'For what I remember,' said the big black, 'the price is the medium Rankan gold piece and the two visits.'

Long, unhappy pause. All this trouble and cost for an innocent man who, himself, had done nothing. It seemed unfair. 'Perhaps,' ventured Stulwig, 'if you were to give me the information I could decide if the price is merited.'

He was slightly surprised when Jubal nodded. 'That seems reasonable. We're both men of our word.' The big man twisted his lips, as if he were considering. Then: 'The morning after your father died, a night prowler who watches the dark hours for me saw Vashanka come through your door - not out of it, through it. He was briefly a figure of dazzling light as he moved down the street. Then he vanished in a blinding puff of brightness akin to lightning. The flareup, since it lit up the entire street, was seen by several other persons, who did not know its origin.'

Jubal continued, 'I should tell you that there is an old story that a god can go through a wall or a door only if a second god is nearby on the other side. So we may reason that for Vashanka to be able to emerge in the fashion described there was another god outside. However, my informants did not see this second mighty being.'

'Bu-u-t-t!' Stulwig heard a stuttering voice. And only when the mad sound collapsed into silence did he realize that it was his own mouth that had tried to speak.

What he wanted to say, what was trying to form in his mind" and in his tongue was that, for Vashanka to have penetrated into the barricaded greenhouse in the first place, then there must already have been a god inside; who had somehow inveigled his way past his father's cautious resistance to night-time visitors.

The words, the meaning, wouldn't come. The logic of it was too improbable for Stulwig to pursue the matter.

Gulping, he fumbled in his pocket. Identified the desired coin with his fingers. Brought it ont. And laid it into the outstretched palm. The price was cheap - it was as if a voice inside him spoke his acceptance of that truth.

For a while after Stulwig left Jubal's grounds, his feeling was that he had now done what there was to do. He had the information he had craved. So what else was there? Go home and - and -Back to normalcy.

It was an unfortunate way of describing the reality to himself. It brought a mental picture of a return to his daily routine as if no warning had been given. His deep, awful feeling was that something more was expected of him. What could it be?

It was noon. The glowing orb in the sky burned down upon Stulwig. His already miserably sunburned face itched abominably, and he kept scratching at the scabs; and hating himself because his sun-sensitive skin was his one disaster that no herb or ointment seemed to help. And here he was stumbling in the direct rays, making it worse.

He was walking unsteadily, half-blinded by his own inner turmoil and physical discomfort, essentially not heeding the crowds around him when ... the part of him that was guiding him, holding him away from collisions, helping him find a pathway through an everchanging river of people - that part, still somehow observant, saw a familiar man's face.

Stulwig stopped short. But already the man was gone by; his feet scraping at the same dusty street as were the feet of a dozen other passers of the moment; scraping dust and breathing it in.

Normally, Stulwig would have let him go. But this was not a normal time. He spun around. He jammed his stave against the ground as a brace. And took four, long, swift steps. He reached.

Almost gently, then, his fingers touched the sleeve and, through it, the arm of the man. 'Cappen Varra,' Stulwig said.

The young man with the long black hair that rested on his shoulders turned his head. The tone ofStulwig's voice was evidently not threatening; for Cappen merely paused without tensing. Nor did he make a quick reach of the hand towards the blade at his side.

But it took several moments before he seemed to realize who his interceptor was. Then: 'Oh! the healer?' He spoke questioningly.

Stulwig was apologetic. 'I would like to speak to you, sir. Though, as I recall it you only sought my services on one occasion. And I think somebody told me that you had recently departed from Sanctuary for a visit to your distant home.'

The minstrel did not reply immediately. He was backing off, away from the main stream of that endlessly moving crowd; backing towards a small space between a fruit stand and a table on which stood a dozen small crates, each containing a half-dozen or so small, live, edible, noisy birds.

Since Stulwig had shuffled after him, Cappen was able to say in a low voice, 'It was a very decisive time for me. The herbs you gave me produced a series of regurgitations which probably saved my life. I still believe I was served poisoned food.'

'I need advice,' said Alten Stulwig.

'We can talk here,' said Cappen.

It was not an easy story to tell. There was a rise and fall of street sounds. Several times he coughed from an intake of dust thrown at him by the heel of a passerby. But in the end he had completed his account. And it was then, suddenly, that the other man's eyes widened, as if a startling thought had come to him.

'Are you telling me that you are seriously pursuing the murderer of your father, despite that you have now discovered that the killer may well be the second most powerful Rankan god?'

It was the first time that meaning had been spoken so exactly. Stulwig found himself suddenly as startled as his questioner. Before he could say anything, the lean-faced, good-looking wandering singer spoke again: 'What - what happens if he ever

lets you catch up with him?'

The way the question was worded somehow steadied the healer. He said, 'As we know, Vashanka can come to me any time he wishes. My problem is that I do not know why he came to my father, nor why he would come to me? If I could find that out, then perhaps I could go to the temple of Ils and ask the priests for help.'

Cappen frowned, and said, 'Since you seem to have these powerful purposes, perhaps I should remind you of the myth.' He went on: 'You know the story. Vashanka is the god of warriors and weapons, the wielder of lightning, and other powerful forces. You know of this?'

'What I don't understand,' Stulwig replied helplessly, 'is why would such a being kill my father?'

'Perhaps-' a shrug - 'they were rivals for the affection of the same woman.' He went on, 'It is well known that the gods frequently assume human form in order to have concourse with human females.' The beautiful male face twisted. The bright eyes gazed into Stulwig's. 'I have heard stories,' Cappen said, 'that you, as your father before you, often accept a woman's favours in exchange for your services as a healer; the woman having nothing else to give pays the price in the time-honoured way of male-female. As a consequence you actually have many half-brothers out there in the streets, and you yourself - so it has been said have sired a dozen sons and daughters, unacknowledged because of course no one can ever be sure who is the father of these numerous waifs, unless there is unmistakable facial resemblance.'

Another shrug. 'I'm not blaming you. These are the truths of our world. But-'

He stopped. His hand extended gingerly, and touched Stulwig's stave. 'It's tough wood.'

Stulwig was uneasy. 'Awkward to handle in close quarters, and scarcely a weapon to ward off the god of lightning.'

'Nevertheless,' said Cappen, 'it's your best defence. Use it firmly. Keep it between you and any attacker. Yield ground and flee only when there's a good moment.'