the fundamental decencies.
"She's my wife. Is that the shame?"
"I hear wrongly, my ears are old," Wold said, wary.
"She is my wife."
Wold looked up, meeting Agat's gaze straight on for the first time. Wold's eyes were dull yellow like the whiter sun, and no white showed under the slanting lids. Agat's eyes were dark, iris and pupil dark, white-cornered in the dark face: strange eyes to meet the gaze of, unearthly.
Wold looked away. The great stone houses of the farborns stood all about him, clean and bright and ancient in the sunlight.
"I took a wife from you, Farborn," he said at last, "but I never thought you'd take one from me ... Wold's daughter married among the false-men, to bear no sons—"
"You've got no cause to mourn," the young farborn said unmoving, set as a rock. "I am your equal, Wold. In all but age. You had a farborn wife once. Now you've got a farborn son-in-law. If you wanted one you can swallow the other."
"It is hard," the old man said with dour simplicity. There was a pause. "We are not equals, Jakob Agat. My people are dead or broken. You are a chief, a lord. I am not. But I am a man, and you are not. What likeness between us?"
"At least no grudge, no hate," Agat said? still unmoving.
Wold looked about him and at last, slowly, shrugged assent.
"Good, then we can die well together," the farborn said with his surprising laugh. You never knew when a farborn was going to laugh. "I think the Gaal will attack in a few hours, Eldest."
"In a few—?"
"Soon. When the sun's-high maybe." They were standing by the empty arena. A light discus lay abandoned by their feet. Agat picked it up and without intent, boyishly, sailed it across the arena. Gazing where it fell he said, "There's about twenty of them to one of us. So if they get over the walls or through the gate ... I'm sending all the Fall-born children and their mothers out to the Stack. With the drawbridges raised there's no way to take it, and it's got water and supplies to last five hundred people about a moon-phase. There ought to be some men with the womenfolk. Will you choose three or four of your men, and the women with young children, and take them there?" They must have a chief. Does this plan seem good to you?"
"Yes. But I will stay here," the old man said.
"Very well, Eldest," Agat said without a flicker of protest, his harsh, scarred young face impassive. "Please choose the men to go with your women and children. They should go very soon.
Kemper will take our group out."
"I'll go with them," Wold said in exactly the same tone, and Agat looked just a trifle disconcerted. So it was possible to disconcert him. But he agreed quietly. His deference to Wold was courteous pretense, of course—what reason had he to defer to a dying man who even among his own defeated tribe was no longer a chief?—but he stuck with it no matter how foolishly Wold replied. He was truly a rock. There were not many men like that. "My lord, my son, my like," the old man said with a grin, putting his hand on Agat's shoulder, "send me where you want me. I have no more use, all I can do is die. Your black rock looks like an evil place to die, but I'll do it there if you want..."
"Send a few men to stay with the women, anyway," Agat said, "good steady ones that can keep the women from panicking. I've got to go up to the Land Gate, Eldest. Will you come?"
Agat, lithe and quick, was off. Leaning on a farborn spear of bright metal, Wold made his way slowly up the streets and steps. But when he was only halfway he had to stop for breath, and then realized that he should turn back and send the young mothers and their brats out to the island, as Agat had asked. He turned and started down. When he saw how his feet shuffled on the stones he knew that he should obey Agat and go with the women to the black island, for he would only be in the way here.
The bright streets were empty except for an occasional farborn hurrying purposefully by. They were all ready or getting
"She's my wife. Is that the shame?"
"I hear wrongly, my ears are old," Wold said, wary.
"She is my wife."
Wold looked up, meeting Agat's gaze straight on for the first time. Wold's eyes were dull yellow like the whiter sun, and no white showed under the slanting lids. Agat's eyes were dark, iris and pupil dark, white-cornered in the dark face: strange eyes to meet the gaze of, unearthly.
Wold looked away. The great stone houses of the farborns stood all about him, clean and bright and ancient in the sunlight.
"I took a wife from you, Farborn," he said at last, "but I never thought you'd take one from me ... Wold's daughter married among the false-men, to bear no sons—"
"You've got no cause to mourn," the young farborn said unmoving, set as a rock. "I am your equal, Wold. In all but age. You had a farborn wife once. Now you've got a farborn son-in-law. If you wanted one you can swallow the other."
"It is hard," the old man said with dour simplicity. There was a pause. "We are not equals, Jakob Agat. My people are dead or broken. You are a chief, a lord. I am not. But I am a man, and you are not. What likeness between us?"
"At least no grudge, no hate," Agat said? still unmoving.
Wold looked about him and at last, slowly, shrugged assent.
"Good, then we can die well together," the farborn said with his surprising laugh. You never knew when a farborn was going to laugh. "I think the Gaal will attack in a few hours, Eldest."
"In a few—?"
"Soon. When the sun's-high maybe." They were standing by the empty arena. A light discus lay abandoned by their feet. Agat picked it up and without intent, boyishly, sailed it across the arena. Gazing where it fell he said, "There's about twenty of them to one of us. So if they get over the walls or through the gate ... I'm sending all the Fall-born children and their mothers out to the Stack. With the drawbridges raised there's no way to take it, and it's got water and supplies to last five hundred people about a moon-phase. There ought to be some men with the womenfolk. Will you choose three or four of your men, and the women with young children, and take them there?" They must have a chief. Does this plan seem good to you?"
"Yes. But I will stay here," the old man said.
"Very well, Eldest," Agat said without a flicker of protest, his harsh, scarred young face impassive. "Please choose the men to go with your women and children. They should go very soon.
Kemper will take our group out."
"I'll go with them," Wold said in exactly the same tone, and Agat looked just a trifle disconcerted. So it was possible to disconcert him. But he agreed quietly. His deference to Wold was courteous pretense, of course—what reason had he to defer to a dying man who even among his own defeated tribe was no longer a chief?—but he stuck with it no matter how foolishly Wold replied. He was truly a rock. There were not many men like that. "My lord, my son, my like," the old man said with a grin, putting his hand on Agat's shoulder, "send me where you want me. I have no more use, all I can do is die. Your black rock looks like an evil place to die, but I'll do it there if you want..."
"Send a few men to stay with the women, anyway," Agat said, "good steady ones that can keep the women from panicking. I've got to go up to the Land Gate, Eldest. Will you come?"
Agat, lithe and quick, was off. Leaning on a farborn spear of bright metal, Wold made his way slowly up the streets and steps. But when he was only halfway he had to stop for breath, and then realized that he should turn back and send the young mothers and their brats out to the island, as Agat had asked. He turned and started down. When he saw how his feet shuffled on the stones he knew that he should obey Agat and go with the women to the black island, for he would only be in the way here.
The bright streets were empty except for an occasional farborn hurrying purposefully by. They were all ready or getting
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