If he became drunk with it, he could say something he would not say: his capacity for the drug might be far less than Renols’.

“When,” asked Renols, “will the Ship come?”

“I told you. There’s machinery in my own ship. Let me in there and I can call my captain.”

Renols chewed and stared at him with his thick brows contracted. A dangerous look smoldered in his eyes. But he took another leaf and held out the bowl to Kurt a second time. His hands were stubby-fingered, the nails broken, the knuckles ridged with cut-scars.

Kurt took a second leaf and carefully eased that to the same place as the first.

The calculating look remained in Renols’ eyes. “What sort of man is he, this captain?”

The understanding began to come through. If a ship came, if Mother Aeolus did send it and all points of his prisoner’s tale proved true, then Renols would be faced with someone of greater authority than himself. He would perhaps become a little man. Renols must dread the Ship; it was in his own, selfish interests that there not be one.

But it was also remotely possible that his prisoner would be an important man in the near future, so Renols must fear him. Kurt reckoned that too, and reckoned uneasily that familiarity might well overcome Renols’ fear, when Aeolus’ messenger turned out to be only mortal.

“My captain,” said Kurt, embroidering the tale, “is named Ason, and Aeolus has given him all the weapons that you need. He will give them to you and show you their use before he returns to Aeolus to report.”

The answer evidently pleased Renols more than Renols had expected. He grunted, half a laugh, as if he took pleasure in the anticipation.

Then he gave orders to one of the sallow-faced women who sat nearby. She laid the child she had been nursing in the lap of the nearest woman, who slept in the after-effects of the leaf, and went out and brought them food. She offered first to Renols, then to Kurt.

Kurt took the greasy joint in his fingers and hesitated, suddenly fearing the Tamurlin might not be above cannibalism. He looked it over, relieved to find no comparison between this joint and human or nemet anatomy. Starvation and Renols’ suspicious stare overcame his other scruples and he ate the unidentified meat, careful with each bite not to swallow the leaves tucked in his cheek. The meat, despite the strong medicinal taste of the leaves, had a musty, mildewed flavor that almost made him retch. He held his breath and tried not to taste it, and wiped his hands on the earthen floor when he was done.

The captain offered him a second piece, and stopped in the act.

From outside there came a disturbance. Laughter. Someone shrieked in pain.

Renols put down the platter of meat and went out to speak with the man at the entry to the shelter.

“You swore,” said Kurt when he came back.

“We’re keeping yours,” said Renols. “The other one is ours.”

The confusion outside grew louder. Renols looked torn between annoyance at the interruption and desire to see what was passing outside. Abruptly he called in the man at the entry, tersely bidding him take Kurt to confinement.

The commotion sank away into silence. Kurt listened, teeth clamped tight against the heaving of his stomach. He had spit out the leaves there in the darkness of the shelter where they had left him, hands tied around one of the two support posts. He twisted until he could dig with his fingers in the hard dirt floor and bury the rejected leaves.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth now. His vision blurred, his pulse raced, his heart crashed against his ribs. He began to be hazy-minded, and slept a time.

Footsteps in the dust outside aroused him. Shadows entered the moonlight-striped shelter, pulling a loose-limbed body with them. It was Kta. They tied the semiconscious nemet to the other post and left him.

After a time Kta lifted his head and leaned it back against the post. He did not speak or look at Kurt, only stared off into the dark, his face and body oddly patterned with moonlight through the woven-work.

“Kta,” said Kurt finally. “Are you all right?”

Kta made no reply.

“Kta,” Kurt pleaded, reading anger in the set of the nemet’s jaw.

“Is it to you,” Kta’s hoarse voice replied, “is it to you that I owe my life? Do I understand that correctly? Or do I believe instead the tale you tell to the umani?”

“I am doing all I can.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I am trying to save our lives,” Kurt said. “I am trying to get you out of here. You know me, Kta. Can you take seriously any of the things I have told them?”

There was a long silence. “Please,” said Kta in a broken voice, “please spare me your help from now on.”

“Listen to me. There are weapons in the ship if I can convince them to let me in there. If I can fire its engines I can burn this nest out.”

“I will forgive you,” said Kta, “when you do that.”

“Are you,” Kurt asked after a moment, “much hurt?”

“I am alive,” Kta answered. “Does that not satisfy you?—Shall I tell you what they did to the boy, honored friend?”

“I could not stop it,—Kta, look at me. Listen. Is there any hope at all from Tavi?If we could get free, could we find our way there?”

There was no answer.

“Kta,—where is your ship anchored?”

“Why? So you can buy our lives with that too?”

“Do you think I mean to tell—”

“They are your kind, human. It would be possible to survive,—if you could buy your life. I will not give you Tavi.”

Against such bitterness there was no answer. Kurt swallowed at the resentment and the hurt that rose in his throat; he held his peace after that. He wanted no more truth from Kta.

The silence wore on, two-sided. At last it was Kta who turned his head. “What are you fighting for?” he asked.

“I thought you had drawn your conclusion.”

“I am asking. What are you trying to do?”

“To save your life. And mine.”

“What use is that to either of us under these terms?”

Kurt twisted toward him. “What use is it to give in to them? Is it sense to let them kill you and do nothing to help yourself?”

“Stop protecting me. I am better dead.”

“Like theydied? Like that?”

“Show me,” said Kta, his voice shaking, “show me what you can do against these creatures. Put a weapon in my hands or even get my hands free and I will die well enough. But what dignity is there in living like this? Give me a reason. Tell me something I could have told the men they killed, why I have to live, when I should have died before them.”

“Kta, tell me, is there any possible chance of reaching Tavi?”

“The coast is leagues away. They would overtake us. This ship of yours. Is it true what you said, that you could burn them out?”

“Everyone would die,—you too, Kta.”

“You know how much that means to me. Light of heaven, what manner of world is yours? Why did you have to interfere?”

“I did the best I knew to do.”

“You were wrong,” said Kta.

Kurt turned away and let the nemet alone, as he so evidently wanted to be. Kta had reason enough to hate humanity. Almost all he had ever loved was dead at the hands of humans, his home lost, his hearth dead, now even the few friends he had left slaughtered before his eyes. His parents,—Hef,—Mim,—himself. Elas was dying. To this had human friendship brought the lord of Elas, and most of it was his own friend’s doing.

In time, Kta seemed to sleep, his head sunk on his breast, his breathing heavy.

A shadow crept across the slatting outside, a ripple of darkness that bent at the door, crept inside the shelter. Kurt woke, moved, began a cry of warning. The shadow plummeted, holding him, clamping a rough, calloused hand over his mouth.

The movement wakened Kta, who jerked, and a knife flashed in the dim light as the intruder drove for Kta’s throat.