Declare

size of a thick playing card, with a protruding ring at the top, and a cross had been grooved across its matte face.
    Each of the five men in the tent was clutching one of the stones now; and over the long course of ten seconds the keening wind outside diminished away to silence. Hale was braced for the ground-tremors of an earthquake, but none came.
    His pounding heartbeat didn’t slow down. He didn’t think it had slowed to less than a hundred beats per minute in the last forty-eight hours, and in his sleeping bag on this rubber floor last night he had not got more than two hours’ restless sleep.
    Mammalian tapped his drogue stone. “These are better than your Egyptian ankhs,” he said to Hale. “When Gilgamesh tried to take a boat to where the immortal Upanishtim could give him eternal life, do you recall that he nearly made the voyage impossible when he broke the ‘things of stone’ with which the boat was equipped? They were stone anchors in this shape, but more than just the kind of anchor that keeps a boat from being swept away. These fix the attention of the djinn, and thus impede new intentions.”
    “What brothers?” rasped Philby. Hale looked at him—the man’s face in the parka hood was pasty and he was staring at the ridged rubber floor. “What brothers were divided?”
    “The two sons,” said Mammalian, “of Harry St. John Philby. They are yourself and Andrew Hale. This is the truth.”
    Philby stared at Hale then, and Hale almost looked away— Philby’s wet eyes were wide with hurt, and something like loss, and even sorrow. “I d-did know it, suspect it,” Philby said thickly. “I— d-damn me!—I s-s-some-t-times thought I s-saw— him —in y-you.”
    Hale had to take a breath to speak. “And treated me accordingly?” The words came out with more bitterness than he had intended to show, and he glanced down at his boots to hide any tears that might well up in his own eyes. The lost father I used to daydream about, he thought. Have I seen him in you, Kim? I wouldn’t have known.
    “You h-had n-no— right ,” Philby choked.
    “Nor say,” said Hale shortly.
    “Together,” said Mammalian in a loud voice, “you will approach their castle, today. Together you will be the one person who was consecrated to them in 1912, in Amballa.”
    Ten years before I was even born, thought Hale tensely. Mother, why in the name of Heaven did you—
    He glanced again at Philby, and thought he caught a flicker of wild, fearful hope there. No , Kim, Hale thought in sudden specific alarm—I will not serve as your fox; your father was willing , but I will not consent to sharing the ordeal of the djinn sacrament with you. Aloud, he said to him, trying not to speak quickly, “Did you ever go through the espionage-paramilitary course at Fort Monkton?”
    Philby blinked. “Y-Yes, in ’49.”
    “I did it in ’46. You remember the litany? ‘Would you kill your brother?’ ” It hurt Hale’s jaw to speak so much. “We both answered yes to that. Don’t expect a lot of brotherly love, right?”
    He hoped that was innocuous enough not to rouse suspicion in Mammalian, and at the same time a clear enough message to Philby— If you tell them about me, about this Declare infiltration and sabotage, you will go through with the djinn sacrament, as the Rabkrin has planned—alone; and you will live ever after as a pampered imbecile in Moscow, never again able to read, or think.
    He saw the hope die in Philby’s eyes as the import sank in, and Hale took a sip of his cooled tea to cover his frail relief: clearly the psychic sharing did have to be voluntary. Our father, Hale thought, loved you very much, Kim.
    “Brotherly love,” echoed Philby emptily.
    “—is not called for here, fortunately,” said Mammalian. “Plain professionalism will suffice. We are going to be ascending to the Abich I glacier today, and then traversing it to the top slope of the Parrot glacier. We may get snow, and the winds are constant, but no storm is expected. It will be dangerous nevertheless—the traverse will be across a convex snow surface at about a thirty-degree angle, so avalanches are a real possibility—and of course there are deep crevasses in the ice—but,” he said, rocking his head toward the other tent, “our Spetsnaz commandos were chosen because they have mountain-climbing experience, and we’ll all be roped in a line. It is what they call a static rope. Not much climbing should be