His head and face were covered by a thing that Stark had seen before only in very old paintings--the ancient war-mask of the inland Kings of Mars. Wrought of black and gleaming steel, it presented an unhuman visage of slitted eyeholes and a barred slot for breathing. Behind, it sprang out in a thin, soaring sweep, like a dark wing edge-on in flight. The intent, expressionless scrutiny of that mask was bent, not upon Thord, but upon Eric John Stark. The hollow voice spoke again, from behind the mask. "Well?" "We were hunting in the gorges to the south," said Thord. "We saw a fire...." He told the story, of how they had found the stranger and the body of the man from Kushat. "Kushat!" said the Lord Ciaran softly. "Ah! And why, stranger, were you going to Kushat?" "My name is Stark. Eric John Stark, Earthman, out of Mercury." He was tired of being called stranger. Quite suddenly, he was tired of the whole business. "Why should I not go to Kushat? Is it against some law, that a man may not go there in peace without being hounded all over the Norlands? And why do the men of Mekh make it their business? They have nothing to do with the city." Thord held his breath, watching with delighted anticipation. The hands of the man in armor caressed the axe. They were slender hands, smooth and sinewy--small hands, it seemed, for such a weapon. "We make what we will our business, Eric John Stark." He spoke with a peculiar gentleness. "I have asked you. Why were you going to Kushat?" "Because," Stark answered with equal restraint, "my comrade wanted to go home to die." "It seems a long, hard journey, just for dying." The black helm bent forward, in an attitude of thought. "Only the condemned or banished leave their cities, or their clans. Why did your comrade flee Kushat?" A voice spoke suddenly from out of the heap of rags that lay on the pallet in the shadows of the corner. A man's voice, deep and husky, with the harsh quaver of age or madness in it. "Three men beside myself have fled Kushat, over the years that matter. One died in the spring floods. One was caught in the moving ice of winter. One lived. A thief named Camar, who stole a certain talisman." Stark said, "My comrade was called Greshi." The leather belt weighed heavy about him, and the iron boss seemed hot against his belly. He was beginning, now, to be afraid. * * * * * The Lord Ciaran spoke, ignoring Stark. "It was the sacred talisman of Kushat. Without it, the city is like a man without a soul." As the Veil of Tanit was to Carthage, Stark thought, and reflected on the fate of that city after the Veil was stolen. "The nobles were afraid of their own people," the man in armor said. "They did not dare to tell that it was gone. But we know." "And," said Stark, "you will attack Kushat before the thaw, when they least expect you."