And listen to a fool. Dumarest said, mildly, "Could you leave us, Hendaza? I'd like to look around a little. Navalok can guide me if he agrees."

"He will agree." Hendaza glowered at the boy. "This is Earl Dumarest. An honored guest. You will remember that."

"My lord?" Dumarest waited as Hendaza left them alone. "Will you guide me?"

"Yes, of course, but there is no need of titles."

"From either side," said Dumarest. "Now, what have you to show me?"

Together they walked slowly down the length of the building. The floor was flagged with stone and the sound of the youth's footsteps made a dull resonance from the vaulted roof.

"Tell me about these relics." Dumarest gestured to the items illuminated by the soft glow of the vigil lights. "They are relics, aren't they? Things kept from the past?"

The boy halted before a shattered sword.

"Arbane used this against an olcept ten times his own weight. It ripped his stomach and brought him down but he managed to kill it and return with the trophy before he died."

"And this?"

A broken spear with much the same history. The weapon used by a man who had killed and later died from injuries received while killing. The list lengthened, the young voice rising a little as he warmed with his stories, the names and deeds of those he envied rolling from his tongue.

Brane who had walked on bloodied feet to hurl his trophy before the Shrine. Tromos who had hopped. Kolarz who had crawled. Arnup who had lost an arm and used his teeth and single hand to support his burden. Sirene who with both legs shattered and one eye gone had writhed like a snail leaving a slime of his own blood and intestines.

Tales of blood and suffering, of the will overcoming the limitations of the flesh, a saga of those who had struggled and won the coveted prize and who had died with fame and honor. Men who had wasted their lives to leave nothing but broken weapons and distorted memories, but Dumarest said nothing of that.

"You see, Earl," said the youth, "It isn't enough just to kill. The trophy must be carried back to the Shrine."

"Is that essential for those who hope to rule?"

"Yes. A man must prove himself. Some go after a normal trophy and leave it at the Shrine and are content to rest on their proven courage. Others, especially those in direct descent from the Elder of the House, must gain a trophy accepted by all as one fit for the position they wish to hold. Nothing less than seven times the weight of a man."

Dumarest said, "Can you show me what an olcept looks like?"

The picture gave no indication of size and the colors were too garish to be true, but something of the ferocity of the creature had been captured and set on the pane of painted glass. A long body upheld by four, claw-tipped legs. A knobbed tail. A head consisting mostly of slavering jaw with grasping appendages to either side. Horns which curled like upraised daggers. Fur and scale and spines of bone. A composite of bird and reptile with something of the insect blended with the mammal.

"The dominant life-form of this world when the early settlers arrived," said the boy. "Much blood was spilled and many Families broken before they were beaten back into the mountains. Now they have learned to leave us alone but, at times, they swarm and destroy crops and fields, buildings and beasts in a wave of destruction. Nothing can stop them aside from the massed fire of heavy weapons. Usually all that can be done is to remain safe behind stone."

Dumarest remembered the massive stone walls, the towers and crenelations. It had been no accident that the house had adopted the features of both farm and fortress. "Why aren't they hunted?"

"They are. Their heads provide the trophies." Small beasts relatively easy to kill yet each destroyed made the flock that much less of a hazard. A necessity incorporated into the social structure and used for a double purpose. A triple purpose when it came to deciding the fitness of those aspiring to rule.

The women, of course, would be helped and even given kills to call their own. Then Dumarest remembered Dephine, her savage determination, her almost feral heat in anger and love. Such a woman would scorn such aid and she could not be alone. Here the females were equal to their men. "And the Shrine?"

It lay behind the chapel, an echoing chamber flagged with blocks of red and yellow, lights glowing like stars on the marble walls, small points gathered thickly before the arched opening and the inner chamber. Within it rested a slab of polished obsidian the surface cluttered with a variety of objects; a book, some instruments, a chronometer, the injector of an engine, the plastic leaves of a record-file, a spool of thread, a jeweled toy, a dozen other items.

"From the First Families," said Navalok reverently. "Each placed here some object of personal value and, by these things, they are remembered. Each House, of course, has its Shrine, for all hold the Firsts in veneration. As we hold those of us who sit in the Hall of Dreams."

Ancestor-worship coupled with a primitive rite of puberty added to the rigid traditions and codes of a ritualised way of existence. Once of value for the culture to survive, perhaps now a lead weight dragging it to oblivion.

"You sit in the chapel," said Dumarest. "And you pray for strength, the ability to be like those you respect and admire. The heroes whose weapons you guard and whose exploits you remember. Yes?"

"Of course, Earl."

"Why?"

Navalok frowned. "I don't understand. I am weak and you must have noticed the way I drag my foot. An accident when I was a child, but it has left me deformed. How can I hope to gain a trophy without the help of those best suited to give it?"

"They are dead, Navalok." Dumarest was patient, the conditioning of a lifetime could not be eliminated by a few words. And to deride would be to arouse a reactive antagonism. "They are dead," he said again. "All of them."

"But they gained their triumph."

"And died doing it. Is that much of a success? Wouldn't the achievement be greater had they returned unscathed to hurl their trophies before the Shrine?" Dumarest smiled as he posed the question, his voice deliberately casual. "In my experience the man who remains unscarred after a fight is the one to be feared, not the one displaying his lack of skill."

For a moment, watching the play of emotion over the young face, he thought that he had gone too far too fast. Only a fool could have missed the implication and no one likes to be told that his heroes were stupid rather than brave. Then, as Navalok opened his mouth to reply the air shook to the deep and solemn note of a bell.

"The curfew," he explained. "The gates are now closed and the House sealed for the night. Soon it will be time for dinner, Earl. It would be best for us to part now and get ready."

* * * * *

Dinner was held in the great hall and was obviously the high point of the day. Dumarest joined the throng of guests standing before the tall, double-doors, his grey tunic in sharp contrast to the others adorned as they were with a plentitude of badges. Even the women wore similar symbols, stars fixed to sashes draped over one shoulder and, like the men, they were armed.

"Earl!" Hendaza came bustling through the assembly two others at his heels. "Allow me to introduce you to those whom I mentioned. Earl Dumarest, Lekhard de Monterale. Lekhard, this is-"

"I know who he is." The man smiled with a twist of his thin lips. Young, arrogant, he radiated an aura of self-assurance. His tunic was a blaze of ornamented badges. "We both know, eh, Kanjuk?"

Hendaza said, stiffly, "I take offense at your attitude, Lekhard."

"So you take offense." The man shrugged. "If you want satisfaction it can be arranged. The usual place when the bell tolls at dawn?"