?"

Destian responded in a surly baritone: "I know nothing."

"Lissolet Sthelany?"

"I know nothing of anything."

"Your Dignity the Wirwove?"

"The affair is incomprehensible."

Through the mesh at the back of Efraim's chair sounded Agnois' hoarse 
whisper. "It would be politic to ask Singhalissa if she might care to 
refresh herself and the company with a medley of vapors."

Efraim said: "I naturally accept your explicit assurances. If anyone chances 
to recall some forgotten fact which may be relevant, I will be grateful to 
hear it. Perhaps we should now entreat Her Dignity to refresh us with 
vapors."

Singhalissa leaned stiffly forward and drew out a panel in front of her, 
displaying knobs, toggles, bulbs and other mechanisms, then drawers to right 
and left containing hundreds of small vials. Her long fingers worked with 
intricacy and deftness, vials were lifted; drops of liquid poured into a  
silver orifice were followed by powders and a gout of seething green liquor. 
Then she pushed a button and a pump blew the fumes along tubes under the 
table and up behind the etiquette screens. Meanwhile, with her left hand, 
Singhalissa was altering her first vapor so that it might modulate into a 
second which she was busy preparing with her right hand.

The fumes followed each other like musical tones, and ended, as with a coda, 
upon an artfully bitter nose-wrenching whiff.

Agnois' whisper sounded in Efraim's ear. "Call for more; this is etiquette!"

Efraim said: "Your Dignity has only stimulated our expectations; why must 
you stop now?"

"I am flattered that you honor my efforts," But Singhalissa sat back from 
the vials.

After a pause Destian spoke, a saturnine half-smile trembling on his lips. 
"I am curious to learn as to how you intend to punish Gosso arid his 
jackals."

"I will take counsel upon the matter."

Singhalissa, as if impelled by an irresistible creative urge, once more bent 
over the vials; again she poured and vapors issued from behind the etiquette 
screens. In Efraim's ear sounded Agnois' husky whisper: "She is discharging 
raw essences at random, concocting a set of stinks. She understands your 
distrait condition and hopes to draw forth fulsome compliments."

Efraim leaned back from the etiquette screen. He glanced at Destian who 
could scarcely control his merriment. Sthelany sat with a wry expression. 
Efraim said: "Her Dignity the Wirwove suddenly seems to have lost her sure 
instincts. Some of these vapors are absolutely amazing, even for the 
entertainment of a group as informal as this. Perhaps Her Dignity attempts a 
set of new combinations imported from Port Mar?"

Singhalissa wordlessly desisted from her manipulations. Efraim sat erect in 
his chair. "The subject we had not yet touched upon was my order to move 
Your Dignity to Minot Tower. In view of the chairs and the fumes, I will not 
reconsider my decision. There has been altogether too much interference and 
meddling. I hope that we have seen the last of it, inasmuch as I would not 
care to inconvenience Your Dignity to an even greater extent."

"Your Force is most considerate," said Singhalissa, without so much as a 
quiver in her voice.

Through the tall windows the light had changed, as umber fully gave way to 
green rowan, with Cirse barely grazing the horizons.

Sthelany said; "Mirk approaches; dark hideous mirk when the gharks and hoos 
come forth and all the world is dead."

Lorcas asked in a cheerful voice: "What is a ghark and what is a hoo?"

"Evil beings."

"In human form?"

"I know nothing of such things," said Sthelany. "I take refuge behind a door 
triple-bolted and strong iron shutters at my window. You must ask elsewhere 
for your information."

Matho Lorcas gave his head a shake of whimsical wonder. "I have traveled far 
and wide," he said, "and never cease to be amazed by the diversities of 
Alastor Cluster."

The Lissolet Sthelany half-yawned, then spoke in easy voice: "Does the Noble 
Lorcas include the Rhunes among those peoples who excite his amazement?"

Lorcas grinned and leaned forward. Here was the milieu he loved: 
conversation! Supple sentences, with first and second meanings and overtones 
beyond, outrageous challenges with cleverly planned slip-points, rebuttals 
of elegant brevity; deceptions and guiles, patient explanations of the 
obvious, fleeting allusions to the unthinkable. As a preliminary, the 
conversationalist must gauge the mood, the intelligence, and the verbal 
facility of the company. To this end a few words of pedantic exposition 
often proved invaluable. "By an axiom of cultural anthropology, the more 
isolated a community, the more idiosyncratic become its customs and 
conventions. This of course is not necessarily disadvantageous.

"On the other hand, consider a person such as myself: a rootless wanderer, a 
cosmopolitan. Such a person tends to flexibility; he adapts himself to his 
surroundings without qualms or misgivings. His baggage of conventions is 
simple and natural, the lowest common denominator of his experience. He 
evinces a kind of universal culture which will serve him almost anywhere 
across Alastor Cluster, throughout the Gaean Reach. I make no virtue of this 
flexibility, except to suggest that it is more comfortable to travel with 
than a set of conventions, which, if jostled, work emotional strains upon 
those who espouse them."

Singhalissa joined the conversation, speaking in a voice as dry as the 
rustle of dead leaves. "The Noble Lorcas with earnest conviction proposes a 
view which I fear we Rhunes regard as banal. As he knows, we never travel, 
except rarely to Port Mar. Even were we disposed to travel, I doubt if we 
would school ourselves inhabits which we find not only vulgar but repellent. 
This is an informal gathering; I will venture upon an unpleasant topic. The 
ordinary citizen of the Cluster shows a lack of self-consciousness regarding 
his bowel which is typically animal. Without shame he displays his victual, 
salivates, wads it into his orifice, grinds it with his teeth, massages it 
with his tongue, impels the pulp along his intestinal tract. With only 
little more modesty he excretes the digested mess, occasionally making jokes 
as if he were proud of his alimentary facility. Naturally we obey the same 
biological compulsions, but we are more considerate of our fellows and 
perform these acts in privacy." As she spoke Singhalissa never abandoned her 
mordant monotone.

Destian uttered a soft chuckle endorsing her views.

Lorcas however would not be daunted. He nodded sagely. "Everything depends 
upon the quality of one's conventions. Agreed! But we must examine this 
so-called quality for its usefulness. Overcomplicated, over strict 
conventions limit a person's life-options. They confine his mind and stunt 
his perceptions. Why, in the name of the Connatic's pet owl, should we even 
consider a limit to the possibilities of this, our one and single life?"

"You will confuse us all if you talk in ultimates and eschatologies," said 
Singhalissa with a cold smile. "They are not germane in any case. One may 
exemplify any point of view, no matter how absurd, by carefully citing an 
appropriate, or even an artificial, theory. The traveler and cosmopolitan 
whom you have chosen as your paladin above all else should realize the 
difference between abstractions and living human beings, between 
sociological concepts and durable communities. As I listen to you I hear 
only ingenuousness and didactic theory."

Lorcas compressed his lips. "Perhaps because you are hearing views which 
contradict your emotions. But I stray from the mark. The durable communities 
you mention are beside the point. Societies are amazingly tolerant of abuse, 
even those burdened with dozens of obsolete or unnatural or even baneful 
conventions."

Singhalissa allowed herself to show open amusement. "I suspect that you take 
an extreme position. Only children are intolerant of conventions. They are 
indispensable to an organized civilization, like discipline to an army, or 
foundations to a building, or landmarks to a traveler. Without conventions 
civilization is a handful of water. An army without discipline is a mob. A 
building without foundations is rabble. A traveler without landmarks is 
lost."

Lorcas stated that he opposed not all convention, but only those which he 
found irksome and pointless.

Singhalissa refused to let him off so easily. "I suspect that you refer to 
the Rhunes, and here, as a stranger, you are particularly handicapped in 
your judgments. I find my way of life orderly and reasonable, which should 
certainly satisfy you. Unless, of course, you consider me undiscriminating 
and stupid?"

Lorcas saw that he had caught a Tartar. He shook his head. "By no means! 
Quite the contrary. Without hesitation I agree that, at the very least, your 
outlook upon life is different from mine."

Singhalissa had already lost interest in the conversation. She turned to 
Efraim. "With your permission, Force, I take my leave."

"As you wish, Your Dignity."

Singhalissa stalked from the room in a flutter of gray gauze, followed by 
Destian, stiff and erect, and then, Sthelany. Behind marched Efraim and 
Matho Lorcas, somewhat subdued. They found themselves on the arcade which 
connected the third level of Arjer Skyrd to the high parlors of the North 
Tower, then gave upon the upper balcony of the herbarium.

Descending the North Tower staircase, they were arrested by a sudden 
clanging of gongs, followed by a wild braying of horns in an agitated 
fanfare.

Singhalissa glanced back over her shoulder; her thin cheeks were compressed 
into an unmistakable smile.


(1) The word sherdas, an inexact translation. Those attending a sherdas are 
seated around a table. From properly disposed orifices a succession of 
aromatic odors and perfumes is released. To praise the fumes too highly, or 
to inhale too deeply is considered low behavior and leaves the guilty person 
open to suspicions of gourmandizing.

(2) An act of molestation or violence - a mirk-deed, so to speak - committed 
during the daylight hours, a depravity unimaginable among persons of dignity.



Chapter 8


Efraim continued down the staircase to the frenzy of the fanfare produced by 
six men with convolved bronze sad-horns. Six horns, wondered Efraim? He 
himself, the returning Kaiark, had only been greeted with four! A slight 
which he had failed to notice.
 
The front portals had been flung ajar, and here stood Agnois, wearing a long 
white cloak crusted over with blue and silver embroidery and a complicated 
turban-like headdress: garments reserved for the most profoundly serious 
occasions. Efraim compressed his lips. What to do with the wretched Agnois, 
who had assisted him during the reception, but who had failed to warn him of 
whatever now was about to ensue?

The fanfare became a hysteria of yelling horns, to halt abruptly as a man, 
in splendid black garments, picked out with pink and silver stripes, strode 
through the portal. Behind him marched four eiodarks. All wore headgear of 
pink and black cloth, wound up on pronged fillets of silver.

Efraim halted a moment on the landing, then descended slowly. Agnois cried 
out: "His Majestic Force, the Kaiark Rianlle of Eccord!"

Rianlle halted, scrutinizing Efraim with pale hazel eyes under dark golden 
eyebrows. He stood stiffly erect, aware of the splendid spectacle he made: a 
man in, the fullest vigor of his life, not yet middle-aged, square-faced, 
with curling dark golden hair; a man of pride and passion, perhaps lacking 
in humor, but certainly not a person to be taken lightly.

Efraim stood waiting until Rianlle advanced another two steps. Efraim said: 
"Welcome to Benbuphar Strang. I am pleased, if surprised, to see you."

"Thank you." Rianlle turned abruptly away from Efraim and performed a formal 
bow. Down the stairs came Singhalissa, Destian, and Sthelany.

Efraim said: "You are of course well-acquainted with her Dignity the 
Wirwove, the Squire Destian, and the Lissolet Sthelany. This is the Noble 
Matho Lorcas, of Port Mar."

Rianlle acknowledged the introduction by no more than a cold glance. Matho 
Lorcas bowed courteously. "At your service, Force."

Efraim stepped aside and signaled to Agnois. "Conduct these noble gentlemen 
to appropriate chambers where they may refresh themselves, then come to the 
Grand Parlor."


Agnois presently appeared in the Grand Parlor. "Yes, Your Force?"

"Why did you not notify me that Rianlle was to arrive?"

Agnois spoke in an injured voice: "I did not know myself, until Her Dignity 
upon leaving the salon ordered me to prepare a reception. I barely had time 
to accomplish the task."

Efraim said, "I see. He wears his headgear in the castle; is this customary 
and polite?"

"It is formal usage, Force. The headdress signifies authority and autonomy. 
In a formal colloquy of equals both parties will dress similarly."

"Bring me suitable garments and headgear, if any are available."

Efraim dressed. "Conduct Rianlle here whenever he is so minded. If his 
retinue starts to come, explain that I prefer a private discussion with 
Rianlle."

"As you wish, Force." Agnois hesitated. "I might point out that Eccord is a 
powerful realm with victorious traditions. Rianlle is a vain man but not 
stupid. He esteems himself and his prestige at an exalted level."

"Thank you, Agnois. Bring in Rianlle; I will deal with him as carefully as 
possible."

Half an hour later Agnois ushered Rianlle into the Parlor. Efraim rose to 
greet him. "Will you sit? Those chairs are quite comfortable."

"Thank you." Rianlle settled himself.

"Your visit is of course most welcome," said Efraim "You will forgive me if 
I seem disorganized; I have hardly had time to collect my wits."

"You returned at a most opportune moment," observed Rianlle, his hazel eyes 
wide and luminous. "At least for yourself."

Efraim sat back in his chair and inspected Rianlle a full five seconds. Then 
he said in a cool unaccented voice: "I did not time my return on this basis; 
I was unaware that Jochaim had been murdered until my arrival in Port Mar."

"Allow me to offer my personal condolences and those of all Eccord upon this 
untimely death. Did you use the word murder?"

"The evidence indicates something of the sort."

Rianlle nodded slowly and looked thoughtfully across the room. "I came both 
to express my sympathy and to consolidate the friendly relations between our 
realms."

"You may take for granted my desire that they continue."

"Excellent. I assume that you intend a smooth continuity between the 
policies of Jochaim and your own?"

Efraim began to sense a pressure behind Rianlle's suave remarks. He said 
cautiously: "In many cases, no doubt this will be true. In others, the 
simple mutability of life and circumstance dictates changes."

"A prudent and flexible point of view! Allow me to offer my commendation! In 
the relations between Eccord and Scharrode there will be no mutability; I 
would like to assure you that I intend to honor to the letter every 
commitment made by me to Jochaim; I would like to hear that the converse 
holds true."

Efraim made an affable gesture. "Let us not talk high policy at this moment. 
I am not yet in command of all the facts and anything I could now say would 
be tentative. But since our two realms are so closely knit in amity, what 
benefits one benefits the other, and you may be assured that I intend to do 
my best for Scharrode."

Rianlle glanced sharply at Efraim, then stared toward the ceiling. "Agreed; 
large matters may wait. There is one rather inconsequential issue which we 
can easily resolve now, without prejudice to your program. I refer to that 
trifle of territory along Whispering Ridge where I wish to build a pavilion 
for our mutual enjoyment. Jochaim was on the point of signing the parcel 
over to me when he met his death."

"I wonder if there was any connection between the two events," mused Efraim.

"Of course not! How could there be?"

"My imagination is overactive. In regard to Whispering Ridge I must admit an 
aversion toward yielding so much as a square inch of our sacred Scharrode 
soil; still, I will study the matter."

"Not satisfactory!" Rianlle's voice had taken on an edge, and sang like a 
vibrating wire. "I am thwarted in my wishes!"

"Is anyone ever continually and completely gratified? Let us talk no more of 
the subject. Perhaps I can induce the Lissolet to contrive a series of 
stimulating atmospheres . . ."


At the great twenty-sided table in the Formal Reception Chamber, Rianlle sat 
stiff and glum. Sthelany formulated a series of fumes, somehow suggesting a 
walk over the hills - soil and sunlit vegetation, water and wet rocks, the 
perfume of anthion and wood violet, mold, rotten wood, and camphor. She 
worked without Singhalissa's deftness, rather seeming to amuse herself 
among the vials as a child might play with colored chalks. Sthelany's 
fingers began to move faster; she bad become interested in her contrivances 
as a musician suddenly perceives meanings in his music which he is forced to 
explicate. Gone was the hillside, away the forest; the vapors were at first 
gay, tart, and light; gradually they lost character, only to become sweetly 
melancholic, like heliotrope in a forgotten garden. And this odor in turn 
became pervaded with a bitter exudation, then a salt pungency, then a final 
despairing black reek. Sthelany looked up with a twisted smile and closed 
the drawers.

Rianlle uttered an ejaculation: "You have performed with enormous artistry; 
you have shaken us all with cataclysmic visions!"

Efraim looked around the table. Destian sat toying with a silver bracelet; 
Singhalissa sat stiff and staring; the eiodarks of Eccord muttered together. 
Lorcas stared in wonder toward Sthelany. Efraim thought: he is totally 
fascinated, but he had better make his emotion less overt, or he will be 
accused of sebalism.

Rianlle turned to Efraim. "When you said murder, you used an inglorious word 
to describe the death of the honored Jochaim. How then will you deal with 
that dog Gosso?"

Efraim held his face immobile against a surge of annoyance. He had used the 
word murder perhaps indiscreetly; but need Rianlle blurt out the details of 
what Efraim had considered a confidential conversation? He felt the sudden 
interest of both Singhalissa and Destian.

"I have made no precise plans. I plan to end the war with Gorgetto on one 
basis or another; it is useless and it bleeds us white."

"If I understand you correctly, you intend to prosecute only useful wars?"

"If wars there must be, I intend to fight for only tangible and necessary 
goals. I do not regard war as entertainment and I shall not hesitate to use 
unusual tactics."

Rianlle's smile was almost openly contemptuous.

"Scharrode is a small realm. Realistically, you are at the mercy of your 
neighbors, no matter how peculiar your campaigns."

"Your opinions of course carry great weight," said Efraim.

Rianlle went on in a measured voice. "I recall some previous discussion of a 
trisme, that the fortunes of Scharrode and Eccord might be joined. The 
subject at this moment is perhaps premature in view of the chaotic 
circumstances here in Scharrode."

From the corner of his eye Efraim noted a shifting of positions around the 
table, as tense muscles demanded relief. He met the dark gaze of Sthelany; 
her face seemed as pensive as ever, and - could it be true? - somehow 
wistful.

Rianlle once more was speaking, and everyone about the table fixed their 
gaze upon that unnaturally handsome face. "Nevertheless, all will no doubt 
sort itself out. Accommodation between our two realms must be achieved. An 
imbalance now exists, and I refer to the unfulfilled contract in regard to 
Dwan Jar, the Whispering Ridge. If a trisme will facilitate the hoped-for 
equilibrium, then I must give the matter serious consideration."

Efraim laughed and shook his head. "Trisme is a responsibility I do not care 
to assume at the moment, especially since Your Force displays such clear 
misgivings. Indeed, your perceptions are remarkable; you have correctly 
defined the situation here. Scharrode is a welter of mysteries which must be 
resolved before we can move onward."

Rianlle rose to his feet, as did his retinue of eiodarks. "Scharrode 
hospitality is as always correct, and induces us to prolong our visit, but 
we must take our leave. I trust that Your Force will make a realistic 
assessment of past, present, and putative future and act to the best 
interests of us all."

Efraim and Lorcas went out to the parapets of Deistary Tower and watched as 
Rianlle and his retinue climbed into the rented(1) aircar, which a moment 
later lifted high and flew north.

Lorcas had retired to his refectory to take a furtive meal; then he planned 
to sleep. Efraim remained on the parapets looking off over the valley, which 
in the light of half-and presented so entrancing a vista that his heart 
missed a beat. From this land the substance of his body had been drawn; it 
was his own, to nurture and love and rule, for all foreseeable time; yet how 
useless! how forlorn! Scharrode was lost to him; he had broken the crust of 
tradition. Never again could he be a Rhune, nor could the damage be mended. 
He would never be a whole man in Scharrode, nor elsewhere; never would he be 
content.

He studied the landscape with the intensity of a man about to go blind. 
Light slanting down across Alode the Cliff illuminated a hundred forests; 
the irradiated foliage seemed to glow with internal light: bitter lime, 
intense gray-blue given pointillist fire by scarlet seedpods, dark umber, 
black-blue, black-green. Surrounding stood the great peaks, each named and 
known in ancient fable: aloof Shanajra bearded with snow, who, resenting the 
mockery of the Bird Crags, turned his face to the south to stand forever 
brooding; the Two Hags Kamr and Dimw, rancorous above Danquil, enchanted and 
sleeping under a blanket of murre trees; there, Whispering Ridge, coveted by 
Rianlle, where the Fwai-chi walked to their sacred places among the Lenglin 
Mountains. His land forever, his land never; and what was he to do? In all 
the realm was but a single man he could trust, the Port Mar vagabond Matho 
Lorcas. Gosso might or might not interpret his offer as an admission of 
weakness. Rianlle's not too subtle threats might or might not be intended 
seriously. Singhalissa might yet intrigue with sufficient finesse to cause 
him woe. Efraim decided that he must, without further delay, call together 
the Scharde eiodarks, to assist him with his decisions.

The landscape dimmed, as Osmo dropped behind Alode the Cliff. Furad hung low 
in the sky over Shanajra.

A slow step sounded on the marble flags; turning, Efraim saw Sthelany. She 
hesitated, then came to join him. Together they leaned on the parapets. From 
the corner of his eye Efraim studied Sthelany's face. What transpired behind 
that clear pale brow; what prompted the half-wistful half-mocking twist of 
the lips?

"Mirk is near," said Sthelany. She glanced toward Efraim. "Your Force no 
doubt has thoroughly reconnoitered the passages which lead here and there 
about the castle?"

"Only in order to protect myself from the surveillance of your mother."

Sthelany shook her head smilingly. "Is she really interested in your 
activities?"

"Some female of the household has demonstrated that interest. Could it be 
you?"

"I have never set foot in a mirk-way."

Efraim took note of the equivocation. "To answer your question precisely, I 
have indeed explored the mirk-ways, and I am arranging that they be 
interrupted by heavy iron doors."

"Then it would seem that Your Force does not intend to exercise the 
prerogatives of rank?"

Efraim arched his eyebrows at the question. He responded in what he hoped to 
be dignified tones: "I certainly do not intend to violate the persons of 
anyone against their will. Additionally, as I'm sure you know, the passage 
to your chambers is blocked by masonry."

"Indeed! Then I am reassured once and once again! It has been my habit 
during mirk to sleep behind triply locked doors, but Your Force's assurances 
make such precautions unnecessary."

Efraim wondered: did she flaunt? Did she entice? Did she tease? He said: "I 
might change my mind. I have adopted certain off-planet attitudes and they 
prompt me to confess that I find you fascinating."

"Psssh! These are matters we must not discuss." Sthelany, however, showed no 
sign of outrage.

"And what of the three bolts?"

Sthelany laughed. "I cannot imagine Your Force engaging in such an 
outrageous and undignified escapade; the bolts are evidently unnecessary."

Even as they spoke Furad, slipping low to the horizon, dipped half-under, 
and the sky went dim. Sthelany, her mouth half-open in an expression of 
child-like wonder, exclaimed: "Is mirk upon us? I feel a strange emotion."

Her emotion, thought Efraim, seemed real enough. Color had come to her 
cheeks, her bosom heaved, her eyes glowed with dark light. Furad sank even 
lower, all but leaving the smoky orange sky. Was mirk upon them indeed? 
Sthelany gasped and seemed to sway toward Efraim; he sensed her fragrance 
but almost as he reached to touch her hand, she pointed. "Furad floats once 
more; mirk is averted, and all things live!"

With no more words Sthelany moved away across the terrace. She paused to 
touch a white flower growing in a pot, turned a fleeting glance back over 
her shoulder, and then she moved on.

Efraim presently went into the castle and descended to his office. In the 
corridor he came upon Destian, apparently bound for the same destination. 
Destian however gave a frigid nod and turned aside. Efraim closed the door, 
telephoned the rental agency at Port Mar and ordered out an aircar, 
requesting a pilot other than the redoubtable Flaussig. He left the office, 
hesitated, turned back, locked the door and took away the key.


(1) The Rhune Realms are allowed no aircars because of their aggressive 
proclivities. When a Rhune wishes to make a journey he must call into Port 
Mar and hire a suitable vehicle for the occasion.



Chapter 9


Efraim and Matho Lorcas climbed into the aircar and were earned high above 
the valley of the Esch River: up, up, until they hovered on a level with the 
surrounding peaks. Efraim called off their names: "Horsuke, Gleide Cliff, 
the Tassenberg; Alode the Cliff, Haujefolge, Scarlume and Devil Dragon, Bryn 
the Hero; Kamr, Dimw, and Danquil; Shanajra, the Bird Crags, Gossil the 
Traitor - notice the avalanches - Camanche, and there: Whispering Ridge. 
Driver: take us yonder to Whispering Ridge."

The peaks shifted across other farther, peaks of other farther realms. Under 
the cloud-piercing claw of Camanche, Whispering Ridge came into full view - 
an upland meadow rather than a true ridge, to the south overlooking 
Scharrode and the valley of the Esch, to the north the multiple valleys of 
Eccord. The aircar landed; Efraim and Lorcas jumped out into ankle-deep 
grass.

The air was calm. Trees grew in copses; Whispering Ridge was like an island 
in the sky, a place of total peace. Efraim held up his hand. "Listen!"

From an indeterminate source came a low whisper, fluctuating musically, 
sometimes sighing into silence, sometimes almost singing.

"Wind?" Lorcas looked at the trees. "The leaves are still. The air is still."

"Strange in itself. Up here one would expect a wind."

They moved across the sward. In the shade of the forest Efraim noticed a 
group of Fwai-chi watching them impassively. Lorcas and Efraim halted. 
"There they stand," said Lorcas, "walking their 'Path through Life,' all 
shags and tatters, typical pilgrims in any language."

They continued across the meadow and looked over Eccord. Belrod Strang was 
lost among the folds of the forested hills. "The view is superb," said 
Lorcas. "Do you intend to deal generously with Rianlle?"

"No. The fact remains that he could send a thousand men up tomorrow to clear 
the site, and another thousand to start building his pavilion, and I could 
do very little to stop him."

"Peculiar," said Lorcas. "Peculiar indeed."

"How so?"

"This place is magnificent - superb, in fact. I'd like a pavilion here 
myself. But I have been studying the maps. The realms are thick with places 
like this. In Eccord alone there must be twenty sites as beautiful. Rianlle 
is capricious to insist on this particular spot."

"Odd, I agree."

They turned back across the meadow, to find four Fwai-chi awaiting them.

As Efraim and Lorcas approached they drew a few steps back, hissing and 
rumbling among themselves.

The two men halted. Efraim said: "You appear disturbed. We are bothering 
you?"

One spoke in a guttural version of Gaean: "We walk the Life Road. It is a 
serious work. We do not wish to watch men. Why do you come here?"

"For no particular purpose: to look about a bit."

"I see you plan no harm. This is our place, reserved to us by a very old 
treaty with the kaiarks. Do you not know? I see you do not know."

Efraim gave a bitter laugh. "I know nothing - of the treaty or anything 
else. A Fwai drug took my memory. Is there an antidote?"

"There is no antidote. The poison breaks the roads to the memory tablets. 
These roads will never mend. Still, you must remind your Kaiark -"

"I am the Kaiark."

"Then you must know the treaty is real."

"The treaty won't mean much if the land is transferred to Eccord."

"That may not be done. We repeated to each other the word 'forever.'"

"I would like to see this treaty myself," said Efraim. "I will carefully 
check my records."

"The treaty is not among your records," said the Fwai-chi, and the group 
shuffled back to the forest. Efraim and Lorcas stood looking after them.

"Now what did he mean by that?" demanded Efraim in wonder.

"He seems to feel that you won't find the treaty."

"We'll soon find out," said Efraim.

They continued across the meadow toward the aircar.

Lorcas paused and looked up toward Camanche. "I can explain the whisper. The 
wind pushes up over Camanche, and around. It splits and swirls and passes 
the meadow by. We hear innumerable small frictions: the sound of air against 
air."

"You may be right. Still I prefer other explanations."

"Such as?"

"The footsteps of a million dead pilgrims; cloud fairies; Camanche reckoning 
up the seconds."

"More convincing, I agree. Where to now?"

"Your idea of twenty equivalent sites in Eccord is interesting. I would like 
to look upon these sites."

They flew north, through the peaks, domes, and ridges of Eccord; and within 
an hour discovered a dozen high meadows with prospects at least as appealing 
as those of Whispering Ridge. "Rianlle is most arbitrary," said Lorcas. "The 
question is, why?"

"I cannot even speculate."

"Suppose he gains the meadow and proceeds with his plans. Then what of the 
Fwai-chi?"

"I doubt if Rianlle would enjoy Fwai-chi pilgrims trooping through his 
pavilion, resting on his terraces. But how could he stop them? They are 
protected by the Connatic."

The aircar spiraled down into Scharrode and landed at Benbuphar Strang. As 
the two. alighted, Efraim said: "Would you not like to return to Port Mar? I 
value your companionship, but there is nothing to amuse you here; I foresee 
only unpleasantness."

"The temptation to leave is strong," Lorcas admitted. "The food here is 
abominable, and I don't like to eat in a closet. Singhalissa oppresses me 
with her cleverness. Destian is insufferable. As for Sthelany - ah, the 
magic Sthelany! I hope to persuade her to Port Mar for a visit. This may 
seem an impossible task but every journey begins with a single step."

"So then, you plan to stay at Benbuphar Strang?"

"With your permission, still a week or two."

Efraim dismissed the aircar; the two returned to the castle. "You have 
exercised your charm upon her?"

Lorcas nodded. "She is curiously ambiguous. To say that she blows first hot 
then cold is inaccurate; she blows first cold, then colder. But she could 
easily order me to keep my distance."

"Has she mentioned the horrors of mirk?"

"She assures me that she bolts her doors with three bars, clamps her 
windows, keeps vials of offensive odors at the ready, and generally is 
unavailable."

They halted and looked up at the balcony behind which were Sthelany's rooms.

"A pity the mirk-way is blocked," mused Lorcas. "When all else fails one can 
always pounce on a girl through the dark. Still she's hinted rather 
pointedly that I'm not to come around. In fact, after I tried to kiss her in 
the Garden of Bitter Odors she told me quite bluntly to keep my distance."

"Why not try Singhalissa? Or has she also warned you off?"

"What a thought! I suggest that we take a quiet bottle of wine together and 
search the archives for the Fwai-chi treaty."


The Index to the Archives mentioned no treaty with the Fwai-chi. Efraim 
summoned Agnois, who denied all knowledge of the document. "Such an 
understanding, Your Force, would hardly be expressed as a formal treaty in 
any case."

"Perhaps not. Why does Rianlle want Whispering Ridge?"

Agnois raised his eyes to a point above Efraim's head. "I suppose that he 
intends to build there a summer pavilion, Force."

"Surely Rianlle treated with the Kaiark Jochaim on this matter?"

"I cannot say, Your Force."

"Who maintains the archives?"

"The Kaiark himself, with such help as he requires."

At Efraim's nod, Agnois departed.

"So now, no treaty," said Efraim glumly. "Nothing whatever to show Rianlle!"

"The Fwai-chi declared as much."

"How could they know? Our archives are nothing to them!"

"The treaty probably was an oral understanding; they knew that no document 
existed."

In frustration Efraim jumped to his feet. "I must take counsel; the 
situation has become intolerable." Once again he summoned Agnois.

"Your Force requires?"

"Send messages to the eiodarks; I wish them to meet me here in twenty hours. 
The occasion is urgent; I will expect everyone."

"That hour, Your Force, will fall in the middle period of mirk."

"Oh . . . in thirty hours, then. One other matter - do not inform 
Singhalissa of this meeting, nor Destian, nor Sthelany, nor anyone who might 
transfer this news; further, do not give instructions within the hearing of 
these people, and do not make note of the occasion upon paper. Am I 
sufficiently explicit?"

"Perfectly so, Your Force."

Agnois departed the room.

"If he fails me this time," said Efraim, "he'll not find me lenient." He 
went to the window and presently observed the departure of six 
under-chamberlains. "There they go with the message. The news will reach 
Singhalissa as soon as they return, but there is little she can do."

Lorcas said: "She's probably resigned herself to the inevitable by now. And 
yonder on the terrace, is that not Sthelany? With your permission, I will go 
out and enliven her life."

"As you like. But one word, while the thought is on my mind. That word is 
'caution.' Mirk approaches. Unpleasant events occur. Lock yourself in your 
chambers, go to sleep, and don't stir till the light returns."

"Reasonable enough," said Lorcas slowly. "I wouldn't care to meet any gharks 
nor, for that matter, any hoos."



Chapter 10


After six hours of aud, Furad and Osmo left the sky. Cirse and Maddar, 
instead of slanting toward the horizon, settled vertically with ponderous 
purpose. Maddar disappeared first, to leave the land momentarily in green 
rowan, then Cirse sank behind Whispering Ridge. The sky flared and dimmed; 
darkness fell. Mirk had come to Scharrode.

In the farmsteads lights flared and flickered, then were extinguished; in 
the town shutters clanged, doors slammed, bolts thudded home. Those secure 
or fearful or uninterested in adventure took themselves to bed.

Others by candlelight denuded themselves, then donned black shoulder pieces, 
black boots, and hideous man-masks. Others removed gray gauze gowns, to don 
loose smocks of white muslin; then they loosened the shutters of their 
windows or the bolts of their doors, but never both; then, with a small 
taper in one corner of the room casting almost no fight at all, they lay 
themselves on their couches in a tremulous mixture of hope and fear, or a 
peculiar emotion in which perhaps one component was muted horror. Some who 
had bolted both shutters and door, to huddle on their couches in a ferment 
of aching melancholy, presently arose to unbolt door or shutter.

Through the mirk moved the grotesque shapes, taking no heed of each other. 
When one found the window of his choice unshuttered, he hung a white flower 
on the hasp, that no one else should enter; then climbing through the window 
he displayed himself to the silent occupant of the room - an avatar of the 
demon Kro.

At Benbuphar Strang, lights were extinguished, doors bolted, windows 
shuttered and barred as everywhere else. In the servants quarters, some made 
preparations; others composed themselves to uneasy slumber. In the towers, 
other folk performed their own arrangements. Efraim, armed with his small 
pistol, bolted shutters, barred and bolted doors, searched his quarters. He 
checked the security of the door blocking ingress from the Sacarlatto and 
also that passage to the second level of Jaher Tower.

He then returned to the parlor where he threw himself into a great scarlet 
leather chair, poured himself a goblet of wine, and sat in gloomy 
meditation.

He reviewed his time on Marune and tried to assess his progress. His memory 
was still gone, his enemy as yet unknown. Time passed. Faces floated before 
his. eyes. One face returned and would not depart - a pale fragile face with 
lustrous eyes. She had as much as assured him that her door would not be 
bolted. He jumped to his feet and paced back and forth. A hundred yards away 
she waited. Efraim stopped short and considered. No harm could come by 
making a trial. He need only climb to the second level of Jaher Tower, 
inspect the corridor; then, if all were clear, stride fifty feet to her 
door. Should the door be locked, he could return the way he had come. Should 
the door be open, Sthelany expected him.

The mask? The boots? No, they were foreign to him; he would enter Sthelany's 
chamber as himself.

He climbed the steps of the shortcut and came to the exit panel. He slid 
aside the peephole, searched the corridor. Empty.

He opened the door and listened. Silence. A faint sound? He listened with 
even greater intensity. The sound might have been the blood rushing through 
his heart.

With stealth and care he opened the door a foot, two feet. He slipped out 
into the hall, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable. No one in sight; no 
sound. With racing pulse he ran to Sthelany's door. He listened. No sound. 
He inspected the door: six panels of heavy carved oak; three iron hinges, a 
heavy iron latch.

So now. He reached for the latch . . .

A sound within, a scraping as of metal. Efraim backed away and stood looking 
at the door. It seemed to look back at him.

Efraim moved further from the door, confused, uncertain. He retreated to the 
passage, closed and bolted the door, returned to his chambers.

He sank into the red leather chair and thought for five minutes. Once again 
he rose to his feet and, unbarring the main portal, went out into the foyer. 
In a storage closet he found a length of rope which he took back to his 
chamber, and again locked the door.

He brought out the chart of the mirk-ways and studied it for a few minutes. 
He then went up to the Sacarlatto, and so made his way to the unoccupied 
chamber directly above that of Sthelany.

He went out onto the balcony, made the rope fast, and tied a series of knots 
along its length, to serve as handholds and footrests. Cautiously he lowered 
the rope so that it hung down to Sthelany's balcony.

He descended with great care, and presently stood on the balcony. Shutters 
covered the glass, but a glow of light issued through a crack. Efraim 
pressed his eye close and peered into the room.

Sthelany sat beside a table in her usual garments. By the light of a candle 
she played with a toy puzzle. Beside the door stood two men in black 
pantaloons and man-masks. One carried a mace, the other a dagger. Behind the 
door, over the back of a chair, hung a large black sack. The man with the 
mace pressed his ear to the door. By his posture, by the stoop of his 
shoulders and long powerful arms, Efraim recognized Agnois, the First 
Chamberlain. The man with the dagger was Destian. Sthelany glanced at them, 
gave a slight shrug, and returned to her puzzle.

Efraim felt dizzy. He leaned on the balcony and looked off into the 
darkness. His stomach convulsed; he barely prevented himself from vomiting.

He did not look again into the room. With flaccid muscles he pulled himself 
back to the upper balcony. He hauled up the rope, coiled it, and returned to 
his chambers. Here he made everything secure, and placing his pistol on the 
table before him, poured out a goblet of wine and settled into the red 
leather chair.



Chapter 11


Osmo rose in the east, followed by Cirse from the south and Maddar from the 
southwest to dispel the dark with the gay light of isp.

Matho Lorcas was missing from his chambers; nor was he to be found anywhere 
within Benbuphar Strang.

The mood in the castle was taut and sullen. Agnois brought word to Efraim 
that Singhalissa wished an audience with him.

"She must wait until after I confer with the eiodarks," said Efraim. He 
could not bring himself to look at Agnois.

"I will so inform her, Your Force." Agnois' voice was gentle. "I must call 
to your attention a message from Kaiark Rianlle of Eccord to the members of 
the kaiarkal household. He invites you most urgently to a fete at Belrod 
Strang, during and tomorrow."

"I will visit Belrod Strang with pleasure."

Hours of time moved past; Efraim went out into the meadow beside the castle, 
then wandered down beside the river. For half an hour he stood tossing 
stones into the water, then turned and looked back toward Benbuphar Strang - 
a silhouette of sinister significance.

Where was Matho Lorcas?

Efraim sauntered back to the castle. He climbed the flight of steps to the 
terrace and halted, reluctant to enter the oppressive dimness.

He forced himself to proceed. Sthelany, leaving the library, paused, as if 
wishing words with him. Efraim walked past without so much as a side-glance; 
in truth he dared not look at her, lest she read in his eyes the intensity 
of his emotion.

Sthelany stood looking after him, a forlorn and thoughtful figure.

At the time appointed, Efraim came forth from his chambers to greet the 
fourteen eiodarks of Scharrode, all wearing ceremonial black gowns and white 
vests. Their faces wore almost identical expressions of skepticism, even 
hostility.

Efraim ushered them into the Grand Parlor, where footmen and 
under-chamberlains had arranged a circular table. At the tail of the 
procession came Destian, dressed like the others. Efraim spoke crisply: "I 
do not recall summoning you to this meeting, Squire Destian; and in any 
event your presence will not be required."

Destian paused, glanced around the eiodarks. "What is the will of this 
company?"

Efraim signaled a footman: "Expel Squire Destian instantly from the chamber, 
by whatever means you find necessary."

Destian managed a mocking grin, turned on his heel and departed. Efraim 
closed the door and joined his company. "This is an informal meeting. Feel 
at liberty to express yourselves openly and candidly. I will respect you the 
more for it."

"Very good," responded one of the older eiodarks, a man solid and sturdy, 
brown as weathered wood. The man was Baron Haulk, as Efraim would presently 
learn. "I will take you at your word. Why have you expelled the Kang Destian 
from a colloquy of his peers?"

"There are several excellent reasons for my action, and you will learn some, 
if not all, of them presently. I will remind you that by protocols of rank, 
his title is only as good as that of his mother. As soon as I became Kaiark, 
she resumed her former status as the Wirwove of Urrue and Destian lapsed to 
Squire. A technicality perhaps, but by just such technicalities am I Kaiark 
and you Eiodark."

Efraim went to his place at the table. "Please be seated. I am sorry to have 
delayed so long with this meeting. Perhaps this apparent slight explains 
your lack of cordiality; am I correct?"

"Not entirely," said Baron Haulk in a dry voice.

"You have other grievances?"

"You have asked us to speak. candidly. Historically those foolish enough to 
accept such invitations usually suffer for their boldness. Nevertheless, I 
will take the risk upon myself.

"Our grievances are these. First, the indifference which you show the 
glorious tradition of your station, and I refer to the frivolous manner in 
which you return to claim your place only a few days before the deadline."

"I will consider this Item One," said Efraim. "Proceed."

"Item Two. Since your return you have neglected to consult the eiodarks in 
regard to the urgent matters which confront the realm; instead you hobnob 
with a person of Port Mar, whose reputation, so I have upon good authority, 
does him no credit."

"Item Three: In a most callow manner you have insulted and inconvenienced 
the Kraike Singhalissa, the Lissolet Sthelany, and the Kang Destian, 
depriving them of status and perquisites.

"Item four. You have wilfully antagonized our ally Kaiark Rianlle of Eccord, 
while ignoring the bandit Gosso, who slew Kaiark Jochaim.

"Item Five. As I recite these grievances, you listen with a face of bored 
amusement and obduracy."

Efraim could not restrain a chuckle. "I thank you for your frankness. I 
shall respond in the same spirit. The amused boredom and obduracy of 'Item 
Five' are far from my true emotions, I assure you. Before I reveal certain 
strange circumstances to you, may I ask whence came your information?"

"The Kang Destian has been good enough to keep us informed."

"I thought as much. Now, draw up your chairs and listen closely, and you 
will learn what has befallen me during these last months . . ."

Efraim spoke for an hour, withholding mention only of the events during 
mirk. "To summarize, I returned to Scharrode as soon as possible, but I 
delayed meeting the eiodarks because I wished to conceal my disability until 
I had in same measure repaired it. I proposed a truce to Gosso because war 
with Gorgetto is weary, hateful, and unproductive. Neither Gosso nor his 
Forgets killed the Kaiark Jochaim; he was murdered by a Scharde traitor."

"Murder!" The word seemed to echo from wall to wall.

"As to Rianlle and his demands for Whispering Ridge, I acted as any 
responsible Scharde Kaiark must act: I temporized until I could search the 
archives and discover what, if any, had been his understanding with the 
Kaiark Jochaim. I found no such record. In company with Matho Lorcas, I 
inspected Whispering Ridge. Certainly a beautiful site for a summer 
pavilion, but no more so than a dozen similar sites within Eccord itself. I 
called you here to make an exposition of the facts, and to request your best 
advice."

Baron Faroz said: "The question immediately arises: why does Rianlle want 
Whispering Ridge?"

"The single distinguishing feature to Whispering Ridge, aside from the 
whisper itself, seems to be the Fwai-chi regard for the place. Whispering 
Ridge is their sanctuary, a station along their Path of Life. The Fwai-chi 
claim an accord with the Kaiarks of Scharrode in regard to Whispering Ridge, 
though I can find no mention of this accord in the archives. So then, 
gentlemen, what answer shall I take the Kaiark Rianlle when I visit Belrod 
Strang?"

Baron Haulk said: "I doubt if we need to vote. We refuse to cede Whispering 
Ridge. However, put this refusal in delicate language, in order that he may 
save face. It is not necessary to fling the refusal in his teeth."

Baron Alifer said: "We might declare that Whispering Ridge is prone to 
quakes and we will not permit our friend thus to risk himself."

Baron Barwatz suggested: "The pact with the Fwai-chi must carry weight. We 
can show reluctance on this basis."

"I will carefully consider all your suggestions," said Efraim. "In the 
meantime, I must trust no one now at Benbuphar Strang. I want a complete 
change of staff, with the exception of Agnois. He must not be allowed to 
leave. Who will see to this?"

Baron Denzil said: "I will do so, Your Force."

"A second matter. My friend and confidant Matho Lorcas disappeared during 
mirk."

"Many persons disappear during mirk, Your Force."

"This is a special case, which I must investigate. Baron Erthe, will you be 
good enough to initiate a search?"

"I will do so, Your Force."


The aircar conveyed Efraim, Singhalissa, Sthelany, and Destian high over the 
mountains. Conversation was limited to formal exchanges. Efraim for the most 
part sat silently looking across the landscape. From time to time he felt 
Sthelany's covert gaze, and once she essayed a wan secret smile, which 
Efraim looked blankly past. Sthelany's charm had completely evaporated; he 
could hardly bear her proximity. Singhalissa and Destian discussed their 
cogences, a common topic during Rhune conversations. Singhalissa, among her 
other competences, carved cameos upon carnelians, moonstones, chalcedony, 
and chrysoprase; Destian collected precious minerals, and these particular 
cogences complemented each other.

The aircar passed above Whispering Ridge. Destian explained the geology of 
the region: "Essentially a great hummock of diabase broken by pegmatite 
dikes. A few garnets can be found in the outcrops and occasionally a 
tourmaline of no great value. The Fwai-chi chip them out and keep them for 
souvenirs, so I'm told."

"The Dwan Jar, then, lacks mineral wealth?"

"For all practical purposes."

Singhalissa turned to Efraim: "What are your thoughts regarding this bit of 
hillside?"

"It is a delightful site for a pavilion. The fabled whisper is discernible 
as a pleasant half-heard sound."

"It would seem then that you have decided to implement the agreement between 
the Kaiarks Jochaim and Rianlle." Singhalissa spoke half-musingly, with the 
air of one reckoning imponderables.

"You state the matter too conclusively," said Efraim in a guarded voice. 
"Nothing is yet determined. I must verify the terms and in fact the very 
existence of this agreement."'

Singhalissa raised her fine black eyebrows. "Surely you do not question 
Rianlle's word?"

"Decidedly not," said Efraim. "Still, he may have mistaken the force of the 
agreement. Remember, an ancient treaty with the Fwai-chi controls the region 
and may not honorably be ignored."

Singhalissa smiled her wintry smile. "Kaiark Rianlle might well concede the 
authority of this early treaty, if in fact it exists."

"We shall see. The subject probably will not arise; we have been invited to 
a fete, not a set of negotiations."

"We shall see."

The aircar dropped on a long slant toward Elde, Eccord's principal village. 
Nearby, four rivers had been diverted to create a circular waterway. At the 
middle of the central island stood Belrod Strang: a palace built of pale 
gray stone and white enameled timber, with pink, black, and silver 
banderoles flying from eighteen minarets. By comparison Benbuphar Strang 
seemed dingy and grim.

The aircar landed before the main gates; the four alighted to be met by six 
youthful heralds carrying gonfalons and twenty musicians pumping forth a 
frantic fanfare on their bruehorns.

The new arrivals were conducted to private chambers, in order that they 
might refresh themselves. The chambers were luxurious past the scope of 
Efraim's experience. He bathed in a pool of scented water, then resumed his 
old garments rather than put on the flaring black gown lined with 
flame-colored silk which had been laid out for his use. An inconspicuous 
door led to a water closet and a refectory, where dishes of coarse bread, 
cheese, cold meat, and sour beer were laid out.

Kaiark Rianlle welcomed the four in his Grand Reception Hall. On hand also 
were the Kraike Dervas, a tall somber woman who spoke little, and the 
Lissolet Maerio, reportedly Dervas' daughter by Rianlle. The relationship 
could easily be credited; Maerio displayed Rianlle's topaz hair and clearly 
modeled features. She was a person of no great stature, slight and supple, 
and carried herself with barely restrained animation, like an active child 
on its best behavior. Her amber ringlets and clear tawny skin invested her 
with luminosity. From time to time Efraim noticed her watching him with 
mournful solemnity.

Belrod Strang far exceeded Benbuphar Strang in splendor, though it fell 
short in that quality expressed by the Rhune term which might be translated 
as tragic grandeur. Kaiark Rianlle conducted himself with great affability, 
showing Singhalissa a conspicuous consideration which Efraim thought 
somewhat tactless. The Kraike Dervas behaved with formal courtesy, speaking 
without expression, as if reciting phrases which had become automatic to 
persons among whom she could not differentiate. The Lissolet Maerio by 
contrast seemed self-conscious and somewhat awkward. Surreptitiously she 
studied Efraim; from time to time their eyes met and Efraim wondered how he 
could ever have been attracted to Sthelany, who during mirk had worked her 
toy puzzle. A young black wasp was Sthelany, in company with the old black 
wasp who was Singhalissa.

Rianlle presently took his guests into the Scarlet Rotunda; a twenty-sided 
chamber with a scarlet carpet under a multicrystalline dome, fashioned like 
a glittering twenty-sided snowflake. A chandelier of a hundred thousand 
scintillas hung over a table of pink marble, the centerpiece of which was a 
representation of Kaiark Rianlle's projected pavilion on Whispering Ridge. 
Rianlle indicated the model with a gesture and a quiet smile, then disposed 
his guests about the table. Into the chamber came a tall man in a gray robe 
embroidered with black and red cusps; he pushed before him a two-wheeled 
cart which he stationed near Rianlle, then folded back the top to reveal 
trays and racks containing hundreds of vials. Maerio, sitting next to 
Efraim, told him: "This is Berhalten, the Master Contriver; do you know of 
him?"

"No."

Maerio looked right and left, lowered her voice so that Efraim alone could 
hear. "They say you have lost your memory; is this true?"

"Unfortunately yes."

"And that is why you disappeared from Port Mar?"

"I suppose so. I'm not certain of all the facts."

Maerio spoke in a voice almost inaudible. "It is my fault."

Efraim was immediately interested. "How so?"

"Do you remember that we were all at Port Mar together?"

"I know this to be the case, but I don't remember."

"We spoke with an off-worlder named Lorcas. I did something he suggested. 
You were so stunned and shamed that your reason left you."

Efraim made a skeptical sound. "What did you do?"

"I could never tell you. I was giddy and wild; I acted on impulse."

"Did I lose my reason immediately?"

"Not immediately."

"I probably wasn't overwhelmed with horror. I doubt if you could shame me no 
matter how hard you tried." Efraim spoke with more fervor than he had 
intended. Maerio looked a bit confused.

"You must not talk like that."

"Do you find me so offensive?"

She turned him a quick side-look. "You know better than that! No. Of course 
not. You've forgotten all about me."

"As soon as I saw you I began to learn all over again."

Maerio whispered: "I'm afraid that you'll go mad again."

"I never went mad to begin with."

The Kaiark Rianlle spoke across the table. "I notice your admiration of the 
pavilion I hope to build on Whispering Ridge."

"I find the design most attractive," said Efraim. "It is interesting and 
well thought out, and could easily be adapted to an alternate site."

"I trust there will be no need for that?"

"I have conferred with my eiodarks. Like myself they are reluctant to cede 
Scharrode territory. There are also practical difficulties in the way."

"All very well to talk of practicality," said Rianlle, still heavily jovial. 
"The fact remains that I have set my heart upon Whispering Ridge."

"The decision really lies beyond my discretion," said Efraim. "No matter how 
much I might wish to oblige you I am bound by our covenant with the 
Fwai-chi."

"I would like to see a copy of this covenant. Perhaps it was established for 
some fixed duration of time."

"I am not sure that a written version exists."

Rianlle leaned back in his chair in disbelief. "Then how can you so 
staunchly affirm its reality? Where have you learned its provisions? Through 
your own recollection?"

"The Fwai-chi have described the covenant; they are quite definite."

"The Fwai-chi are notoriously vague. On so tenuous a basis would you thwart 
the understanding between myself and the Kaiark Jochaim?"

"I would not wish to do so under any circumstances. Perhaps you will supply 
me with a copy of this agreement that I may show my eiodarks."

Rianlle stared at him coldly. "I would find undignified the necessity to 
document my clear recollections."

"Your recollections are not in question," Efraim assured him. "I only wonder 
how the Kaiark Jochaim could bring himself to ignore the Fwai-chi covenant. 
I must search my archives with great diligence."

"You are unwilling to cede Whispering Ridge on a basis of trust and 
cooperation?"

"I certainly cannot make important decisions precipitously."

Rianlle clamped shut his mouth and swung around in his chair. "I commend to 
your attention the artistry of Berhalten, who has a novel concept to 
introduce."

Berhalten, having completed his preparations, struck a rod with his knee, to 
sound a reverberant gong. From the passage seven pages in scarlet and white 
livery ran forth. Each earned on a silver tray a small ewer. Into each of 
these ewers BerhaIten placed a cylinder of a solid substance, layered in 
eight colors, whereupon the gages took up tray and ewer and set it before 
each person at the table. Berhalten then inclined his head to Rianlle, 
closed up his cart, and stood waiting.

Rianlle said, "Berhalten has discovered an amusing new principle. Notice the 
golden button on top of the ewer. Press this button; it releases an agent to 
activate the odorifer. You will be charmed . . ."


Rianlle conducted the group to a balcony overlooking a large circular stage, 
constricted to represent a Rhune landscape. To right and left waterfalls 
cascaded from stone crags, forming streams which flowed into a central pool. 
A chime sounded, to initiate a wild clamor of gongs and florid bruehorns, 
controlled by a staccato brazen tone which varied in only three degrees.(1) 
From opposite directions advanced two bands of warriors in fanciful armor, 
grotesque metal masks, and helmets crested with spikes and barbs. They 
advanced with stylistic kicks and curious bent-legged strides, then attacked 
and fought in ritual attitudes to the wailing clatter of martial 
instruments. Rianlle and Singhalissa, at one side, spoke together briefly. 
Efraim sat at the far end with Sthelany beside him. Destian conversed with 
Maerio, his exact profile tilted to advantage. The Kraike Dervas sat staring 
at the ballet with eyes that seemed not to follow the movement. Sthelany 
turned a glance toward Efraim which in those uncertain days before mirk 
might have caused him inner palpitations. She spoke in a soft voice: "Do you 
enjoy this dance?"

"The performers are very skillful. I am not a good judge of such things."

"Why are you so distant? You have hardly spoken for days."

"You must forgive me; I find the effort of ruling Scharrode no easy matter."

"When you traveled off-planet, you must have known many interesting events."

"True."

"Are the folk of the outer worlds as gluttonous and sebal as we tend to 
believe?"

"Their habits certainty are different from those of the Realms."

"And how did you regard these folk? Were you appalled?"

"I was in no condition to worry about anything but my own troubles."

"Ah! Cannot you answer me without evasion?"

"In all honesty, I fear that my casual remarks, should they be reported to 
your mother, might well be distorted and used to discredit me."

Sthelany sat back. For several moments she watched the ballet, which now had 
reached a climax with the entry of the two legendary champions Hys and 
Zan-Immariot.

Sthelany again turned to Efraim. "You misjudge me. I do not tell everything 
to Singhalissa. Do you think that I do not feel stifled at Benbuphar Strang? 
I yearn for new experience! Perhaps you will think ill of me for my candor, 
but sometimes I constrain myself to prevent outbursts of emotion. 
Singhalissa glorifies rigid convention; I often feel that convention must 
apply to others but not me. Why should folk not decorously sip wine together 
as they do in Port Mar? You need not look at me with such wonder; I will 
show you that I too can transcend convention!"

"Such occasions might well relieve the tedium. However, Singhalissa would 
surely disapprove."

Sthelany smiled. "Need Singhalissa know everything?"

"Very definitely not. Still she is an expert both at conducting intrigues 
and at sniffing them out."

"We shall see." Sthelany gave a breathless little laugh and sat back in her 
chair. On the stage Hys and Zan-Immariot had fought to mutual exhaustion. 
The lights dimmed; the instrumental tones descended in pitch and tempo, then 
became silent, save for a thrilling resonance of softly rubbed gongs. 
"Mirk!" whispered Sthelany.

Out upon the stage bounded three figures in costumes of black horn and 
lacquered beetle-back, wearing demon-masks.

Sthelany leaned closer to Efraim. "The three avatars of Kro: Maiesse, Goun, 
and Sciaffrod. Notice how the champions strive! Ah! they are slain. The 
demons dance in triumph!" Sthelany turned toward Efraim; her shoulder 
touched his. "How it must be on the one-sun worlds where day and mirk 
alternate!"

Efraim glanced sidewise. Sthelany's face was close; her eyes shone in the 
stage glow. Efraim said: "Your mother looks this way. Peculiar! She seems 
neither surprised nor annoyed that we talk in an intimate manner."

Sthelany stiffened and leaning forward watched the demons stamping the 
corpses of the dead heroes into the dust, throwing their heads low, tossing. 
them high, plunging arms low, thrusting them high.


Later, as the four guests took their leave, Efraim had a moment to pay his 
respects to Maerio. She said, somewhat wistfully, "I did not appreciate that 
you had become friendly with Sthelany. She is most fascinating."

Efraim managed a painful grin, "Appearances can be deceiving. Can you, will 
you, be discreet?"

"Of course."

"I believe that Singhalissa instructed Sthelany to pretend intimacy, to 
beguile me into a foolish act whereby she might discredit me with the 
Scharde eiodarks. In fact - "

Maerio asked breathlessly, "In fact, what?"

Efraim found that he could not express himself both with precision and 
delicacy, "I will tell you some other time. But it is you, not Sthelany, 
whom I find fascinating."

Maerio's eyes suddenly glistened. "Good-by, Efraim."

As Efraim turned away he surprised Sthelany's gaze upon him, and it seemed 
that he saw there a hurt, wild, desperate expression. This was the same 
face, Efraim reminded himself, that had indifferently considered the 
workings of a toy puzzle while two men with mace, dagger, and sack waited by 
the door.

Efraim went to make his formal farewell to the Kaiark Rianlle. "Your 
hospitality is on a most magnificent scale. We could not think to duplicate 
it at Benbuphar Strang. Still, I am hoping that before long you will return 
our visit, in company with the Kraike and the Lissolet."

Rianlle's face showed no geniality. He said: "I accept the invitation, for 
myself and for the Kraike and Lissolet as well. Will you think me 
presumptuous if I set the occasion for three days hence? You will have had 
opportunity to search for the legendary covenant, and also to consult your 
eiodarks and to convince them that the accord between Kaiark Jochaim and 
myself must without fail be implemented."

Words pressed against Efraim's lips; he contained them with an effort.

"I will consult my eiodarks," he said at last. "We will reach a decision 
which may or may not please you, but which will be based upon how we regard 
our duty. In any event we shall look forward to entertaining you at 
Benbuphar Strang at the time you suggest."


(1) The Rhunes produce no true music and are incapable of thinking in 
musical terms. Their fanfares and clamors are controlled by mathematical 
progressions, and must achieve a mathematical symmetry. The exercise is 
intellectual rather than emotional.



Chapter 12


On their return to Benbuphar Strang the portals were thrown wide by footmen 
strange to Efraim.

Singhalissa stopped short. "Who are these people? Where is our old staff?"

"I have replaced them," said Efraim. "All except Agnois, whom you will still 
find in office."

Singhalissa turned him a curious glance. "Must all our arrangements be 
disrupted? Why have you done this?"

Efraim spoke in his most formal voice. "I wish to live among people who have 
no prior loyalties and on whom I can place reliance. I took steps to achieve 
this by the only possible means: a complete change."

"My life daily grows more hectic," cried Singhalissa. "I wonder where this 
turmoil will end! Do you also plan to take us to war for a miserable 
fragment of hillside?"

"I would like to know why Rianlle is so exercised over this 'miserable 
fragment of hillside.' Do you know?"

"I am not in the Kaiark Rianlle's confidence."

A footman approached. "Your Force, the Baron Erthe is at hand."

"Please introduce him."

The Baron Erthe came forward. He looked from Efraim to Singhalissa and back 
to Efraim. "Your Force, I have a report to render."

"Speak."

"In a rubbish heap near Howar Forest we discovered a corpse in a black sack. 
It has been identified as the remains of Matho Lorcas."

Efraim's stomach quivered. He looked at Singhalissa, who showed no emotion. 
But for a soft metallic scrape behind the door he would have been the corpse 
in the black sack, rather than Matho Lorcas.

"Bring the corpse to the terrace."

"Very well, Your Force."

Singhalissa said softly, "Why do you do that?"

"Can't you guess?"

Singhalissa turned slowly away. Efraim summoned Agnois. "Place a trestle or 
a bench on the terrace."

Agnois allowed an expression of puzzlement to cross his features. "At once, 
Your Force."

Four men carried a coffin across the terrace, and set it down upon the 
trestle. Efraim took a breath and lifted the lid. For a moment he looked 
down into the dead face, then he turned to Agnois. "Bring the mace."

"Yes Force." Agnois started away, then halted and stared back aghast. "Which 
mace, Force? There are a dozen on the wall of the trophy room."

"The mace with which the Noble Lorcas was murdered."

Agnois turned and walked slowly into the castle. Efraim, gritting his teeth, 
examined the corpse. The head was crushed, and a wound in the back gave 
evidence of a dagger thrust.

"Close the lid," said Efraim. "There is no more to be learned. Where is 
Agnois? He loiters, he tarries!" He signaled a footman. "Find Agnois, ask 
him to make haste."

The footman presently returned on the run. "Agnois is dead, Force. He has 
taken poison."

Efraim clapped him on the back. "Return inside; make inquiries! Discover the 
circumstances!"

He turned sadly back to Baron Erthe. "One of the murderers has escaped me. 
Be so good as to bury this poor corpse."

In due course the footman reported his findings. Agnois, upon entering the 
castle, apparently had gone directly to his quarters and there swallowed a 
fatal draught.


Efraim bathed himself with unwonted zeal. He took a dismal meal in his 
refectory, then lay down on his couch. For six hours he dozed, tossed, 
twisted, dreamed evil dreams, then slept soundly from sheer exhaustion.

Efraim had not yet dismissed the aircar which had transported him to Belrod 
Strang. He now ordered the pilot to convey him to Whispering Ridge.

The aircar rose into the light of the colored suns and flew north around the 
flank of Camanche, then drifted down to settle on the grass. Efraim 
alighted, and walked out across the meadow. The serenity was that of lost 
Arcadia; except for the crag to the east, the view was of clouds and air; 
isolation from the anxieties, plots, and tragedies of Benbuphar Strang was 
complete.

At the center of the meadow he paused. The whisper was not perceptible. A 
moment passed. He heard a sigh, a mingling of a million soft tones, each no 
louder than a breath. The sigh became a murmur, faded tremulously, rose 
again, then dwindled toward silence - a sound of elemental melancholy . . . 
Efraim heaved a deep sigh of his own and turned toward the forest, to find, 
as before, a group of Fwai-chi watching from the shade. They shambled 
forward; he advanced to meet them.

"Before mirk I came here," said Efraim. "Perhaps I spoke to one of you?"

"We were all here."

"I am faced with problems, and they are your problems as well. The Kaiark of 
Eccord wants Whispering Ridge. He wants to build a pavilion here for his 
pleasure."

"That is not our problem. It is yours. The men of Scharrode have promised to 
defend our holy place forever."

"So you say. Do you possess a document attesting to this agreement?"

"We have no document. The promise was exchanged with the kaiarks of old and 
transferred to each successive kaiark."

"Kaiark Jochaim may so have informed me, but your drugs took my memory, and 
now I can assert nothing of my own knowledge."

"Still, you must enforce the covenant." The Fwai-chi returned into the 
forest.

Efraim despondently returned to Benbuphar Strang. He called a meeting of the 
eiodarks and reported Rianlle's demands. Certain of the eiodarks cried out 
for mobilization; others sat glum and silent.

"Rianlle is unpredictable," declared Efraim. "At least this is my opinion. 
Our preparation for war might dissuade him. On the other hand, he would not 
care to retreat before our defiance, when our resources are inferior to his. 
Perhaps he will send his troops to occupy the Dwan Jar and then ignore our 
protests."

"We should occupy the Dwan Jar first, and fortify it!" cried Baron Hectre. 
"Then we might ignore the protests of Rianlle!"

Baron Haulk said: "The concept is attractive, but the terrain hinders us. He 
can bring his troops around Camanche and up Duwail Slope; we can supply our 
forces only by the trail across the front of Lor Cliff, and Rianlle alone on 
the brink could interdict us. We would more profitably fortify Bazon Scape 
and the pass at the head of the Gryphon's Claw, but there we invade Eccord 
soil and prompt sure retaliation."

"Let us look at the physiograph," said Efraim.

The group filed into the octagonal Hall of Strategies. For an hour they 
studied the thirty-foot-long scale model of Scharrode end the adjoining 
lands, but only verified what they already knew: if Rianlle sent troops to 
occupy the Dwan Jar, then these troops would be vulnerable to attack along 
their supply routes and might well be marooned. "Rianlle may not be able to 
exercise his strength as effectively as he hopes," mused Baron Erthe. "We 
may force him into a stalemate."

"You are optimistic," said Baron Dasheil. "He can marshal three thousand 
sails. If he brings them here" - he pointed to a scarp overlooking the 
valley "he can drop them down into Scharrode while our troops are occupied 
along Bazon Scape. We can either harass his position on the Dwan Jar, or we 
can guard the vale against his sails. I cannot define a system whereby we 
can do both."

Efraim asked; "How many sails can we ourselves muster?"

"We have fourteen hundred eagles and as many winglets."

"Perhaps we could send twenty-eight hundred sails against Belrod Strang."

"Suicide. The glide is too long; the air sweeps down the Groaning Crags."

The group returned to their places around the red syenite table.

Efraim said: "As I understand it, no one feels that we can effectively 
resist Eccord, if Rianlle decides to wage war in earnest. Am I right?"

No one contradicted him.

Efraim went on. "One point we have not discussed is why Rianlle is so 
anxious to obtain Dwan Jar. I cannot credit the pavilion theory. I have just 
returned from Whispering Ridge. The beauty and isolation are too poignant to 
be borne; I could think only of human transience and the vanity of hope. 
Rianlle is proud and stubborn, but is he insensitive? I find his plans for a 
pavilion farfetched."

"Agreed, Rianlle is proud and stubborn," said Baron Szantho, "but this fails 
to explain his initial commitment to the project."

"There is nothing else on the Dwan Jar but the Fwai-chi sanctuary," Efraim 
remarked "What profit could he gain from the Fwai-chi?"

The eiodarks considered the matter. Baron Alifer said tentatively: "I have 
heard a rumor that Rianlle's splendors exceed his income, that Eccord cannot 
support his fantasies. I could not discredit any theory that he hopes to 
exploit a hitherto untouched resource - the Fwai-chi. To guard their 
sanctuary they would be forced to pay him a toll of drugs, crystals, 
elixirs."

Baron Haulk said: "None of this bears upon our own problems. We must decide 
upon a policy."

Efraim looked around the table. "We have examined all our options except 
one: submission to Rianlle's demands. Does the council believe this to be 
our only feasible course of action, detestable though it is?"

"Realistically, we have no other choice," muttered Baron Haulk.

Baron Hectre pounded his fist on the table. "Can we not assume a defensive 
posture, even though it is only bluff? Rianlle may think better of forcing 
the issue!"

Efraim said: "Let us adjourn until next aud, and at that time we will reach 
a decision."


Again Efraim met with his eiodarks. There was little conversation; all sat 
with glum faces. Efraim said, "I have searched the archives. I find no sure 
reference to an agreement with the Fwai-chi. They must be betrayed, and we 
must submit. Who disagrees?"

"I disagree," growled Baron Hectre. "I am willing to fight."

"I am willing to fight," said Baron Faroz, "but I do not care to destroy 
myself and my folk to no purpose. We must submit."

"We must submit," said Baron Haulk.

Efraim said, "If the Kaiark Jochaim indeed acceded to Rianlle's demands, he 
must have been subjected to these same pressures. I hope that our 
humiliation serves a good purpose." He rose to his feet. "Rianlle arrives 
here tomorrow. I hope that all of you will be on hand, to lend the occasion 
dignity."

"We will be here."



Chapter 13


An hour before arrival of the Kaiark Rianlle, the eiodarks gathered on the 
terrace of Benbuphar Strang. Through psychological processes perhaps 
differing from case to case many attitudes had hardened, and where, before, 
shameful misgivings had been converted into defiance. Where before all the 
eiodarks had resigned themselves to submission, now it seemed as if all had 
been inspired to obduracy.

"Rianlle challenged your memory?" cried out Baron Balthazar. "With reason, 
you admit. He cannot challenge mine. If the Fwai-chi declare the existence 
of this covenant and if the archives at least hint of its existence, then I 
distinctly recall the Kaiark Jochaim discussing this same covenant."

"I as well!" declared Baron Hectre. "He dare not challenge us."

Efraim laughed sadly. "He will dare; why not? You are powerless to damage 
him."

"This shall be our strategy," said Baron Balthazar. "We will deny his 
demands with fortitude. If he invests the Dwan Jar with his troops, we shall 
harass them and destroy his work. If Rianlle wafts his sails down into our 
vale, we shall plunge down from Alode Cliff and rip their wings."

Baron Simic shook his fists into the air. "It shall not be so easy for 
Rianlle after all!"

"Very well," said Efraim. "If this is how you feel, I am with you. Remember, 
we shall be firm but not pugnacious; we shall mention self-defense only if 
he threatens. I am glad that, like myself, you find submission intolerable. 
And there, I believe, around Shanajra, comes Rianlle and his party."

The aircar landed; Rianlle alighted, followed by the Kraike Dervas, the 
Lissolet Maerio, and four Eccord eiodarks. The heralds quickstepped forth, 
producing ceremonial fanfares. Rianlle and his party marched to the steps 
leading up to the terrace; Efraim and the Scharde eiodarks descended to 
greet them.

Formalities were exchanged, then Rianlle, throwing back his handsome head, 
stated: "Today the Kaiarks of Scharrode and Eccord meet to certify an era of 
warm regard between their realms. It pleases me, therefore, to state that I 
will look favorably upon the possibility of trisme between yourself and the 
Lissolet Maerio."

Efraim bowed his head. "This is a most gracious offer, Force, and nothing 
could accord more to my own inclinations. But you are fatigued from the 
journey; I must allow you to refresh yourself. In two hours we shall meet in 
the Grand Parlor."

"Excellent. I may assume that you have found no further objections to my 
little scheme?"

"You may be sure, Your Force, that good relations between our two realms, on 
the basis of equity and cooperation, are the foundation of Scharde policy."

Rianlle's face darkened. "Can you not respond to the point? Do you or do you 
not intend to cede the Dwan Jar?"

"Your Force, let us not transact our important business upon the front 
steps. When you have rested an hour or two, I will clarify the Scharde point 
of view."

Rianlle bowed, swung about. Under-chamberlains conducted him and members of 
his party to the chambers which had been prepared for them.


Maerio stood by a tall arched window looking out across the valley. She 
rubbed her hand on the stone sill, thrilling at the coarse contact. How 
would it be to live here at Benbuphar Strang, among these tall shadowy 
chambers, surrounded by echoes? Many strange events had occurred here, some 
of which made dreary listening; nowhere in all the Realms, so it was said, 
could be found a castle so riddled with mirk-ways. Efraim had changed; as to 
this there was no denying. He seemed more mature, and he seemed to obey the 
Rhune conventions tentatively, without conviction. Perhaps this was all to 
the good. Her mother, Dervas, had once been as gay and as artless as 
herself, but Rianlle (whom she supposed to be her father) had insisted that 
the Kraike of Eccord must exemplify the Rhune Code, and Dervas was impelled 
to orthodoxy for the good of the realm. Maerio wondered about Efraim. He 
hardly seemed the sort to insist on orthodoxy. In fact, from her own 
experience she knew better!

A slight sound behind her; she whirled about. A panel in the wainscoting had 
slid aside and there stood Efraim.

He crossed the room and stood smiling down into her face. "Forgive me for 
startling you. I wanted to see you secretly and alone, and I knew no other 
way."

Maerio looked toward the door. "Let me shoot the bolt; we must not be 
discovered."

"True." Efraim bolted the door and returned to Maerio. "I have been thinking 
of you; I cannot get you out of my mind."

"I have been thinking of you too, especially since I learned that the Kaiark 
planned to join us in trisme."

"That is what I must tell you. As much as I long for such a trisme, it will 
never occur, because the eiodarks intend to fight rather than give up the 
Dwan Jar."

Maerio nodded slowly. "I knew this would happen . . . I don't want to go in 
trisme anywhere else. What shall I do?"

"For now nothing. I can only make plans for war."

"You might be killed!"

"I hope not. Give me time to think. Would you run away with me, away from 
the Realms?"

Maerio asked breathlessly, "Where would we go?"

"I don't know. We would not be privileged as we are now; we might be forced 
to toil."

"I will go with you."

Efraim took her hands. She shivered and closed her eyes. "Efraim, please! 
You will lose your memory again."

"I don't think so." He kissed her forehead. She gasped and drew back.

"I feel so strange! Everyone will recognize my agitation!"

"I must go now. When you have composed yourself, come down to the Grand 
Parlor."

Efraim returned through the mirk-way to his chambers, and arrayed himself in 
formal garments.

A knock at the door. Efraim looked at the clock. Rianlle so soon?

He opened the door to find Becharab, the new First Chamberlain. "Yes, 
Becharab?"

"Your Force, before the castle stand several natives. They wish to speak 
with Your Force. I told them you are resting, but they are insistent."

Efraim ran past Becharab, across the reception hall and foyer, to the 
haughty astonishment of Singhalissa who stood conversing with one of the 
eiodarks from Eccord.

Before the terrace stood four Fwai-chi - ancient brown-red bucks, all 
tatters and shags. A pair of footmen, making fastidious faces, attempted to 
shoo them away. The Fwai-chi, discouraged, were starting to sidle off when 
Efraim appeared.

He ran down the steps, motioned the footmen aside. "I am Kaiark Efraim. You 
wished to see me?"

"Yes," said one, and Efraim thought to recognize the old buck he had met up 
on Whispering Ridge: "You claim that you remember no covenant in regard to 
the Dwan Jar."

"That is true. The Kaiark of Eccord who wants the Dwan Jar is here now."

"He must not have it; he is a man who demands much. If he were to control 
the Dwan Jar, he would demand more, and we would be forced to glut his 
avarice." The Fwai-chi produced a dusty vial containing half a gill of dark 
liquid. "Your memory is locked and there are no keys to the locks. Drink 
this liquid." Efraim took the vial and examined it curiously.

"What will it do to me?" 

"Your corporeal substance itself contains memory; it is called instinct. I 
give you a medicine. It will prompt all your cells to erupt memories - even 
those very cells which now block your memory. We cannot unlock the doors; 
but we can batter them open. Do you dare take this draught?"

"Will it kill me?"

"No." 

"Will it make me insane?"

"Perhaps not."

"Will I know everything I knew before?"

"Yes. And when you have your memory, you must protect our sanctuary."

Efraim went thoughtfully up the steps.

By the balustrade Singhalissa and Destian stood waiting. Singhalissa asked 
sharply: "What is that vial?"

"It contains my memory. I need only drink it." 

Singhalissa leaned forward, her hands quivered. Efraim moved back. She 
asked: "And will you drink it?"

"Naturally."

Singhalissa chewed at her lip. Efraim's vision suddenly seemed totally keen 
and clear; he noticed the lack of bloom on Singhalissa's skin, the minute 
wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, the bird-like thrust of her sternum.

"This may seem an odd point of view," said Singhalissa, "but consider. 
Events go well for you! You are Kaiark; you are about to make trisme with a 
powerful realm. What else do you need? The contents of the vial may well 
disturb these conditions!"

Destian spoke with an air of authority: "If I were in your position, I would 
let well enough alone!"

Singhalissa said: "You had best confer with Kaiark Rianlle; he is a wise 
man; he will advise you."

"The matter would seem only to concern myself," remarked Efraim. "I doubt if 
Rianlle's wisdom can apply in this case." He passed into the reception hall, 
to meet Rianlle coming down the grand staircase. Efraim paused. "I hope you 
enjoyed your rest."

Rianlle bowed politely. "Very much indeed."

Singhalissa came forward. "I have urged Efraim to solicit your advice in a 
very important matter. The Fwai-chi have provided him a liquid which they 
claim will restore his memory."

Rianlle reflected. "Excuse me a moment or two." He took Singhalissa aside; 
the two conversed in mutters. Rianlle nodded and thoughtfully returned to 
where Efraim waited.

"While I rested," said Rianlle, "I reviewed the situation which has caused a 
tension between our realms. I propose that we postpone further consideration 
of Dwan Jar. Why allow so paltry a matter to interfere with the trisme I 
have suggested? Am I not correct?"

"Entirely."

"However, I have no confidence in Fwai-chi drugs. Often they promote 
cerebral lesions. In view of our prospective relationship I must insist that 
you do not dose yourself with some vile Fwai-chi potion."

Very odd, thought Efraim. If the truncation of his memory were so 
advantageous to other folk, then the disadvantage to himself would seem 
correspondingly great. "Let us join the others who await us in the parlor."

Efraim seated himself at the red table and looked around the faces: fourteen 
Scharde and four Eccord eiodarks; Singhalissa, Destian, Sthelany; Rianlle, 
the Kraike Dervas, Maerio, and himself. He carefully placed the vial on the 
table before him.

"There is a new circumstance to be considered," said Efraim. "My memory. It 
is contained in this bottle. At Port Mar someone robbed me of my memory. I 
am intensely anxious to learn the identity of this person. Of the folk who 
were with me in Port Mar, two are dead - by coincidence, or perhaps not 
coincidentally after all, both were murdered.

"I have been advised not to drink this draught. I am told that it is best to 
let sleeping dogs lie. Needless to say, I reject this point of view. I want 
my memory back, no matter what the cost." He unsupported the vial, raised it 
to his mouth and poured the contents down his throat. The flavor was soft 
and earthy, like pounded bark and mold mixed with stump water.

He looked around the circle of faces. "You must forgive this act of 
ingestion before your very eyes . . . I feel nothing yet. I would expect a 
delay while the material permeates my blood, courses around my body . . . I 
notice a shifting of lights and shadows - your faces flicker. I must shut my 
eyes . . . I see splashes of light: they shatter and burst . . . I see 
everywhere in my body . . . I see with my hands and inside my legs and down 
my back." Efraim's voice became hoarse. "The sounds - everywhere . . ." He 
could speak no more; he leaned back in his chair. He felt, he saw, he heard: 
a jumble of impressions: whirling suns and dancing stars, the froth of salt 
spume, the warmth of swamp mud; the dank flavor of waterbeds. The thrust of 
spears, the scorch of fire, and screaming women. Timelessness: visions 
swarmed past, then back, then away, like shoals of fish. Efraim became 
faint; his legs and arms went numb. He fought away the lethargy, and watched 
in fascination as the first furious explosion of images retreated and 
swirled away. The succession of sensations continued, but at a pace less 
blurred, as if to the control of chronology. He began to see faces and hear 
voices: strange faces, strange voices, of persons inexpressibly dear, and 
tears ran down his cheeks. He felt the extent of space; he knew the grief of 
departures, the exultation on conquest; he killed, he was killed; he loved 
and knew love; he nurtured a thousand families; he knew a thousand deaths, a 
thousand infancies.

More slowly came the images, as if the source were almost drained. He was 
the first man to arrive on Marune; he led the tribes east from Port Mar; he 
was all the Kaiarks of Scharrode and of many other realms as well; he was 
many of the ordinary folk; he lived all these lives in the course of five 
seconds.

Time began to decelerate. He watched the construction of Benbuphar Strang; 
he prowled by mirk; he scaled the Tassenberg and struck a blond warrior 
toppling down the face of the Khism. He began to see faces to which he could 
almost put names; he was a tall auburn-haired child who grew into a tall 
spare man with a bony face and short thick beard. With beating heart Efraim 
followed this man whose name was Jochaim through the chambers of Benbuphar 
Strang, by aud, isp, umber, and rowan. By mirk he wandered the mirk-ways, 
and he felt the intoxication of striding forth, clad only in shoulder-piece, 
man-mask, and boots into the chamber of his sometimes terrified elect. To 
Benbuphar Strang came the maiden Alferica from Cloudscape Castle, to be 
taken in trisme by Jochaim, and in due course a child was born who was named 
Efraim, and Jochaim faded from consciousness.

Efraim's youth passed. His mother, Alferica, drowned during a visit to 
Eccord; presently to Benbuphar Strang came a new Kraike, Singhalissa, with 
her two children. One of these was dark vicious Destian; the other, a pale 
big-eyed waif, was Sthelany.

Tutors educated the three children; they chose cogences and eruditions. 
Sthelany professed the writing of poetry in an abstruse poetic language, the 
working of mothwing tapestry, and star-names, as well as the contriving of 
fumes and fragrances which all well-born ladies were expected to include 
among their skills. She also collected Glanzeln flower vases, glazed an 
ineffable transparent violet, and unicorn horns. Destian collected precious 
crystals, and replicas of medallions on the hilts of famous swords; he also, 
professed heraldry and the intricate lore of fanfares. Efraim professed the 
architecture of castles, mineral identification, and the theory of alloys, 
although Singhalissa considered the choice insufficiently erudite.

Efraim politely acknowledged Singhalissa's remarks and put them to the back 
o€ his mind. He was First Kang of the Realm; Singhalissa's opinions need not 
concern him.

Singhalissa herself professed a dozen skills, didactics, and expertises; she 
was quite the most erudite person of Efraim's acquaintance. Perhaps once a 
year she visited Port Mar, that she might buy supplies and materials for the 
specialized needs of those at Benbuphar Strang. When Efraim learned that 
Kaiark Rianlle of Eccord, with the Kraike Dervas and the Lissolet Maerio, 
planned to accompany Jochaim and Singhalissa to Port Mar, he decided to join 
the party. After considerable discussion, Destian and Sthelany also decided 
to undertake the journey.

Efraim had been acquainted with Maerio for years, under the formal 
circumstances imposed upon all visits between kaiarkal households. At first 
he considered her frivolous and eccentric. She lacked all erudition, she was 
clumsy with the vials, and she seemed always to be restraining herself from 
some reckless spontaneity, which caused Singhalissa's eyebrows to twitch and 
Sthelany to look away in ostensible boredom. These very factors induced 
Efraim to cultivate Maerio. Gradually he noticed that her company was 
extraordinarily stimulating, and that she was remarkably pleasant to look 
at. Forbidden thoughts wandered into his mind; he ejected them from loyalty 
to Maerio, who would be shocked and horrified!

The Kaiark Rianlle, Kraike Dervas, and Maerio flew over the mountains to 
Benbuphar Strang; on the morrow all would journey to Port Mar. Rianlle, 
Jochaim, Efraim; and Destian gathered in the Grand Parlor for an informal 
talk; bobbing their heads behind etiquette screens they discreetly took 
small cups of arrack.

Rianlle was at his best. Always a remarkable speaker, on this occasion his 
conversation was brilliant. Like Singhalissa, Rianlle was most erudite; he 
knew the Fwai-chi signals and all the trails of their "Path through Life"; 
he knew the Pantechnic Metaphysic; he had collected and studied the insects 
of Eccord, and had indited three monographs upon the subject. Additionally 
Rianlle was a notable warrior, with remarkable exploits to his credit. 
Efraim listened to him with fascination. Rianlle was discussing Dwan Jar, 
the Whispering Ridge. "It has occurred to me," he told Jochaim, "that here 
is a site of sublime beauty. One of us should make use of it. Be generous, 
Jochaim; let me build myself a summer garden with a pavilion on the Dwan 
Jar. Think how I would rest and muse to the wild whispering sound!"

Jochaim had smiled. "Impossible! Have you no sense of fitness? My eiodarks 
would drive me forth for a madman if I agreed to your proposal. 
Additionally, I am bound by a covenant with the Fwai-chi. Certainly you are 
making a joke."

"No joke whatever. Truly I covet that bit, that trifle, that insignificant 
wisp of land!"

Jochaim shook his head. "When I am dead, I can no longer oppose; Efraim must 
then assume that responsibility. While I live, I must deny you your fancy."

Rianlle said: "It would seem that by the process of dying, you withdraw your 
opposition. I would not have you dead on that account, however. Let us talk 
along easier subjects. . ."

The group had flown into Port Mar, and as usual taken accommodation at the 
Royal Rhune Hotel, where the management knew and respected their customs . . 
.

Efraim raised his head from his hands and looked wildly around the table. 
Taut faces everywhere; eyes fixed upon him; silence: He closed his eyes. 
Recollections came soft and slow now, but with a wonderful luminous clarity. 
He felt himself leaving the hotel in company with Destian, Sthelany, and 
Maerio for a stroll through Port Mar, and perhaps a visit to the Fairy 
Gardens, where Galligade's Puppets provided entertainment.

They walked down the Street of Brass Boxes and across the bridge into New 
Town. For a few minutes they strolled along the Estrada, peering into the 
beer gardens where the folk of Port Mar and students from the college drank 
beer and devoured food in full view of everyone.

Efraim at last asked direction from a young man emerging from a book shop. 
Seeing the party to be Rhunes, he volunteered serving as their escort to the 
Fairy Gardens. To everyone's disappointment the entertainment was at an end. 
Their guide introduced himself as Matho Lorcas and insisted upon ordering a 
bottle of wine, along with suitable etiquette screens. Sthelany raised her 
eyebrows in a fashion reminiscent of Singhalissa and turned away. Efraim, 
catching Maerio's eye, sipped the wine, protected by the propriety of the 
screen. Maerio, greatly daring, did likewise.

Matho Lorcas seemed a person of buoyant disposition and irrepressible wit; 
he refused to allow either Sthelany or Destian to sulk. "And how are you 
enjoying your visit?" he asked.

"Very much," said Maerio. "But surely there is more excitement than this? We 
always think of Port Mar as a place of wild abandon."

"Not quite accurate. Of course this is the respectable part of town. Doesn't 
it seem so to you?"

"Our customs are rather different," said Destian frostily.

"So I understand, but here you are in Port Mar; why not attempt the Port Mar 
customs?"

"That logic does not quite follow," murmured Sthelany.

Lorcas laughed. "Of course not! I wondered if you'd agree. Still - don't you 
have any inclination to live - well, let us say, normal lives?"

Efraim asked: "You think we don't live normal lives?"

"Not from my point of view. You're smothered in convention. You're walking 
bundles of neuroses."

"Peculiar," said Maerio, "I feel quite well."

"I feel well," said Efraim. "You must be mistaken."

"Aha! Well, possibly. I'd like to visit one of the Realms and see how things 
go for myself. Do you like the wine? Perhaps you'd prefer punch."

Destian looked around the table. "I think we'd better return to the hotel. 
Haven't we seen enough of New Town?"

"Go, if you like," said Efraim. "I'm in no hurry."

"I'll wait with Efraim," said Maerio.

Matho Lorcas spoke to Sthelany. "I hope you'll wait too. Will you not?"

"Why?"

"I want to explain something which I believe you want to hear."

Sthelany languidly rose to her feet and without a word moved off. Destian, 
with a dubious look back at Efraim and Maerio, followed.

"A pity," said Lorcas. "I found her extremely attractive."

"Sthelany and Destian are both most stately," said Maerio.

Lorcas asked with a sly smile, "And what of you? Aren't you stately too?"

"When ceremony makes demands on me. Sometimes I find Rhune ways rather 
tiresome. If Efraim weren't here I'd try that punch. I'm not ashamed of my 
inner workings."

Efraim laughed. "Very well. If you will, I will too. But wait until Destian 
and Sthelany are out of sight."

Matho Lorcas ordered rum punch for all. Efraim and Maerio drank first behind 
the screens, then spluttering with embarrassed laughter, brought the goblets 
into the open and drank.

"Bravo!" declared Lorcas soberly. "You have taken a long step on the road to 
emancipation."

"It doesn't amount to all that much," said Efraim, "I'll buy another round. 
Lorcas, what about you?"

"With pleasure. Still, it wouldn't do for the two of you to stagger into the 
hotel drunk, would it?"

Maerio clasped her head. "My father would turn purple. Of all the folk alive 
he is the most rigid."

"My father would simply look the other way," said Efraim. "He seems rigid, 
and of course he is, but essentially he is quite reasonable."

"So, you two are not related?"

"Not at all."

"But you're fond of each other?"

Efraim and Maerio looked sidewise at each other. Efraim laughed 
uncomfortably. "I won't deny it." He looked again at Maerio, whose face was 
twisting. "Have I offended you?"

"No."

"Then why do you look so doleful?"

"Because we must come to Port Mar to tell each other such things."

"I suppose it is absurd," said Efraim. "But Port Mar is so much different 
from Eccord and Scharrode. Here I can touch you, and it is not mirk." He 
took her hand.

Matho Lorcas heaved a sigh. "Ah me. I should leave you two alone. Excuse me 
a moment; for a fact there is someone I wish to see."

Efraim and Maerio sat together. She leaned her head against his shoulder; he 
bent down, kissed her forehead. "Efraim! It is not even mirk!"

"Are you angry?"

Lorcas appeared beside the table. "Your friend Destian is here."

Efraim and Maerio drew apart. Destian approached and looked curiously from 
one to the other. He addressed Maerio. "The Kaiark Rianlle has asked me to 
conduct you back to the hotel."

Efraim stared up at Destian, who, so he knew, was not above misrepresenting 
facts. Maerio, sensing friction, jumped to her feet. "Yes. I'll welcome some 
rest, and look! with umber and the overcast and the shade from these 
enormous trees it is almost like mirk!"

Destian and Maerio departed. With a debonair gesture Lorcas settled into the 
seat beside Efraim. "And that is the way things go, my friend."

"I am embarrassed," said Efraim. "What will she think of me?"

"Get her alone somewhere and find out."

"That is impossible! Here in Port Mar perhaps we lost our equilibrium. In 
our realms we could never consider such display." He rested his chin on his 
hands and looked gloomily across the restaurant.

"Come along," said Lorcas. "Let's move down the avenue. I'm due at the Three 
Lanterns presently; first I'll show you a bit of the town."

Lorcas took Efraim to a cabaret frequented by students. They listened to 
music, drank light beer. Efraim explained to Lorcas how life went in the 
Realms. "A place like this by comparison seems a zoo of fecund animals. The 
Kraike Singhalissa, at least, would adopt this view."

"And you respect her judgment?"

"To the contrary; this is the principal reason I am here. I hope to discover 
benefits and redemptions in what I confess seems sickening behavior. Look at 
that couple yonder. Sweating, panting, shameless as dogs in rut. At the very 
least their activity is unhygienic."

"They are relaxed. Still, yonder other folk sit quite decorously, and none 
seem offended by the antics of the two reprobates."

"I am confused," admitted Efraim. "Trillions inhabit Alastor Cluster; not 
all can be deluded. Perhaps anything and everything is innocent."

"What you see here is relatively innocent," said Lorcas. "Come, I'll show 
you places less so. Unless you prefer your illusions, so to speak?"

"No. I will come with you, as long as I do not have to breathe too much 
fetid air."

"When you've seen enough, just say the word." He glanced at his watch. "I 
have just an hour to spare, then I must go to work at the Three Lanterns."

The two walked up the Street of Limping Children, then turned along the 
Avenue of Haune, Lorcas pointing out the more disreputable places of the 
tower - an expensive bordello, bars frequented by sexual deviates, and a dim 
establishment, purportedly a tea shop which operated illegal nerve machines 
in the upper rooms; other sordid places offering even more questionable 
entertainment.

Efraim observed all with a stony face. He found himself not so much shocked 
as detached, as if what he saw were intended as a grotesque stage-setting. 
At last they reached the Three Lanterns, a rambling old structure from which 
issued the sound of fiddles with banjos playing merry jigs after the style 
of the Tinsdale Wayfarers.

Singhalissa was right, thought Efraim, when she declared music no more than 
symbolic sebalism - well, perhaps "sebalism" was not quite the right word. 
"Passion," perhaps, which encompassed sebalism and all the other strong 
emotions as well. At the Three Lanterns, Lorcas took his leave of Efraim. 
"Remember, I'd be enchanted for the opportunity to visit the Realms. Perhaps 
someday - who knows?"

Efraim, thinking of the frigid reception Lorcas would certainly receive at 
the hands of Singhalissa, retrained an invitation. "Perhaps some day. At the 
moment it might not be convenient."

"Good-by then. Remember, directly back down the avenue of Haune, turn south 
on any of the side streets to the Estrada, and along to the bridge. Then up 
the Street of Brass Boxes to your hotel."

"I am exactly oriented; I will not get lost."

Somewhat reluctantly Lorcas went into the Three Lanterns; at the entrance he 
waved farewell. Efraim turned back the way they had come.

Clouds hung heavy; the time was yet umber, though very dull. Furad hung low 
behind Jibberee Hill, and both Maddar and Cirse were obscured by overcast 
Gloom almost as dense as mirk shrouded Port Mar, and colored lights invested 
the Avenue of Haune with a tipsy gaiety.

As Efraim walked, his thoughts returned to Maerio; how he wished she were 
with him now! But futile to counter the will of the Kaiark Rianlle, whose 
rectitude was matched only by that of Singhalissa.

Efraim at this moment was passing the expensive bordello, and even as he 
reflected upon the character of the Kaiark Rianlle, out the door of the 
bordello, his face blurred and clothes disheveled, stepped the Kaiark 
Rianlle himself.

Efraim stared, unbelievingly. He began to laugh first incredulously, then 
with the intoxication of total mirth.

Rianlle stood with his mouth first open, then closed; first swelling with 
purple wrath, then trying to achieve a comradely grin. Under the 
circumstances neither could be convincing or effective. Ridicule to a Rhune 
was insupportable; when Efraim told the story, as surely he must - the 
episode was too good to keep; even Rianlle realized this - the Kaiark 
Rianlle would thereafter be a figure of fun, and furtive snickers would 
accompany him through life.

Rianlle by dint of some desperate inner contortion composed himself. "What 
are you doing out along the avenue?"

"Nothing! Investigating weird antics!" And Efraim again began to chuckle. 
Rianlle managed a steely grin. "Ah, well, you must not judge me too harshly: 
Unfortunately for myself, I am expected to represent the apotheosis of Rhune 
gallantry. The pressure becomes overwhelming. Come along; we will take a hot 
drink together as the folk do without shame here at Port Mar. The drink is 
called coffee and is not considered intoxicating." Rianlle led the way along 
the Street of the Clever Flea to an establishment called "The Great Alastor 
Coffee Emporium." He ordered the refreshment for both, then excused himself. 
"A moment; I have a small errand."

Efraim watched Rianlle cross the avenue and enter a dingy little shop whose 
windows were crowded with all manner of goods.

The coffee was served; Efraim tasted the brew and found it savory, aromatic, 
and to his liking. Rianlle returned; the two sipped coffee in cautious 
silence.

Rianlle lifted the lid to the silver ewer in which the coffee was served, 
peered within. His hand hovered, a moment over the open mouth of the ewer, 
then the lid dropped with a clang. He poured a second cup for Efraim and a 
second cup for himself. He now became affable and expansive. Efraim drank 
more coffee, although Rianlle allowed his own portion to go cold. And 
Efraim's mind dimmed and lost itself in floating mists.

As if in a dream he felt himself walking with Rianlle along the Estrada, 
across the bridge, and by back alleys into the park at the Royal Rhune 
Hotel. Rianlle approached the hotel with great stealth; but as luck would 
have it, the path curved and Singhalissa stood before them.

She looked in disgust from Efraim to Rianlle. "You have found him in a state 
of intoxication! What shame! Jochaim will be furious!"

Rianlle considered a moment, then shook his head despondently. "Come with 
me, away from the path; and I will explain how things have gone."

On a secluded bench Rianlle and Singhalissa sat; Efraim stood watching a 
firefly. Rianlle cleared his throat. "Affairs are more serious than simple 
intoxication. Someone offered him a dangerous drug which he foolishly 
ingested; his memory has completely been destroyed."

"What a tragedy!" cried Singhalissa. "I must inform Jochaim; he will turn 
New Town topsy-turvy, and never stop until he learns the truth!"

"Wait!" said Rianlle in a low hoarse voice. "This may not be to our best 
interests."

Singhalissa fixed Rianlle with a cool stare which seemed to see everything. 
"Our best interests?"

"Yes. Consider. Jochaim must ultimately die - perhaps sooner than we might 
wish. When that unhappy event occurs, Efraim will become Kaiark."

"In his present condition?"

"Of course not. He will rapidly become whole and alert, and Jochaim will 
renew his memories. But - what if Efraim goes traveling?"

"And does not return?"

"On Jochaim's death Destian than becomes Kaiark of Scharrode, and I will 
give him Maerio in trisme. Jochaim will never surrender Whispering Ridge; if 
I hold it I can levy a great toll upon the Fwai-chi. What, after all, are 
gems and elixirs to them? If Destian is Kaiark there will be no difficulty."

Singhalissa reflected. "Do not underrate Destian; he is obstinate at times! 
But he would never deny me, were I Kraike of Eccord. In all candor, Belrod 
Strang is more to my taste than gloomy old Benbuphar."

Rianlle grimaced and uttered a soft involuntary moan. "What of Dervas?"

"You must dissolve the trisme; this is simple enough. If events proceed 
along these lines all will go well. If not, it is best that we forget the 
matter and I will take Efraim in to Jochaim. Never fear! Jochaim is both 
pertinacious and ruthless; he is fond of Efraim and will never stop until he 
learns all the circumstances!"

Rianlle sighed. "Destian shall be next Kaiark of Scharrode. We will then 
celebrate two trismes: between Destian and Maerio; between you and me."

"In that case, we will work together."

Though Efraim overheard much of their conversation, the subject matter made 
little impression on him.

Singhalissa went off, to return with a shabby gray suit and scissors. She 
cut Efraim's hair short, and the two dressed him in the gray suit. Then 
Rianlle, stepping into his rooms, emerged wearing a black cape and a helmet 
which concealed his face.

Efraim's recollections blurred. He barely recalled walking to the spaceport, 
nor embarcation aboard the Berenicia, where money changed hands between 
Rianlle and the steward.

Events gradually merged into his conscious recollections. He opened his eyes 
to look into the face of the Kaiark Rianlle. Once again he saw that mixture 
of rage, shame, and desperate affability Efraim had noted on the Avenue of 
Haune.

"My memory is whole," said Efraim. "I know the name of my enemy and I know 
his reasons. Cogent reasons, they are. But these are personal matters and I 
will deal with them on a personal basis. Meanwhile other more important 
affairs compel our attention.

"With the return of my memory I can now assert that the Kaiark Jochaim did 
indeed endorse the ancient covenant with the Fwai-chi, and that, also, he 
made to the Kaiark Rianlle the following remark: 'Only when I am dead will I 
abandon my opposition to your scheme,' which the Kaiark Rianlle interpreted 
as 'when I am dead, there shall be no further opposition to your scheme.' A 
most reasonable mistake, which the Kaiark Rianlle now appreciates. I suspect 
that he wishes to withdraw utterly and forever his claim to the Dwan Jar; am 
I right, Your Force?"

"Quite correct," stated the Kaiark Rianlle in a monotone. "I see where I 
misinterpreted the Kaiark Jochaim's jocularity."

"Three more matters should be considered," said Efraim. "Your Force, I apply 
to you for trisme between our houses and our realms."

"I am honored to accede to your proposal, if the Lissolet Maerio is 
like-minded."

"I agree," said Maerio.

"Temporary I will abandon this happy subject," said Efraim, "to deal with 
the crime of murder."

"Murder!" The dreadful word rustled around the table.

"The Kaiark Jochaim," continued Efraim, "was murdered by a bolt in the back. 
The bolt was not discharged by a Gorget bore, hence the murderer is Scharde. 
Better to say, he accompanied the Scharde force.

"Another murder occurred during mirk. I am in s sense too close to this 
crime to avoid prejudice; hence you, the eiodarks of Scharrode, shall hear 
my evidence, you shall pass judgment, and I will not quarrel with your 
findings.

"I speak now as a witness.

"When I arrived at Benbuphar Strang in company with my friend Matho Lorcas, 
I encountered the coolest of welcomes, and in fact antagonism.

"A few days before mirk the Noble Sthelany surprised me by her cordiality 
and her assurances that for the first time she planned not to bolt her doors 
during mirk." Efraim described the events previous to, during, and after 
mirk.

"It is clear that an attempt was made to entice me into Sthelany's chambers; 
but poor Lorcas entered in my stead, or else he was recognized and murdered 
to prevent him from telling me of the trap.

"I well understand that strange deeds are done during mirk, but this murder 
falls into a different category. It was planned a week or more before mirk, 
and put into execution with cruel efficiency. It is not a mirk-deed. It is 
murder."

"The assertions are malicious fabrications," said Singhalissa. "They are too 
feeble to deserve refutal."

Efraim turned to Destian. "What is your comment?"

"I can only echo the Noble Singhalissa's remarks."

"And Sthelany?"

Silence. Then presently a low voice: "I will say nothing, except that I am 
sick of life."

At this point, in embarrassment, the party from Eccord departed from the 
Grand Parlor. The eiodarks went off to the far end of the room. For ten 
minutes they muttered together, then returned.

"The judgment is this," said Baron Haulk. "The three equally share guilt. 
They are guilty not of mirk-deed, but murder. They shall this moment be 
shaved bald and expelled from the Rhune Realms, carrying no property except 
the clothes on their backs. Forever they are exiled and no Rhune Realm will 
take them in. Murderers, at this moment divest yourselves of all jewels, 
ornaments, and valuables. Then go down to the kitchens where your heads will 
be shaved. You will then be escorted to the aircar and flown to Port Mar, 
where you must live as best you can."



Chapter 14


Maerio and Efraim stood on the parapets of Benbuphar Strang. "Suddenly," 
said Efraim, "we are at peace. Our difficulties have dissipated. Life lies 
before us."

"I fear that new difficulties are just beginning."

Efraim looked at her in surprise. "How can you say so?"

"It is clear you have known life outside the Realms; I have had the merest 
hint of a taste. Will we be content to live as Rhunes?"

"We can live in whatever fashion suits us," said Efraim. "I want nothing but 
happiness for us."

"Perhaps we will want to travel to far worlds. What then? How will the 
Schardes regard us on our return? They will consider us tainted - not true 
Rhunes."

Efraim looked away down the valley. "We are not Rhunes of the clearest 
water, for a fact. So then - what shall we do?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know either."