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mode of insult, the one most likely to cause offense on Neweden, and the one least likely to affect Cranmer. He smiled, with a tint of self-effacing sadness. “I’m not angry, Cranmer. I understand what you’re saying, but this small world is the one on which I’ve built Hoorka, and Hoorka—what it does and where it goes—is of primary importance to me. Like the rest of the kin, I’ve given it my primary allegiance. This is my family, and I owe it my loyalty. Hoorka owns me, not the Alliance.”
    “Are you having doubts as to your ability to deal with the problems of Hoorka?”
    “I didn’t say that.” The Thane’s voice was sharp in the quiet of the cavern.
    “I apologize, then. I thought you might be hinting . . . ah, never mind.” Cranmer pitched a small stone into the darkness. Together they listened to it rattle and stop. The echoes eddied, growing steadily weaker until they died. There was a long silence, then, as both men stared at the skeleton.
    “I don’t know my own mind anymore,” the Thane said, finally. He rubbed a muscular thigh with his hand, then stretched his legs out in front of him. “I’m not growing any younger, certainly, and the Hoorka problems are becoming more complicated as we grow. I hope the code can hold us together, that Dame Fate lets us survive. I know we’ll survive, if Hoorka-kin will let themselves be governed by the code.”
    “Then you’re not thinking of finding some back cavern and crawling in to die?” Cranmer made a show of switching off his recorder and putting it back in his pocket. “I’m disappointed.”
    The Thane smiled, adding to Cranmer’s laugh. “Disappointed that I don’t react as my ippicator? No, the analogy’s a poor one, anyway. Didn’t you tell me that from all indications, the ippicator was most likely a herbivore? That doesn’t sound like Hoorka-kin.”
    Cranmer snorted in derision. “Thane, I’m an archaeo-sociologist, not a digger into dead bones. But yes, I seem to recall that in one of my university classes back on Niffleheim, I was told that the ippicator was a lowly grass-eater. I think so, at least.”
    The Thane waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
    Velvet silence settled in on them again, pressing down like a tangible substance. The Thane could hear Cranmer breathing and the whisper of cloth against flesh as he moved. When Cranmer spoke, the sound startled him with its loudness.
    “Thane, what happened back there with Aldhelm and Sartas? I’ve never seen you succumb to your anger before. The Hoorka must fail to kill their victims at times—it’s part of your code; Dame Fate has to have Her chance. Yes, it was the Li-Gallant’s contract, but surely he’ll understand what happened—and since the contract was unsuccessful, you won’t be revealing who signed the contract. He’s safe from retribution. Why were you so upset?”
    “So I have to explain again?” The Thane swept to his feet. The hoverlamps followed him, and light flickered madly about the cavern. The bones of the ippicator danced in the moving light. “It’s Vingi’s contract,” the Thane said, his voice oddly quiet, “not some guild-feud jealousy or a personal feud. The Li-Gallant’s contract. I don’t want his paranoia affecting Hoorka. The Alliance has been watching us closely, even to the extent of giving us a contract in their sector of Sterka Port—and the Alliance is more important than Neweden, if I ever want Hoorka to go offworld. But Neweden—and Vingi—can foul that dream. That’s the importance.”
    “Because you’re afraid that this organization you’ve built has a faulty structure and can’t survive a few questionings? Your protestations are surface, Thane. Something else had to drive you to lash out at your own kin when you knew they were blameless.” Cranmer’s voice was soft and he looked not at the Thane, but at the ippicator.
    “Damn you, Cranmer!” The Thane’s voice was suddenly hoarse with venom. Cranmer