“This is Hamok Trei,” Sachkor said. “He is their chieftain.”

“He? A man as chieftain?”

“Yes,” said Sachkor. “And this is their wise one, what we would call their chronicler. His name is Noum om Beng.” He gestured to a wispy-bearded man nearly as old as Hamok Trei and even more withered, even more wizened. He was of astonishing height, far taller even than Harruel, but so slender and frail that he seemed to be hardly more than a reed. Noum om Beng stood bending forward in a stooping way. His helmet was a stupefying thing of black metal covered with clumps of coarse black hair, from the corners of which rose a pair of long curving purple projections, jointed and jagged, that looked something like the wings of a bat.

Noum om Beng came a step or two closer to Koshmar and made a series of signs in the air before her that might almost have been the signs of the Five, except that they were not. The gestures were different ones and they had no meaning that Koshmar could fathom. Holy signs of some kind they surely were, she thought, but they must be signs sacred to some other set of gods.

How, though, could there be other gods? The thought made no sense. She remembered how Hresh had tried to tell her, that time when they were interrogating the first Helmet Man, that the stranger might speak another language — that is, that he used words different from theirs, though his meanings were the same. Grudgingly Koshmar had accepted that possibility, bewildering though it was. But other gods? Other gods? There were no gods but the Five. These people would not worship unreal gods unless they were crazy. And Koshmar did not think they were that.

To Sachkor she said, “How do you know their names and stations? Are you able to speak with them?”

“A little,” Sachkor said. “At first it was impossible for me to understand them at all, or for them to understand me. But I applied myself to the task and a little at a time I was able to learn their speech.” He smiled. He seemed to be struggling, but not very hard, to conceal how pleased he was with himself.

“Ask this chieftain to say something to me, then.”

“The chieftain rarely speaks. Noum om Beng speaks for him.”

“Ask him, then.”

Sachkor turned to the wraithlike old man and said something that sounded to Koshmar like the barking of a beast. Noum om Beng frowned and tugged at his thin white beard. Sachkor barked again, and this time the old man nodded and barked something back. With much enthusiasm Sachkor spoke a third time. Whatever he said must have been not quite right, because Noum om Beng looked away discreetly, while the others in the group of Helmet Men burst into harsh laughter. Sachkor seemed abashed; Noum om Beng leaned to one side and whispered with the chieftain Hamok Trei.

Koshmar murmured to Hresh, “What do you think is going on?”

“It is true speech,” Hresh replied. “Sachkor understands it, though not well. I can almost understand it myself. The words are like ours, but everything is twisted and broken. With my second sight I can feel the meanings beneath, or at least the shadows of the meanings.”

Koshmar nodded. She had more faith now in Hresh’s insight into these events, and it was beginning to seem less and less likely to her that the Helmet People had come here on a mission of war. Even their helmets appeared less frightful now that she was getting accustomed to them. They were so massive and so elaborately designed to be terrifying, she thought, that they were actually more comic than anything else, though they certainly were impressive in their ridiculous way. But a residue of suspicion still remained in her. She was helpless here, unable to communicate or even to understand, and for guidance and everything else she was forced to rely on the boy who was her old man, and on this callow youth Sachkor, of all people. That was embarrassing. All in all, she felt profound discomfort.

Noum om Beng, returning his attention now to Koshmar, began to speak, in tones that seemed to Koshmar to be a mixture of barks and howls. She could not easily accommodate herself to the way these Bengs expressed themselves, and several times she was hard put not to grin. But though she comprehended nothing, she could tell that it was a solemn, florid speech, heavy, substantial.

She listened with care, shaking her head in agreement from time to time. Since there apparently was not going to be a battle, at least not immediately, it behooved her to receive these strangers in statesmanlike fashion.

“Can you understand anything?” she whispered to Sachkor, after a time.

“A little. He says that they are here in peace, for trade and friendship. He’s telling you that Nakhaba has guided his people to Vengiboneeza, that there was a prophecy that they would come here and find friends.”

“Nakhaba?”

“Their chief god,” Sachkor said.

“Ah,” said Koshmar. Noum om Beng continued to orate.

Behind her, Koshmar heard footsteps and murmurs. Others of the tribe were arriving. She looked around and saw most of the remaining men and even a few of the women — Taniane, Sinistine, Boldirinthe, Minbain.

Torlyri had arrived too. That was good, seeing Torlyri here. She looked unusually tense and weary; but even so, Torlyri’s mere presence gave much comfort. She came up to Koshmar and lightly touched her arm.

“They told me enemies had entered the city. Will there be war?”

“It doesn’t look that way. They don’t seem to be enemies.” Koshmar indicated Noum om Beng. “This is their old man. He’s making a speech. I think it’s going to go on forever.”

“And Sachkor? He’s all right?”

“He’s the one who found them. Went off by himself, tracked them down, led them back to Vengiboneeza.” Koshmar put a finger to her lips. “I’m supposed to be listening.”

“Your pardon,” Torlyri whispered.

Noum om Beng continued another few minutes more; then he ended his speech virtually in mid-howl and stepped back next to Hamok Trei. Koshmar looked inquiringly toward Sachkor.

“What was that all about?”

“In truth I couldn’t follow very much of it,” Sachkor said, with a disarming smile. “But the part right at the end was clear enough. He’s inviting us all to a feast tonight. His people will provide the meat and the wine. They’ve got big herds of meat-animals just outside the city. We have to give them a place to pitch camp, and some wood for their fire. They’ll do the rest.”

“And do you think I should trust them?”

“I do.”

“You, Hresh?”

“They’re already within the city, and there are at least as many of them as there are of us, and I think these shaggy red beasts of theirs could be terrible in a battle. Since they claim to be friendly and do in fact seem friendly, we should accept their offer of friendship at face value, until we have reason to think otherwise.”

Koshmar smiled. “Crafty Hresh!” To Sachkor she said, “What about the Helmet Man who was here last year? Do they wonder what happened to him?”

“They know he is dead.”

“And that he died at our hands?”

Sachkor said, looking edgy now, “I’m not clear about that. I think they believe that he died of some natural cause.”

“Let’s hope so,” Koshmar said.

“In any case,” said Hresh, “we didn’t kill him. He killed himself, while we were trying to ask him some questions. Once we can speak their language better, we’ll be able to explain all that to them. And until then, I think our best tactic is—”

A strange look came into Hresh’s eyes, and he fell silent.

“What is it?” Koshmar asked. “Why do you stop like that? Go on, Hresh, go on!”

“Look there,” Hresh said quietly. “There’s real trouble on the way.”

He pointed toward the east, toward the slopes just above them.

Harruel, looking baleful and immense, was coming down the road that led from the mountain.