Dying of the Light

Chapter 3

They raced again above the mountains, and Dirk did better this time, losing by less than he had before, but the improvement did not lighten his mood. For most of the weary trip they flew in silence, apart, Gwen meters ahead of him. Their backs were to the broken, muted Wheel of Fire as they went, and Gwen was a witch figure vague against the sky and always out of reach. The melancholy of Worlorn's dying forests had seeped into his flesh, and he saw Gwen through tainted eyes, a doll figure in a suit as faded as despair, her black hair oily with red light. Thoughts came in a colored chaos as the wind swept past him, and one more often than the others. She was not his Jenny, was not and never had been.

Twice during their flight Dirk saw-or thought he saw-the jade-and-silver flashing, tormenting, as it had tormented him in the wood. He forced his eyes away each time and watched black clouds, long and thin, skitter across the barren, empty sky.

The gray manta aircar and the olive-green war machine were both gone from the rooftop lot when they reached Larteyn. Only Ruark's yellow teardrop was unmoved. They landed nearby-Dirk's landing yet another clumsy stumble, now oddly humorless, only stupid-and left the sky-scoots and flight boots out on the roof where they removed them. Near the tubes they spoke briefly, but Dirk forgot the words even as he said them. Then Gwen left him.

In his rooms at the base of the tower, Arkin Ruark was waiting patiently. Dirk found a recliner amid the pastel walls and sculpture and the potted Kimdissi plants. He reclined, wanting only to rest and not to think, but Ruark was there, chuckling and shaking his head so the white-blond hair danced, thrusting a tall green glass into his hand. Dirk took it and sat up again. The glass was a fine thin crystal, plain and unadorned except for a fast-melting coat of frost. He drank, and the wine was very green and cold, incense and cinnamon down his throat.

"Utter tired you look, Dirk," the Kimdissi said after he had found a drink of his own and seated himself with a plop in a slung-web chair beneath the shadow of a drooping black plant. The spear-shaped leaves cast striped darkness on his plump, smiling face. He sipped, sucking the drink noisily, and very briefly Dirk despised him.

"A long day," he said noncommittally.

"Truth," Ruark agreed. "A day of Kavalars, heh, always long. Sweet Gwen and Jaantony and last Garsey, enough to make any day last forever. What do you say?"

Dirk said nothing.

"But now," Ruark said, smiling, "you have seen. Me, I wanted that, for you to see. Before I told you. But I was sworn to tell you, yes, a swearing to myself. Gwen, she has told me. We talk, you know, as friends, and I have known her and Jaan too since Avalon. But here we've grown closer. She cannot talk of it easily, ever, but she talks to me, or has, and I can tell you. Not violating trust. You are the one to know, I think."

The drink sent icy fingers down into his chest, and Dirk felt his weariness lifting. It seemed as if he had been half asleep, as if Ruark had been talking for a long time and he had missed it all. "What are you talking about?" he said. "What should I know?"

"Why Gwen needs you," Ruark said. "Why she sent… the thing. The red tear. You know. I know. She has told me."

Suddenly Dirk was quite alert, interested and puzzled. "She told you," he began, then stopped. Gwen had asked him to wait, and long ago the promise he had made-but it fit. Perhaps he should listen, perhaps it was simply hard for her to tell him. Ruark would know. Her friend, she had said in the forests, the only one she could talk to. "What?"

"You must help her, Dirk t'Larien, somehow. I don't know."

"Help her how?"

"To be free. To escape."

Dirk set his drink down and scratched, his head. "From who?"

"Them. The Kavalars."

He frowned. "Jaan, you mean? I met him this morning, him and Janacek. She loves Jaan. I don't understand."

Ruark laughed, sucked from his drink, laughed again. He was dressed in a three-piece suit of alternating brown and green squares, like motley, and as he sat spouting nonsense Dirk wondered if the short ecologist was indeed a fool.

"Loves him, yes, she said that?" Ruark said. "You are sure of it, are you? Well?"

Dirk hesitated, trying to remember her words when they had talked by the still, green lake. "I'm not sure," he said. "But something to that effect. She is– What was it?"

"Betheyn?" Ruark suggested.

Dirk nodded. "Yes, betheyn, wife."

Ruark chuckled. "No, utter wrong. In the car I listened. Gwen said it wrong. Well, not really, but you took the wrong impression. Betheyn is not wife. Part truth the biggest lie of all, remember? What do you think teyn is?"

The word stopped him. Teyn. He had heard the word a hundred times on Worlorn. "Friend?" he guessed, not knowing what it meant.

"Betheyn is more of wife than teyn is friend," Ruark said. "Learn the outworlds better, Dirk. No. Betheyn is woman-to-man word in Old Kavalar, for a heldwife bound by jade-and-silver. Now, there can be much affection in jade-and-silver, much love, yes. Though, you know, the word used for that, the standard Terran word, there is no like word in Old Kavalar. Interesting, eh? Can they love without a word for it, t'Larien friend?"

Dirk did not reply. Ruark shrugged and drank and continued. "Well, no matter, but think of it. I spoke of jade-and-silver and yes, often the Kavalars have love in that bond, love from betheyn-to-highbond, from highbond-to-betheyn sometimes. Or liking, if not love. But not always, and not necessarily! You see?"

Dirk shook his head.

"Kavalar bonds are custom and obligation," Ruark said, leaning forward very intently, "with love late-coming accident. Violent folk, I told you. Read history, read legends. Gwen met Jaan on Avalon, you know, and she did not read. Not enough. He was Jaan Vikary of High Kavalaan, and what was that, some planet? She never knew. Truth. So their liking grew-call it love, perhaps-and sex happens and he offers her jade-and-silver wrought in his pattern, and suddenly she is betheyn to him, still not quite knowing. Trapped."

"Trapped? How trapped?"

"Read history! The violence of High Kavalaan is

long past, the culture is unchanged. Gwen is betheyn to Jaan Vikary, betheyn heldwife, his wife, yes, his lover, and more. Property and slave, she is that too, and gift. She is his gift to Ironjade Gathering, with her he bought his highnames, yes. She must have children if he orders, whether she wishes or no. She must take Garse as lover also, whether she wishes or no. If Jaan dies in duel with a man of a holdfast other than Ironjade, a Braith or a Redsteel, Gwen passes to that man like baggage, property-to become his betheyn, or a mere eyn-kethi if the victor already wears jade-and-silver. If Jaan dies of natural causes, or in duel with another Ironjade, Gwen goes to Garse. Her will in the matter is no concern. Who cares that she hates him? Not the Kavalars. And when Garsey dies, eh? Well, when that time comes, she is an eyn-kethi, holdfast breeder, degraded forever, free to use for any of the kethi. Kethi meaning holdfast-brothers, more or less, the men of the family. Ironjade Gathering is all huge family, thousands and thousands of family, and any can have her. What did she call Jaan, husband? No. Jailer. That is what he is, he and Garse, loving jailers maybe if you think that such can love truly as you or I would. Jaantony honors our Gwen, and should, for he is high-Ironjade now, she is his betheyn-gift, and if she dies or leaves him, he is fre-Ironjade, an old man, mocked, empty-armed, without voice in council. But he slaves her, does not love her, and she is years after Avalon now, older and wiser, and now she knows." Ruark had delivered the last in a breathless fury, his lips drawn tight.

Dirk hesitated. "He doesn't love her, then?" "As you love your property, so a highbond and his betheyn. It is a tight bond, jade-and-silver, never to be broken, but it is a bond of obligation and possession. No love. That is elsewhere, if the Kavalars have it at all, to be found in chosen-brother, the shield and soulmate and lover and warrior twin, the ever-loyal bringer-of-pleasure and taker-of-blows and lifter-of-pain, the lifetime strongbond."

"Teyn," Dirk said, a little numbly, his mind racing ahead.

"Teyn!" Ruark nodded. "The Kavalars, all violent as they are, have great poetry. Much celebrates the teyn, the bond of iron-and-glowstone, none the jade-and-silver."

Things fell smoothly into place. "You are saying," Dirk began, "that she and Jaan don't love each other, that Gwen is all but a slave. Yet she doesn't leave?"

Ruark's chubby face was flushed. "Leave? Utter nonsense! They would only force her back. A highbond must keep and protect his betheyn. And kill the one who tries to steal her."

"And she sent the jewel to me…"

"Gwen talks to me, I know. What other hope has she? The Kavalars? Jaantony has twice killed in duels. No Kavalar would touch her, and what good if they did? Me? Am I a hope?" His soft hands swept down his. body, and he dismissed himself in contempt. "You, t'Larien, you are Gwen's hope. You who owe her. You who loved her once."

Dirk heard his own voice, as if from far away. "I still love her," he said.

"Good. I think, you know, that Gwen… though she would never say it, yet I think… she too still feels. As she did. As she never has for Jaantony Riv Wolf high-Ironjade Vikary."

The drink, the odd green wine, had touched him more than he would have imagined. Only one glass, a single tall glass, and strange the room ran around him, and Dirk t'Larien held himself upright with an effort and heard impossible things and began to wonder. Ruark made no sense, he thought, but then he made too much sense. He explained everything, really, and it was all so shining clear, and clear too what Dirk must do. Or was it? The room wavered, grew dark and then light again, dark and then light, and Dirk was one second very sure and the next not sure at all. What must he do? Something, something for

Gwen. He must find out the truth of things, and then…

He raised a hand to his forehead. Beneath the dangling locks of gray-brown hair his brow was beaded with sweat. Ruark stood suddenly, alarm across his face. "Oh," the Kimdissi said, "the wine has made you sick! Utter fool I am! My fault. Outworld wine and Avalon stomach, yes. Food will help, you know. Food." He scurried off, brushing the potted plant as he went so the black spears bobbed and danced behind him.

Dirk sat very still. Far off in the distance he heard a clatter of plates and pots but paid it no mind. Still sweating, bis forehead was furrowed in thought, thought that was strangely difficult. Logic seemed to elude him, and the clearest things faded even as he grabbed hold of them. He trembled while dead dreams woke to new life, while the choker-woods withered in his mind and the Wheel burned hot and fiery above the new-flowering noonday woods of Worlorn. He could make it happen, force it, wake it, put an end to the long sunset, and have Jenny, his Guinevere, forever by his side. Yes. Yes!

When Ruark came back with forks and bowls of soft cheese and red tubers and hot meat, Dirk was calmer, cool again. He took the bowls and ate in half a trance while his host prattled on. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He would see them at breakfast, talk to them, learn what truth he could. Then he could act. Tomorrow.

"… no insult is intended," Vikary was saying. "You are not a fool, Lorimaar, but in this I think you act foolishly."

Dirk froze in the doorway, the heavy wooden door that he had opened without thinking swinging away before him. All of them turned to regard him, four pairs of eyes, Vikary's last and not until he had finished what he was saying. Gwen had told him to come up to breakfast when they had parted the night be-

fore (him only, since Ruark and the Kavalars preferred to avoid each other whenever possible), and this was the correct time, just shortly after dawn. But the scene was not one he had expected to enter.

There were four of them in the cavernous living room. Gwen, hair unbrushed and eyes full of sleep, was seated on the edge of the low wood-and-leather couch that stretched in front of the fireplace and its gargoyle guards. Garse Janacek stood just behind her with his arms crossed and a frown on his face, while Vikary and a stranger confronted each other by the mantel. All three of the men were dressed formally, and armed. Janacek wore leggings and shirt of soft charcoal-gray, with a high collar and a double row of black iron buttons down his chest. The right sleeve of his shirt had been cut away to display the heavy bracelet of iron and dimly blazing glowstones. Vikary was also all in gray, but without the row of buttons; the front of his shirt was a V that swooped almost to his belt, and against the dark chest hair a jade medallion hung on an iron chain.

The newcomer, the stranger, was the first to address Dirk. His back was to the door, but he turned when the others looked up, and he frowned. Taller by a head than either Vikary or Janacek, he towered over Dirk, even at a distance of several meters. His skin was a hard brown, very dark against the milk-white suit he wore beneath the pleated folds of a violet half-cape. Gray hair, shot through with white, fell to his broad shoulders, and his eyes-flints of obsidian set in a brown face with a hundred lines and wrinkles -were not friendly. Neither was his voice. He looked Dirk over quickly, then said, very simply, "Get out."

"What?" No reply could be as stupid as his was, Dirk thought even as he said it, but nothing else came to mind.

"I said get out," the giant in white repeated. Like Vikary, both of his forearms were bare to display the bracelets, the almost-twins of jade-and-silver on his left arm and iron-and-fire on his right. But the patterns and settings of the stranger's armlets were very different. The only thing that was the same, exactly, was the gun on his hip.

Vikary folded his arms, just as Janacek had already folded his. "This is my place, Lorimaar high-Braith. You have no right to be rude to those who come at my invitation."

"An invitation you yourself lack, Braith," Janacek added with a tiny venomous smile.

Vikary looked over at his teyn, shook his head sharply and vigorously. No. But to what? Dirk wondered.

"I come to you in high grievance, Jaantony high-Ironjade, with serious talking to do," the white-suited Kavalar rumbled. "Must we treat before an off-worlder?" He glanced at Dirk again, still frowning. "A mockman, for all I know."

Vikary's voice was quiet but stern when he replied. "We are done dealing, friend. I've told you my answer. My betheyn has my protection, and the Kimdissi, and this man too"-he indicated Dirk with a wave of his hand, then folded his arms again– "and if you take any among these, then prepare to take me."

Janacek smiled. "He is no mockman either," the gaunt red-bearded Kavalar said. "This is Dirk t'Larien, korariel of Ironjade, whether you like it or no." Janacek turned very slightly in Dirk's direction and indicated the stranger in white. "T'Larien, this is Lorimaar Reln Winterfox high-Braith Arkellor."

"A neighbor of ours," Gwen said from the couch, speaking for the first time. "He lives in Larteyn too."

"Far from you, Ironjades," the other Kavalar said. He was not happy. The frown was deep-graven in his face, and his black eyes moved from one of them to the next, full of cold anger, before coming to rest on Vikary. "You are younger than me, Jaantony high-Ironjade, and your teyn younger still, and I would not willingly go to face you and yours in duel. Yet code has its demands, as you know and I, and neither of us should venture too far. You young highbonds oft press that line closely, I feel, and the highbonds of Ironjade most of all, and-"

"And I most of all the highbonds of Ironjade," Vikary said, finishing for the other.

Arkellor shook his head. "Once, when I was but an unweaned child in the holdfasts of Braith, it was duel to so much as interrupt another, as you have done now to me. Truly, the old ways have gone. The men of High Kavalaan turn soft before my eyes."

"You think me soft?" Vikary asked quietly.

"Yes and no, high-Ironjade. You are a strange one. You have a hardness none can deny, and that is good, but Avalon has put the stench of the mockman on you, touched you with the weak and foolish. I do not like your betheyn-bitch, and I do not like your 'friends.' Would that I were younger. I would come at you in fury and teach you again the old wisdoms of the holdfast, the things that you forget so easy."

"Do you call us to duel?" Janacek asked. "You speak strongly."

Vikary unfolded his arms and waved casually with his hand. "No, Garse. Lorimaar high-Braith does not call us to duel. Do you, friend, highbond?"

Arkellor waited several heartbeats too long before his answer came. "No," he said. "No, Jaantony high-Ironjade, no insult is intended."

"And none is taken," Vikary said, smiling.

The Braith highbond did not smile. "Good fortunes," he said begrudgingly. He went to the door in long strides, pausing only long enough to let Dirk step hurriedly aside, then proceeded out and up the roof stairs. The door closed behind him.

Dirk started toward the others, but the scene was quickly breaking up. Janacek, with a frown and a shake of his head, turned and left quickly for another room. Gwen rose, pale and shaken, and Vikary took a step toward Dirk.

"That was not a good thing for you to witness," the Kavalar said. "But perhaps it will be enlightening to you. Still, I regret your presence. I would not have you think of High Kavalaan as the Kimdissi do."

"I didn't understand," Dirk said. Vikary put an arm around his shoulder and drew him off toward the dining room, Gwen just behind them. "What was he talking about?"

"Ah, much. I will explain. But I must tell you a second regret also, that your promised breakfast is not set and ready for you." He smiled.

"I can wait." They went into the dining room and sat, Gwen still silent and troubled. "What did Garse call me?" Dirk asked. "Kora–something, what does that mean?"

Vikary appeared hesitant. "The word is korariel. It is an Old Kavalar word. Its meanings have changed over the centuries. Today, here in this place, when used by Garse or myself, it means protected. Protected by us, protected of Ironjade."

"That is what you would like it to mean, Jaan," Gwen said, her voice barbed and angry. "Tell him the real meaning!"

Dirk waited. Vikary crossed his arms and his eyes went from one of them to the other. "Very well, Gwen, if you wish it." He turned to Dirk. "The full, older meaning is protected property. I can only hope you do not take insult at this. None is intended. Korariel is a word for people not part of a holdfast, yet still guarded and valued."

Dirk remembered the things Ruark had told him the night before, the words dimly perceived through a haze of green wine. He felt anger creeping like a red tide up his neck, and fought to hold it down. "I am not accustomed to being property," he said bitingly, "no matter how highly valued. And who are you supposed to be protecting me against?"

"Lorimaar and his teyn Saanel," Vikary said. He leaned forward across the table and took Dirk's arm in a powerful grip. "Garse used the word perhaps too hastily, t'Larien, yet to him it no doubt seemed right at that moment, an old word for an old concept.

Wrong-yes, I can recognize the wrongness-wrong in that you are a human, a person, no one's property. Yet it was an apt word to use to one like Lorimaar high-Braith, who understands such things and little else. If it disturbs you so greatly, as I know the concept disturbs Gwen, then I am grievously sorry my teyn used it."

"Well," Dirk said, trying to be reasonable, "I thank you for the apology, but that's not good enough. I still don't know what's going on. Who was Lorimaar? What did he want? And why do I have to be protected against him?"

Vikary sighed and released Dirk's arm. "It will not be a simple matter to answer your questions. I must tell you of the history of my people, a little that I know and much that I have guessed." He turned to Gwen. "We can eat while we talk, if no one objects. Will you bring food?"

She nodded and left, returning several minutes later carrying a large tray piled high with black bread and three kinds of cheese and hard-cooked eggs in bright blue shells. And beer, of course. Vikary leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the tabletop. He talked while the others ate.

"High Kavalaan has been a violent world," he said. "It is the oldest outworld except for the Forgotten Colony, and all its long histories are histories of struggle. Sadly, those histories are also largely fabrication and legend, full of ethnocentric lies. Yet these tales were believed right up until the time that the starships came again, following the interregnum.

"In the holdfasts of the Ironjade Gathering, for example, boys were taught that the universe has only thirty stars, and High Kavalaan is its center. Mankind originated there, when Kay Iron-Smith and his teyn Roland Wolf-Jade were born of a mating between a volcano and a thunderstorm. They walked steaming from the lips of the volcano into a world full of demons and monsters, and for many years they wandered far and near, having various adventures. At last they came across a deep cave beneath a mountain, and inside they found a dozen women, the first women in the world. The women were afraid of the demons and would not come out. So Kay and Roland stayed, seizing the women roughly and making them eyn-kethi. The cave became their holdfast, the women birthed them many sons, and thus began Kavalar civilization.

"The path upward was no easy one, the stories say. The boys born of the eyn-kethi were all the seed of Kay and Roland, hot-tempered and dangerous and strong-willed. There were many quarrels. One son, the wily and evil John Coal-Black, habitually killed his kethi, his holdfast-brothers, in fits of envy because he could not hunt as well as they. Then, hoping to gain some of their skill and strength, he fell to eating their bodies. Roland found him engaged in such a feast one day, and chased the child across the hills, beating him with a great flail. Afterwards John did not return to Ironjade, but started his own holdfast in a coal mine and took to teyn a demon. That was the origin of the cannibal highbonds of the Deep Coal Dwellings.

"Other holdfasts were founded in like manner, although the Ironjade histories give the other rebels a good deal more credit than Black John. Roland and Kay were stern masters, not easy to live with. Shan the Swordsman, for example, was a good strong boy who left with his teyn and betheyn after a violent fight with Kay, who would not respect his jade-and-silver. Shan was the founder of the Shanagate Holding. Ironjade recognizes his line as fully human, and always did. So it was with most of the great holdfasts. Those that died out, like the Deep Coal Dwellings, fared less well in the legends.

"Those legends are quite extensive, and many are enlightening. There is the tale of the disobedient kethi, as an instance. The first Ironjade knew that the only fit home for a man was deep under rock, a fastness in stone, a cave or a mine. Yet those who came later did not believe; the plains looked open and inviting to their naive eyes. So they went out, with eyn-kethi and children, and erected tall cities. That was their folly. Fires fell from the sky to destroy them, melting and twisting the towers they had thrown up, burning the city men, sending the survivors fleeing underground in terror to where the flames could not reach. And when their eyn-kethl gave them births, the children were demons, not men at all. Sometimes they ate their way free of the womb."

Vikary paused and took a drink from his mug. Dirk, almost finished with his breakfast, pushed a few crumbs of cheese aimlessly across his plate and frowned. "This is all fascinating," he said, "but I don't see the relevance, I'm afraid."

Vikary drank again and took a quick bite of cheese. "Be patient," he said.

"Dirk," Gwen said dryly, "the histories of the four surviving holdfast-coalitions differ in many respects, but there are two great events on which they agree. Those are the milestones of Kavalar myth. All of them have a version of that last story-the burning of the cities. It is called the Time of Fire and Demons. A later story, the Sorrowing Plague, is also repeated virtually word for word in every holdfast."

"Truth," Vikary said. "These stories-these were the only accounts of ancient days that I was given to work with. By the time of my birth, no sane Kavalar believed any of this."

Gwen coughed politely.

Vikary glanced at her and smiled. "Yes, Gwen corrects me," he said. "Few sane Kavalars believed any of this." He went on. "Yet the doubters had nothing else to believe, no alternate truth to adhere to. Most of them did not particularly care. When star travel resumed, and the Wolfmen and Toberians and later the Kimdissi came to High Kavalaan, they found us eager to learn the lost arts of technology, and that is what they taught us in return for our gems and heavy metals. Soon we had starships, but still no history." He smiled. "/ found what truth we now have during my studies on Avalon. It was little enough, and yet sufficient. Hidden in the great data banks of the Academy I found records of the original colonization of High Kavalaan.

"It was fairly late in the Double War. A group of settlers left from Tara for a world beyond the Tempter's Veil, where they hoped to find safety from the Hrangans and the Hrangan slaveraces. The computers indicate that for a time they did. They discovered a planet harsh and strange, yet rich. Quickly they built a high-level colony, based on mining operations. There are records of trade between Tara and the colony for about twenty years, then the planet beyond the Veil abruptly vanished from human history. Tara hardly noticed. Those were the crudest years of the war."

"And you think the planet was High Kavalaan?" Dirk asked.

"It is known for a fact," Vikary replied. "The coordinates match, and other fascinating pieces of data as well. The colony was named Cavanaugh, for example. Perhaps even more intriguing, the leader of the first expedition was a starship captain named Kay Smith. A woman."

Gwen smiled at that.

"There was something else I discovered as well," Vikary continued, "quite by chance. You must remember that most of the outworlds were never involved in the Double War. The Fringe civilizations are children of the collapse, or even post-collapse. No Kavalar had ever seen a Hrangan, much less any of the various slaveraces. I had not, until I went to Avalon and grew interested in the broader aspects of human history. Then, in one account of the conflict in the jambles, I lucked upon illustrations of the various semi-sentient slaves the Hrangans used as shock troops on worlds they did not deem worthy of their own immediate attention. Undoubtedly, being a man of the jambles, you know these alien races, Dirk. The nocturnal Hruun, heavy-gravity warriors of immense strength and savagery, who see well into the infrared. Winged dactyloids, who got their name from some chance resem-

blance to a beast of human prehistory. Worst of all, the githyanki, the soulsucks, with their terrible psionic powers."

Dirk was nodding. "I've seen a Hruun or two during my travels. The other races are pretty much extinct, aren't they?"

"Perhaps," Vikary said. "I looked at the illustrations I had found for a long time, and returned to them again and again. There was a quality about them that disturbed me. Finally, I puzzled out the truth. The Hruun, the dactyloids, the githyanki-each bore a vague semblance to the gargoyles that sit at the door of every Kavalar holdfast. They were the demons of our myth cycles, Dirk!"

Vikary stood up and began to pace slowly up and down the length of the room, still talking, his voice even and controlled, his excitement showing only in the act of pacing. "When Gwen and I returned to Iron-jade I put forward my theory, based on the old legends, the Demonsong cycle of the great poet-adventurer Jamis-Lion Taal, and on the Academy data banks. Consider its truth: The colony Cavanaugh stands, with its cities on the plains and its far-flung mining operations. The Hrangans level the cities with a nuclear bombardment. Survivors live only in the deep shelters and out in the wild, in the mines. To make the planet their own, the Hrangans also land contingents of their slaveraces. Then they depart, not to return for a century. The mines become the first holdfasts, others are built later, carved deep into stone. Their cities gone, the miners revert to a more primitive level of technology, and soon establish a rigid survival-oriented culture. For endless generations they war against the slaveraces and against each other. At the same time, beneath the radioactive ruins of the cities, human mutations begin to arise…"

Now Dirk stood up. "Jaan," he said.

Vikary stopped his pacing, turned, frowned.

"I have been very damn patient," Dirk said. "I understand that all this is of great concern to you. It's your work. But I want some answers and I want them now." He raised his hand and ticked off the questions on his fingers. "Who is Lorimaar? What did he want? And why do I have to be protected against him?"

Gwen rose too. "Dirk," she said, "Jaan is only giving you the background you need to understand. Don't be so-'

"No!" Vikary quieted her with a wave of his hand. "No, t'Larien is correct, I grow too enthusiastic whenever I speak of these matters." To Dirk he said, "I will answer you directly, then. Lorimaar is a very traditional Kavalar, so traditional that he is out of place even on High Kavalaan itself. He is a creature of another age. Do you recall yesterday morning, when I gave you my pin to wear, and Garse and I both expressed concern about your safety after dark?"

Dirk nodded. His hand went up and touched the small pin, snugly fastened to his collar. "Yes."

"Lorimaar high-Braith and others like him were the cause of our concern, t'Larien. The reasons are not easy to tell."

"Let me," Gwen said. "Dirk, listen. The highbond Kavalars, the holdfast folk, always respected each other throughout the centuries– Oh, they fought and warred, so much that some twenty-odd holdfasts and coalitions were destroyed utterly, leaving only the four great surviving holdfasts of modern times. Still, they recognized each other as human, subject to the rules of highwar and the Kavalar code duello. But there were others, you see-solitary people in the mountains, people who dwelled under the ruined cities, farmers. Those are just guesses-mine and Jaan's– but the point is such people did exist, survivors outside the mining camps that became the holdfasts-those survivors the highbonds would not recognize as men and women. Jaan left something out of all that history, you see– Oh, don't fidget so. I know it was a long story, but it was important. You remember all that about the Hrangan slaveraces corresponding to the three demons of Kavalar myth? Well, the only problem with that is there are three slaveraces, but four kinds of demons. The worst and most evil demons of all were the mockmen."

Dirk frowned. "Mockmen. Lorimaar called me a mockman. I thought it was something like not-man, more or less."

"No," Gwen said. "Not-man is a common term, mockman is unique to High Kavalaan. Shape-changers, the legends say, weres and liars. They can wear any form, but most often that of men, and they want to infiltrate the holdfasts. Inside, disguised as humans, they can secretly strike and kill.

"Those other survivors-the farmers and the mountain families and the mutants and the unlucky, the other humans on Cavanaugh-those were the mock-men, the werefolk. They were not allowed to surrender, the rules of highwar did not apply. The Kavalars exterminated them, never trusting any to be human. They were alien animals. After centuries, those that remained were hunted for sport. The holdfast men always hunted in pairs, teyn-and-teyn, so each could swear to the humanity of the other when they returned."

Dirk looked aghast. "Does this still go on?"

Gwen shrugged. "Seldom. Modern Kavalars admit the sins of their history. Even before the starships came, the Ironjade Gathering and Redsteel, the most progressive coalitions, had banned the taking of mock-men. The hunters had a custom. When they did not wish to kill a mockman immediately, for whatever reason, but wanted him as their personal prey later, they would brand him korariel, and no one else would touch him under penalty of duel. The Ironjade and Redsteel kethi went out and ran down all the mockmen they could, set them up in villages, and tried to bring them back to civilization from the savagery they had fallen into. All they caught they named korariel. There was a brief highwar over it, Ironjade against Shanagate. Ironjade won, and korariel took on a new meaning, protected property."

"And Lorimaar?" Dirk demanded. "How does he fit in?"

She smiled wickedly, for a second reminding him of Janacek. "In any culture, a few diehards remain, true believers and fundamentalists. Braith is the most conservative coalition, and about a tenth of them– Jaan's estimate-still believe in mockmen. Mostly hunters, who want to believe, and nearly all of them from Braith. Lorimaar and his teyn and a handful of his kethi are here to hunt. The game is more varied than on High Kavalaan, and no one enforces any game laws. In fact, there are no laws. The Festival pacts ended long ago. Lorimaar can kill anything he wants to."

"Including humans," Dirk said.

"If they can find them," she said. "Larteyn has twenty citizens, I believe-twenty-one with you. Us, and a poet named Kirak Redsteel Cavis who lives in an old watchtower, and a pair of legitimate hunters from Shanagate. The rest are Braiths. Hunting mock-men, and other game when they can't find mockmen. A generation older than Jaan, chiefly, and quite bloodthirsty. Except for stories they heard in their holdfasts, and maybe a few illicit man-kills in the Lameraan Hills, they know nothing of the old hunts except the legends. All of them are bursting with tradition and frustration." She smiled.

"And this goes on? No one does anything?"

Jaan Vikary crossed his arms. "I have a confession to make, t'Larien," he said gravely. "We lied to you yesterday, Garse and I, when you asked us why we are here. In truth, I was the one who lied. Garse told at least the partial truth-we must protect Gwen. She is an offworlder, no Kavalar, and the Braiths would gladly kill her for a mockman without the shield of Ironjade. The same is truth for Arkin Ruark, who knows nothing of this, not even that he has our protection. Yet he does. He too is korariel of Ironjade.

"Our reasons for being here go beyond that, however. It was vital that I leave High Kavalaan at the time I did. When I took on my highnames and published my theories, I became at once very powerful and celebrated in highbond council, and very hated. Many religious men took personal insult from my contention that Kay Iron-Smith was a woman. I was challenged six times on that account alone. In the last duel, Garse killed a man, while I wounded his teyn so badly that he will never walk again. I was not willing to let this go on. Worlorn was empty of enemies, it seemed. At my urging, the Ironjade council dispatched Gwen on her ecological project.

"Yet, at the same time, I became aware of Lorimaar's activity here. He had already taken his first trophy, and word had come back to Braith and spread to us. Garse and I discussed the matter and determined to stop it. The situation is explosive in the extreme. If the Kimdissi should learn that the Kavalars are hunting mockmen again, they would gladly spread the news to all the outworlds. There is little love lost between Kimdiss and High Kavalaan, as you may know. We do not fear the Kimdissi themselves, who espouse a religion and a philosophy as nonviolent as the Emereli. Other Fringe worlds are more dangerous. The Wolfmen are always volatile and erratic; the Toberians might end their trade agreements if they learn that Kavalars are hunting their laggardly tourists. Perhaps even Avalon would turn against us, should the news go beyond the Veil, and we would be barred from the Academy. These risks cannot be taken. Lorimaar and his fellows do not care, and the holdfast councils can do nothing. They have no authority here, and only the Ironjades have even the slightest concern about events light-years away, on a dying world. Thus Garse and I act against the Braith hunters alone.

"Up to now, it has not come to open conflict. We travel as widely as we can, visiting each of the cities, searching for those who remain on Worlorn. Any we find we make korariel. We have found only a few– a wild child lost during the Festival, a few lingering Wolfmen in Haapala's City, an ironhorn hunter from Tara. To each I give a token of my esteem"-he smiled-"a little black iron pin shaped like a banshee. It is a proximity beacon, to warn a hunter who gets too close. Should they touch any wearing such a pin, any of my korariel, it would be a dueling offense. Lorimaar may rant and rage, but he will not duel us. It would be his death."

"I see," said Dirk. He reached up to his collar, unfastened the little iron pin, and tossed it on the table amid the remains of their breakfast. "Well, that's lovely, but you can have your little pin. I am nobody's property. I've been taking care of myself for a long time, and I can keep on taking care of myself."

Vikary frowned. "Gwen," he said, "can you not convince him that it would be safer if-"

"No," she said sharply. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, Jaan, you know that. But I understand Dirk's feelings. I don't like being protected either, and I refuse to be property." Her voice was curt, decisive.

Vikary regarded them helplessly. "Very well," he said. He picked up Dirk's discarded pin. "I should tell you something, t'Larien. We have had better luck in finding people than the Braiths have simply because we search the cities while they hunt the forests, hopeless slaves to old habits. They seldom find anyone in the wild. Up to now they have had no inkling as to what Garse and I were doing. But this morning Lorimaar high-Braith came to me in grievance because the previous day he had come across likely game while hunting with his teyn, and had been prevented from taking that game.

"The prey he sought was a man on a sky-scoot, flying alone above the mountains." He held up the

banshee-shaped pin. "Without this," he said, "he would have forced you down or lasered you from the sky, run you through the wilderness, and finally killed you." He put the pin into his pocket, stared at Dirk meaningfully for a minute, and left them.