Dumarest leaned back, watching the face limned in the dull glow of the fire, the lines, the shrewd eyes.

"You're a guide, Agus. You must know the area. Have you heard of a place called Nerth?"

"No, but that means nothing." Chaque threw a dried twig on the embers, blew it until it flared into a glow of flickering brilliance. "You're thinking of the boy," he said. "I heard about it. A youngster, right?"

"Yes."

"Too young, maybe, to have been fully initiated into his tribe. It happens. These valleys are closed and have their own ways. They use special names, even a special language at times. That name, Nerth, it could have been the one used before initiation. Once he'd passed the test, he would have been told more." Chaque threw another twig on the fire. "Have you anything else to go on?"

Dumarest handed him the photograph.

"Not the Zelumini," said Chaque immediately. "Their women are all dark. Nor the Branesch, they never wear green." He hunched closer to the fire, squinting. "She couldn't belong to the Candarish because none of their women ever dress like, that."

"The symbol on the wall," said Dumarest. "A fish. Do you know any commune who uses a decoration like that?"

"A fish? No." Chaque handed back the photograph. "Sorry, Earl, it seems I can't help."

Another dead end, but at least a little had been learned. Leon had been young-he would have been much younger when he had left home. A few years spelled the difference between a child and a man. The name-Chaque could be right. Had the fear of initiation sent the boy running from his people? The photograph, one taken by a wandering trader, perhaps? A caravan he had chased and joined?

Dumarest rose, turning, the rifle in his hands as the night was broken by a sobbing cry. A sound which rose to a scream, a frenzied shrieking.

"No! No! Dear God, no!"

Jalch Moore was tormented by nightmares. The flap of Iduna's tent opened and the woman, dressed in brief underwear, ran to comfort her brother. Her voice, oddly gentle, soothed the yammering cries.

"Did you see that?" Chaque drew in his breath. "Who would have guessed that under the clothes she wears lies such perfection? A woman who-"

"Is busy as you should be." Dumarest handed him the rifle. "We'll stand watches, turn and turn about. Wake me in two hours."

Chapter Nine

Dawn came with a flush of golden light, reds and ambers gliding the mountain peaks. The air was still, the smoke from the cooking fire rising straight as if drawn with a crayon against the sky.

At noon they reached the foothills, gliding over rugged terrain, naked rock showing through patches of scrub. Thickets of bushes, a few thorned trees, their branches twisted, ruby leaves edged with silver gray.

"Watch out for those," warned Chaque. "The spines carry poison."

They ate in mid-air, cold food washed down with water, and two hours later reached the Marasill Gap.

It was vast. The result, Dumarest guessed, of some ancient convulsion which had split the range, parting the hills as if with the blow of a gigantic axe. A narrow stream ran along the bottom, vanishing into an underground cavern, a blur of spray masking the entry. The walls were sheer, matted with vegetation. The air was heavy with a brooding stillness.

"Up," said Dumarest to Jalch at the controls. "Keep us high."

"Too high and we'll see nothing. There should be signs, a scar-"

"Which must have long since been overgrown. Up, man! Up!"

The raft lifted as Moore obeyed. Turbulence caught them as they topped the fissure, the vehicle veering, tilting as currents fought the controls. A moment and the danger had passed.

"Close!" Chaque wiped sweat from his face and neck. "If we had crashed then-" He broke off, shuddering. A long fall and no hope of survival. "I warned him against using the Gap, but he wouldn't listen."

"What lies beyond?"

"The valley of the Candarish. We'll camp there tonight."

It was small, sealed, the crest of the slopes topped by a tangled mass of thorn-bearing trees, the slopes themselves scored by terraced fields. On the level bottom horned cattle cropped at lush grass, the animals attended by boys. The village was a cluster of low houses built of stone and turf, the roofs gabled, the windows open slits which could be closed with curtains of leather.

A cluster of inhabitants came forward as the raft landed; men wearing rough garments of fabric and leather, the arms and shoulders of their jackets ornamented with tufts of colored fur. The women wearing long loose robes which trailed in the dirt, their heads covered, their faces veiled. Children, pot-bellied, dirty, their hair oily and lank, watched with enormous eyes.

"My friends!" Chaque jumped down from the raft and stood with both hands uplifted. "We come in peace, to trade, to bring gifts, to learn of your wisdom. Who is chief among you?"

"He stands before you." A wrinkled oldster, his eyes filmed with cataracts, his mouth wet with spittle, took one step towards the guide. "Are you known to us?"

"My gifts are my welcome. Tools of metal and cloths of bright colors."

"A trader." The old man nodded. "You are welcome. Come into my house and we shall talk."

He turned, walked away, Jalch Moore and the guide following him. From where she stood at Dumarest's side Iduna said, quietly, "The depths to which men can sink. They live in dirt and ignorance. Yet, only a relatively short journey away, lies the door to the stars."

"A door that can't be reached." Dumarest looked at the crest of the valley. The setting sun caught the leaves, turned them into a barrier of flame. "What does your brother hope to learn here?"

"A clue, perhaps a rumor, something to lead him to the Kheld." She jumped down from the raft. "Shall we walk a little? See what is to be seen."

Dumarest hesitated, looking at the men who stood, still watching them. They carried knives, but little else. One had a spear, another a crossbow, two more holding staves with rounded ends. From the feeding cattle came a soft lowing and, without a word, several women turned and headed towards them.

"Earl?"

It seemed to be safe enough, yet he knew that nothing could be taken for granted. A display of weapons might be taken amiss, yet to leave them behind was to beg for trouble.

A raft loaded with goods, four people, one a woman-a temptation the Candarish might not be able to resist.

"Go if you want, Iduna. I'll stay here."

She was back within the hour, her boots soiled, grime on her hands and face. Without a word she washed, using water from a canteen. Then, picking up a rifle, checked the load.

"Trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle. A young buck thought he had the right to touch me."

"And?"

"I taught him differently." She smiled at his expression. "Don't worry about it, Earl. I only hurt his pride."

Perhaps the worst thing she could have done, as she should have known. Dumarest picked up his rifle.

"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't leave the raft until I return."

A fire had been lit before the houses, a great pile of brushwood which had been set to dry in the sun. It threw a ruddy, dancing glow in which the feeble, oil-burning wicks within the houses were dimmed to pale splotches of luminescence. Dumarest headed away from the fire, moving in a wide circle, eyes narrowed, ears tense for the slightest sound. He caught the pad of naked feet, the inhalation of breath and dropped, the rifle lifting.

The sounds died, but instinct warned him that he was not alone. He moved, carelessly silhouetted against the glow of the fire, dropping as something flashed out of the darkness towards him.

A spear which sliced the air above him, to land with a dull thud in the dirt behind. Another came, held by a pair of hands, the point stabbing where he lay. He rolled over, slammed the barrel of the rifle against naked shins, rose as the man fell, screaming.