“I suppose so. Fairly.”

The antinomial put down his guitar and knelt beside the prince. Reaching for the box, he ran his finger down the long, intricate barrel, the carved stock. “It doesn’t matter,” he said grudgingly. “Perhaps I can exchange them. But next time I want something I can use.”

“Abu, are you crazy?” exclaimed Doctor Thanakar. “You promised this man guns?”

“Yes, and what of it? What’s it to you? I don’t see why not. He could have bought a cannon for all the wine I’ve drunk. You are all extremely rude. I’ve got such a headache.”

Impatient, Thanakar turned back to the antinomial. “What do you mean by this?” he demanded. “What do you mean to do?” But the question was a useless one. The man raised his head and gave him a long stare, and then gave it sudden cruelty by squinting slightly, although the light hadn’t changed. The girl behind them was still humming, playing with the cats.

“For God’s sake, don’t bite him,” warned the prince. “That’s all we need. He needs them to defend himself. You are always telling me how badly they are persecuted.” And to the antinomial he said, “My cousin was at the battle that you spoke of. When he was very young.”

The man squinted as before. “It was no battle,” he said after a pause. “I was not there,” he continued grimly. “I ran away over the snow.”

Embarrassed, the doctor turned his head. Some antinomials had gathered near to listen, and a boy was standing in the shadow of a metal pillar, one of a long row that ran down the center of the warehouse. He was wrapped in a leather cloak, and he held a kitten to his chest. As he stood, the other cats came to him, to rub against his legs. “You were at Rang-river?” he asked Thanakar in a rich, low voice.

“No,” explained the doctor hastily. “I was just a child. I came later, with my father. My father wanted me to see . . . the . . .” He felt acutely nervous, aware of people gathering around him, huge men and women, with cruel empty faces. The boy was not like them. When he spoke, it was as if he were alone with the doctor in the immense hall, and there was nothing to fear. He spoke softly, and the hand that caressed the kitten seemed to soothe the air.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “Is that where you received your wound?” He nodded towards the doctor’s crippled leg.

Thanakar scanned his face for traces of laughter; there were none. “No,” he replied. “I fell when I was small. I was dropped.”

“But still, you were there.”

“Yes.” He had been there, limping shamefaced at his father’s side, standing in the snow. At night they had camped back with the baggage, but in the afternoon, after the fighting, his father had taken him down to see the executions. The soldiers were in a brutal frame of mind, for many had been killed in the fighting.