The small evil eyes were amused, blinking in their tallowy creases. "And so?"
"And so I have come after Helvi, who is my friend."
Again there was the heaving of that bulk of flesh, the explosion of laughter that hissed and wheezed in snakelike echoes through the vault.
"Friendship must run deep with you, Stranger. Ah, well. The Lhari are kind of heart. You shall find your friend."
And as though that were the signal to end their deferential silence, the younger folk burst into laughter also, until the vast hall rang with it, giving back a sound like demons laughing on the edge of Hell.
The cripple only did not laugh, but bent his bright head over his carving, and sighed.
The girl sprang up. "Not yet, Grandmother! Keep him awhile."
The cold, cruel eyes shifted to her. "And what will you do with him, Varra? Haul him about on a string, like Bor with his wretched beast?"
"Perhaps—though I think it would need a stout chain to hold him." Varra turned and looked at Stark, bold and bright, taking in the breadth and the height of him, the shaping of the great smooth muscles, the iron line of the jaw. She smiled. Her mouth was very lovely, like the red fruit of the swamp tree that bears death in its pungent sweetness.
"Here is a man," she said. "The first man I have seen since my father died."