I had noticed pervasive stenches in the air while driving out here, the stinks of too many people and too little sanitation, but the smell that now attacked my nostrils seemed twice as bad as anything from before. I supposed it was because I'd been in a moving auto until now, with a breeze of my own making to dilute the aromas and vary them. Now, standing still, I felt the almost physical impact of an odor that seemed to flow up from the dark hole of the lean-to like the exhalations of the minotaur.

But the impression, of course, was wrong. The stink was in the air, all around me, the smell of the neighborhood and not of this one hovel, though surely Lastus' home was contributing its share to the overall effect.

The other sensation I felt was the chill in the air. Why should it seem so much colder, so much damper, when I was standing still than when I'd in motion in the auto? It was as though Hell, unlike any other sun, gave off cold instead of heat, so that standing in its red light I shivered and felt the air clammy against my skin.

I was impatient to be done here, and back in the comfort of the Ice tower. "Lastus!" I called into the black hole. "Lastus! Come up here!"

There were faint rustlings from within, sounds you might hear from some rathole, but I still could see no movement in the blackness. After a minute a reedy voice called, "What is it? Who are you?"

"Come up here, I want to talk to you."

Now I saw him. He'd moved forward, was very nearly close enough for me to lean forward and touch him, and he blinked up at me like a mole. He was wearing only shorts, and dirt streaked his torso and arms and legs and face. He was short and thin but looked hard-sinewed, strong ropes of muscle defining his arms and legs, his chest strong looking, his stomach

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flat. His face looked wary, and belligerent, and afraid, as though too frequently in his life he'd tested his obvious strength against men who'd proved to be stronger.

He squinted and blinked at me and said, in his reedy voice, "I don't know you. What do you want of me? Who are you?"

"I want to hire you," I said.

He was interested. He wiped his lips with the back of a filthy hand, wiped the back of his hand on his leg. "To do what?"

"Guide me."

"Guide you where?"

"To Yoroch Pass."

He'd kept moving closer, was now barely three steps from the entrance. I backed away to permit him to feel safe about coming out the rest of the way, and he said, "Why do you want to go there?"

"I want to see my brother's grave," I said.

"Your brother's grave?" He came up the last three steps, and stood in the entrance. "What brother?''

"Gar Malone. I'm his brother, Rolf."

His eyes widened. At first I thought it was surprise at what I'd said, but then I saw he was staring beyond me, at something behind me, possibly out in the street. Before I could move, the shooting started.

I heard the first two shots. Number one caught Lastus in the right shoulder, spun him half around like a weathervane when the wind shifts. Number two plunged like an invisible spike into the back of his head, plummeting his corpse down the stairs he'd just come up.

I didn't hear the third shot, I felt it, in the middle of my back; a blunt punch from a hard metal fist. I opened my mouth, but I had no air. I tried to stand erect, but I had no will. The punch drove me forward and I saw myself hurtle down after Lastus into the darkness below. Then a greater darkness overtook me, and I ceased to know.

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XIII

violent pain in my right hand shocked me awake. I sat up, yelling, into dusty red semi-darkness, a powerful stink, a dirt floor, and a scrawny youth with the third finger of my right hand in his mouth. He hadn't been able to get Gar's ring off me any other way, so he'd decided to bite my finger off entirely and take it with him.

I hit him, reflexively, and he fell back, more surprised than hurt, but immediately leaped at me again, his hands going for my throat. The two of us scuffled in the dust.

There was sudden surprised movement in the darkness around us, and a man's amused shout: "Hey, Alfie! This one's alive!" And then laughter from the same voice, and, "Hold him, little one! Don't let him get away!"

But he did let me get away. I flung him off, and scrambled across the floor till I hit a dirt wall. I rolled onto my back— my body was an anthology of pains, too numerous to separate into individual aches—and saw the youth leaping for me again, his eyes wide, his face rigid with terror and determination. I kicked him away with both feet and clawed in my pockets for my weapons.

They were still there! The youth and his friends must have been sure I was dead, so they hadn't bothered to disarm me before going for my ring. I pulled the pistol from my pocket and fired it into the youth's face as he came leaping at me yet again. He died in mid-air and crumpled into my lap.

There was a yelp from across the room, and shouting: "He's got a gun! Alfie, he's got a gun!" It was the same voice as before, but no longer amused.

I looked toward the sound, and saw a tall rectangle of rusty light where the steps led up to the street. A bulky figure abruptly dashed into that rectangle, bent on escape: my shouter.

I fired at him and he yelped like a stray dog hit with a stone. He ran into the wall beside the door, half-turned, and sprawled backwards onto the ground, yelping all the while. He lay there on his back, making a lot of noise and waving his arms around. He looked like a turtle flipped over onto its shell.

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The dead youth was bleeding in my lap. I pushed him away and took stock of myself, trying to organize my thoughts and understand what had happened.

The finger that had been bitten was bleeding a little, but unless infection set in it shouldn't be anything to worry about. There was an abrasion on my forehead that stung to the touch, probably the result of my fall down the steps. The other aches and scrapes on my arms and legs were either from the same fall or from the scuffle with the youth.

But these were minor. The pain that drew my attention was in the middle of my back, between my shoulderblades, a wearying ache, a pressure on my back that dulled my movements and hampered my breathing. It was, so far as I knew, the result of a gunshot wound that should have killed me.

I didn't entirely have my wits about me yet, and was stupid enough to look at my chest to see if the bullet had passed all the way through and come out the other side, but of course it hadn't. I was afraid to touch that spot behind me, both because it hurt more when I reached back there and because of what I might find, but it had to be done, and so very cautiously I put my left hand behind my back, and slid it up toward the ache, and felt the crumpled remains of my sheathed knife, still in what was left of the sheath.

That was why I was alive. The bullet had hit the knife, and so hadn't penetrated my back. But the knife had curled like the edges of a piece of paper at the impact, making sharp creases on the inner side, against my skin, and the force of the bullet had driven those creases into the flesh, cutting a random design into my back as though I'd been engraved. Or branded.

That whole area was bruised and battered, the flesh sensitive to the touch, the back of my shirt sticky with blood. From the pressure I felt when I breathed it seemed to me I might have broken a rib or two besides. If I wasn't careful how I moved, I was liable to puncture a lung.

Across the way, the turtle shape had begun to slacken, the arm and leg movements getting feebler, the yelps softer, but all at once he screamed, "Alfie! Alfie, come get me!"