"Nshurra," he said, and smiled.
"The little Earthman," she said. "Oh, no, it can't be."
There had only been two people on Varna who could call Chane a little Earthman without a fight. Both of them were women, and Berkt's wife was one of them.
"Did you bring him back here to be killed?" she demanded of Berkt.
"Bring him back?" said Berkt. "He came back. He's tired of living; he wants to die. At least that's the only reason I can see."
Nshurra came and grasped his hands. "Chane, we thought you were dead. Everyone thought so."
She had always liked him. Chane had always thought that her liking had been born of pity, for she was older than he and could remember him when he had been an Earth-descended child struggling to move, to breathe, against the crushing gravitation of Varna. He could remember Nshurra picking him up and helping him along, when he was a child. But always when no one else could see, so that he might not lose face and pride.
They stood under the stone portico, with the tawny blaze of the sun almost level on their faces. Chane, feeling for the first time a real sense of homecoming, turned to Berkt.
"May I kiss her?"
"If you do, I'll break you in half," Berkt said casually.
Chane smiled, and kissed the golden cheek. He went with them into the place, and it was cool and shadowy and as he remembered it. Presently they sat on a balcony and watched the sun go down. They drank the Varnan wine, wine so strong that it was said it would kill anyone but a Starwolf. It did not kill Chane, but made his head ring as though with golden bells.
"All right, Chane," said Berkt. "Tell me."
Chane told him. Of Dilullo, ill and trapped on Rith along with his comrades, and the fault all Chane's. Of the treasure of the Qajars. Of his hopes to get part of that treasure, and with it to pay Dilullo the debt of life he owed him.
He told him everything, except one thing. He did not tell of the Singing Suns being in the possession of the Qajars.
Berkt was silent for a while, and then poured more wine. The sun had gone down and the great ragged blaze of the Spur stars was across the sky. The smell of Varna came up to Chane, and it brought old memories.
He wished that he had been born to be Berkt. How would it be to sit here and look at the stars, and know that you would presently go out and raid them of riches, and return, and drink your wine, and know yourself one of the lords of Varna? He had thought that one day it might be so, with him.
Berkt finally broke the silence. "I'll tell you something, Chane. Nshurra was always fond of you, because she helped you when you were a child. I never admired you."
"I know that," said Chane.
"Then, know this," said Berkt. "For throwing away your life— and almost certainly that's what you're doing—to help your friend, for that I do rather admire you."
Chane took the little tridim pictures out of the pocket of his coverall ... all except the one that showed the Singing Suns. That he had put into a secret pocket.
A viewer was brought, and in the dusky room the glories of the Qajar treasures were shown.
"How could we ever have missed a hoard like that!" Berkt exclaimed.
"They're clever people, the Qajars," said Chane. "Extremely clever, and very subtle, and a little mad. They've got practically a world of radite and they've used it to pay thieves to bring them all the things they set their hearts on. They've also used it to keep themselves hidden, and to set up powerful defenses. It was one of their defenses we ran into."
"And you want revenge for the torture they subjected you to? Is that it?"
"For that, and for what they did to Dilullo," said Chane. "But also, I want very much to get my hands on some of the Qajar treasure."
"And so you came here with those pictures, to drum up a Varnan raid on the Qajars," said Berkt.
Chane nodded.
"It's not a bad idea," said Berkt. "Not bad at all, except for one thing. The one thing is that you won't live long enough to see this through."
Chane smiled. "That remains to be seen."
Berkt refilled his glass. "Chane, I'd like you to tell me something: How did you come to kill Ssander? You two were good friends."
"I thought we were good friends," said Chane. "We'd grown up together here. He used to bat me around when we were boys, because he was stronger and wanted to prove it. Once in a while, I'd manage to bat him around. All very natural."
He drank and put his glass down. "We raided Shandor Five, and Ssander was sub-leader. We did well, and Ssander took a sub-leader's share of the loot, and that was all right with me. But then, when it was all divided, he saw a jewel he fancied in my share, and he said, 'That's mine, too.' "
Chane poured himself more of the wine, and drank, and Berkt watched him with his piercing eyes.
"I thought it was like when we were boys together on Varna," Chane said. "I struck him. I batted him back, and said, 'You've had your share.' And he looked at me and said, 'You damned Earthspawn, you struck me.' And he grabbed his laser and shot me in the side. I shot back, and killed him. And then his brothers were coming, and there was nothing for me but sudden death if I stayed, so I jumped into one of the ships and took off."
Berkt nodded, after a time. "I thought it was something like that. You know, Chane, you're a bit unfortunate in feeling like a Varnan but looking like an Earthman."
A communicator inside the room purred softly, and Berkt went in and spoke briefly into it. When he came back he said, "That was Chroll calling—you remember him? He tells me that several men of Ssander's clan are at the starport, watching your ship. Just watching, to make sure you don't go away in it." v He added grimly, "You're in the trap, Chane."
XII
The blue-black night skies of Varna lit to silver and then to silver-pink, as the two different-colored moons chased up into the sky. They lit the road that went down into Krak, and Morgan Chane followed it, finding a certain satisfaction in the solid way his heels hit the ground. He thought that Varna was a harsh mother, big and bony with rock and dragging at its children with its heavy gravitation, but still it was his mother world.
The air was cool, with a faintly metallic smell to it that came from the not-too-distant ocean that ran up onto the stony beaches in long, furious tides. Down there ahead of him the warm and ruddy lights of Krak beckoned, and all was as it used to be. Or nearly so.
Chane left the road by the first bypath, and continued to work his way down toward the city by little-used paths, and then into the city by obscure streets well away from the lights and noise of the great marketplace. In that market, rich goods looted from all over the galaxy were bought and sold; there were always many people there, and it was no place for a hunted man.
If I can slip around to the west and reach the Hall, he thought, I may just pull it off, If the clan of Ssander—the clan-name was the Ranroi, after a revered ancestor—caught him before then, it was all up and his gamble of coming to Varna would have failed.
He was not, of course, afraid of being suddenly shot down. The clan of Ranroi had great honor, and he would be given the normal challenge and the fight would take place at the appointed place, in the way that was perfectly legal on Varna.
"They know you're in my house," Berkt had said. "They won't bother you here, of course, for that would be starting a feud with me. But they'll wait patiently, right from the first, for you to come out. You might just as well try it now."
Chane had thought so, too, and here he was, slipping along a dark little street which he knew perfectly well, with the great stone bulk and lighted windows of the young men's barracks a few blocks away on his left.
He heard from one window the sound of voices raised in a chorus. The Starwolves sang in a way that made you think of lions singing. He could not distinguish the words but he knew the tune of it and had many times himself sung the song, which was a highly disrespectful one about a great Starwolf lord who was constantly rushing off on foolish raids because he could not endure to stay home wit
h his shrewish wife.
Chane grinned, and slipped on. He had learned these dark streets very well indeed, in times past when he and Chroll—and, yes, Ssander—had stayed out later than barracks law permitted, and had had to return unseen.
Two or three times he saw people moving ahead, and each time he went down a crossway, not ducking stealthily but staggering and throwing his arms around as though very drunk, so that the difference in his figure might not easily be perceived.
He finally stood behind the Hall.
The big, square, and unlovely mass of stone was the only center of government the Varnans of this region had. They were a highly individualistic people who wanted as few laws as possible. A Council of twenty decided all issues beyond the individual. The Council was unique in that, though its members were chosen by vote, only Varnan men who had taken part in at least five raiding missions were allowed the vote.
Chane thought that it was unlikely that any of the Ranroi would be here. They would not be expecting him to come to the Hall, not having as yet any idea why he had come to Varna.
Still, he went around the more shadowed side of the massive building as carefully as a hunting cat. He reached the corner of the front facade and peered around it.
Nobody was in front of it.
Chane went fast, then, to the tall open door. It was always open, and there was always an official here to hear appeals.
The official sitting now at the wide desk was old, for a Varnan. Few Starwolves, by the nature of their hazardous profession, lived long enough to get gray, but this old man had white in his hair and shaggy eyebrows, making him look like an aging tiger.
The old man said nothing, but his upslanted eyes narrowed slightly as Chane walked toward him. He knew perfectly well who Chane was—everybody in Krak knew about Chane—but he nevertheless asked.
"Your name?"
"Morgan Chane."
"You have completed five missions?"
"Many more than five."
The old Varnan opened a section of the desk and touched studs. Presently a card popped out. He looked at the card.
"Verified," he said. "What is your purpose?"
"To make an appeal to the Council," said Chane.
The cat eyes narrowed a trifle more. "The nature of your appeal?"
He thinks I'm going to ask Council to have the Ranroi restrained, thought Chane. As though the Council would ever take away a clan's feud-right!
"My appeal is for a hearing in which I will propose something that could enrich all fighting Varnans," said Chane.
The old man's eyes widened a little in surprise. But he reached for a book and opened it, and wrote briefly in it.
"Your right of appeal is legal and is granted," he said. "You will be notified when Council will hear you."
Chane bowed to him, with the respect of a young fighting-man to an old one with also a touch of To hell with you! in it. He thought that the shadow of a grim smile came into the old Varnan's face, as he turned and walked out of the Hall.
He was outside, his appeal had been granted and witnessed, and now what? Back to Berkt's? No, not yet.
Violet lightnings had begun to play in the west, out over the sea. Varna had thunderstorms that made the thunderstorms on Earth look childish, but Chane, from long familiarity, decided that this storm would not come inland.
He walked the streets now, not caring who saw him. Varnan men and women stared at him, and to those he knew, he bowed. They greeted him, with a sort of startled air.
He had walked like this, in the lights and the crowds of tall Varnan people, in years gone by. He had realized quite well in those days that he was behaving like a cocky bantam, simply because he was a bit smaller, and, on the whole, a bit weaker than these tall golden folk.
He walked like that now, not caring much where he walked. And then he found himself in quieter streets, and when he began to realize where he was, he realized that old-time habit had betrayed him and had taken him to a place where he had not really wanted to go.
A quiet street, with rather small houses. He wanted to turn around and leave it, but somehow he could not quite do so. He did not stride arrogantly now, he plodded. And his slow steps took him to a small, old house that had snarling masks carved on its rainspouts, and that had next to it a vacant lot with a few tumbled stones lying about in it.
The distant lightning flared, and washed out the light of the silver and pink moons. Chane went into the lot and looked around.
His father and mother had lived in the small house, and on this empty lot had been the chapel, long fallen to ruin, where the Reverend Thomas Chane had preached.
Chane thought, Just like Dilullo. Does everyone have a vacant lot, a lost something or someone, in their past?
He walked to the back of the grass-grown space. His father and mother had been buried behind the little chapel where they had striven so valiantly for their creed.
The violet lightning far out over the ocean flared and he saw the two small tombstones. They were clean and well cared for, and he could even read the lettering, for it was in the fire-stone that was Varna's hardest mineral.
"The Reverend Thomas Chane, Carnarvon, Earth____"
And he remembered the old man in bleak, windy Carnarvon who had said, "The Reverend Thomas was a fine man and a strong preacher. I do not doubt that he converted many out on that distant world before the Lord took him."
No, he had not. The Reverend Thomas had converted no one. But he had made at least one friend. Chane had no doubt at all that it was Berkt who had kept the graves cared for. He remembered the funeral, and he remembered Berkt taking him, a boy trying to restrain his tears, and shoving him into the door of the place where young Varnans learned their skills, and saying to him, "Go in there, and find out whether you're fit to be a Varnan or not. It's not what your father would have wanted, but there's nothing else for you on Varna."
Well, there was no use at all in thinking about it now. But even Starwolves mourned their dead.
He heard a sound and swung around. There was a man near him, a tail, dark figure.
Then the distant lightning flared again and he knew the man.
It was Harkann, the oldest of Ssander's brothers.
XIII
"I thought you would come here," said Harkann.
He was years older than Chane, and he was one of the Starwolf lords, not as great a one as Berkt, but a famed leader of raids.
He towered over Chane, and in the shadows Chane could see the livid scar across his forehead from an old wound, where the Varnan down would never grow again. Underneath that scar, the slanted eyes seemed to glow in the dusk as he looked down at Chane.
"I'm glad you came back to Varna," said Harkann. "Very glad."
Chane smiled. "I rather thought you would be."
"I have told all the Ranroi not to challenge you," said Harkann. "I have wanted the pleasure of this all for myself."
Chane said nothing. After a moment, Harkann added, "It will be tomorrow, then? You know the place ... it is still the same one."
Yes, Chane knew the place, the rocky gorge not far outside Krak where feuds could be settled fairly and with no danger to anyone else. And Harkann would be there, with his weapons, and if Harkann did not manage to kill him in fair fight, it would be the turn of Thurr, the other brother of Ssander, to try to do so. And if Chane killed Thurr, then one by one any others of the clan of Ranroi could challenge him. It was a big clan, whereas Chane had nobody at all: his only kin on Varna lay beneath the two fire-stone markers.
"I have claimed the Council right," said Chane.
Harkann's head jerked with astonishment. "The council right? For what reason?"
"I have come to Varna with something for the Council to hear," said Chane.
Harkann was silent for a moment, his big catlike . body hunched forward as he glared at Chane. Chane could guess his frustration.
No feud could be pressed against a man who had claimed the Council right, until the Counci
l had heard that man. It was unbreakable law, designed to prevent one litigant from challenging and killing another litigant before the Council could hear the case.
"It's a trick," Harkann said. "But it won't save you, Chane. You murdered Ssander—"
Chane interrupted sharply. "Ssander tried to murder me. And he damn near succeeded. I only drew my weapon after he had used his on me."
"Murder, self-defense ... it doesn't make one bit of difference to us of the Ranroi!"
"I never thought it would," said Chane. "But I want the record straight."
Harkann said between his teeth, "The record will very soon be closed for you, Chane."
He turned away. After a moment Chane left the place also but he went another way.
He headed westward, toward the place where the sea came nearest Krak. There, on a cliff above the ocean, towered one of the lordly castles, arrogant in the light of the flying moons. As he went forward toward the building, he could already hear the thunderous booming of the great tides beating against the base of the cliffs.
A woman came out into the moonlight from where she had been sitting on a carven stone bench beneath a tree.
Chane smiled. "So you were so sure I would come that you were waiting for me, Graal?"
"You were mad to come back to Varna at all, Chane!" she said. "Do you know that right now the Ranroi are looking for you?"
"I know," he said. "I've met them. But there's a delay in their plans, for my Council right."
He stood, admiring her. Graal was taller than he was, and her splendid, golden-down covered body was very little concealed by the garments she wore. With her glowing chatoyant eyes, she looked like a beautiful panther.
"Why did you come back, Chane?"
"To see you, of course."
"Liar," she said. "Tell me."
He told her. She shook her head. "But after the Council hears you, you'll have to fight the Ranroi, one after another."
"I have an idea about that, too," said Chane. "But we won't talk about that, but about you. Berkt says you are not yet married."
"I am not," said Graal. "I like fun and men too much to tie myself to any lord yet."
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