The Glass of Dyskornis, Page 2

  He hates Markasset, I realized. He has always hated him. Because of Keeshah, Worfit never had the complete power over the boy that a life-threat brings. And Worfit wouldn’t dare strike at Thanasset, because then boy and cat would come looking for him. So Worfit had to do a certain amount of play-acting to keep Markasset’s respect—and his business.

  Now he hates me, too, because I don’t have Markasset’s gambling fever. He’s lost the little power he had. A few hundred zaks was nothing to Worfit. But now he figures it’s worth it to put time and energy into finding a way to get to me. Just to prove he can do it.

  He can. He’s doing it right now, damn it.

  I pushed his hand away, then I shoved Marnen with my foot to get him clear of the door. Before I could get through it, Worfit spoke again in that sneering voice.

  “Watch your back, Markasset.”

  This ugly little man had belittled, threatened, and intimidated me. Worst of all, he knew he’d gotten to me, that I believed his threat. I wanted—badly—to wipe away his self-satisfied smirk.

  “Markasset isn’t my name,” I said. “Call me Rikardon. Thanasset renamed me. When he gave me Serkajon’s sword.”

  I left then, with a warm memory of Worfit’s unpleasant features beginning to register shock. My gloating lasted about ten paces past the outer door of the gaming house.

  How stupid can you get? I asked myself, then added: Don’t test it out.

  Sure, you impressed Worfit. He knows about Markasset’s family history. He knows what Thanasset thinks of his son, to give him Serkajon’s sword.

  So now he’ll be careful not to underestimate you.

  That’s good?

  And you gave him another reason to want you dead—that damned sword is valuable.

  When Thanasset had presented the steel sword to me, I had been intrigued by its history and touched by the high regard implicit in the old man’s gesture. It wasn’t until I had all of Markasset’s memories that I realized that it was a treasure beyond price. Markasset did not know of another steel sword which existed in Gandalara. Rika, as the sword was called, was unique.

  Iron was amazingly scarce in this world. Raithskar had the only known deposit of it, and its mining was a community affair, closely supervised by the Council. Steel was forged, sold, and traded at premium prices in minute quantities. Its most common use was in the scissor-like sparkers, bronze tongs with cupped tips set with pieces of flint and steel for striking fires.

  In the language of Gandalara, Gandaresh, the word for both steel and its basic material, iron, was rakor. Besides the sparkers, rakor was used for other, very special purposes. The lock mechanism of the chamber from which the Ra’ira had been stolen was a strong bar of wood with brackets and a locking pin made of rakor. That seemed to me to be another measure of the esteem in which the Council of Supervisors held the beautiful gem.

  Serkajon’s sword, because of its history as well as its composition, was the second most valuable article in Raithskar. Telling Worfit I had it had been like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey.

  Except it’s hard to tell which one of us is the jackass, I thought gloomily.

  The thing to do, I decided, is not let it get under your skin. Worfit wants you to sweat a little. He won’t do anything for a while, at least. So cheer up, have some breakfast, take a look at the city. Do you realize this is the first chance you’ve had to relax? Enjoy it!

  I had stepped out into an open court, one of four good-sized plazas which surrounded the huge central meeting area of the city. Though all these courts were square in shape, when a Raithskarian spoke of “the Square”, he meant the big one, with stone terraces stepping down to meet an elevated stage. The announcement of the Council’s judgment had been made there last night, clearing Thanasset and Markasset of any blame in the Ra’ira incident.

  This plaza was smaller and level, but it, too, was paved with hand-fitted stone. Benches were placed in attractive groups, often in combination with a planting of trees and shrubs which grew tall enough to shade the benches. Although there was a specific district in the city for restaurants, a few were allowed to operate facing each plaza, for the convenience of the workers of the surrounding districts.

  I followed my nose into a pastry shop, and came out with two meat pies and an earthenware drinking bowl filled with a strong herb tea.

  It was still early morning, as I had timed my arrival at Worfit’s offices for just after the dawn curfew for gaming houses. I took my time over breakfast, enjoying the food, and letting the faint mist from the Skarkel Falls dampen my clothes. The three other plazas would be bustling with people on their way to work, but this one was nearly deserted at this time of day. It lay in the center of the night district, and the “rush hour” home had happened earlier, probably while I had been with Worfit.

  One of the few people crossing the court was a young woman. Her golden head fur winked with a sheen of mist. It reminded me of walking in Thanasset’s garden with Illia, and I thought: What better relaxation is there than the company of a lady?

  I returned the drinking bowl to the restaurant, got back my deposit, and started northward. I had no trouble finding Illia’s house, and she answered the door on the first knock. A smile of welcome froze and turned shy, and her mother appeared from a doorway somewhere.

  “Who is it, Illia? … Oh.” She nodded a greeting to me, even while she was speaking to her daughter. “Don’t be too long, dear, I do need your help.” Illia’s mother went back through the doorway—into the kitchen, I presumed. Both women were wearing long aprons heavily stained with a pinkish fruit juice.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time,” I said. “I only wanted to ask—will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “I’d like that very much,” she said softly. “What time?”

  We set a time, and I turned to go.

  “Rikardon?” she called me back. “Thank you for asking.”

  Her smile thawed a little, and I left, feeling a keen anticipation of the evening. Breakfast, the walk, and the prospective dinner date had finally done away with the headache.

  I walked through Raithskar, seeing it twice. Once with Markasset’s familiarity, again with Ricardo’s objectivity. I passed a party of vineh spreading a fresh coating of dark clay mud over a worn street. Markasset wouldn’t have noticed them at all, but they sent Rikardon searching through the Gandalaran’s memory for facts relating to the man-like animals.

  Gandalarans aren’t human physically, though they are mammalian humanoids. They are water savers, like the kangaroo rat of the American southwest. Socially and psychologically, they are so similar to humans that identifying them as men and women is no insult to Ricardo’s humanity.

  If the Gandalarans are the men of their world, then the vineh are the apes. Though the people of Raithskar had trained the beasts to perform simple tasks under close supervision, in their natural state they exhibited more ferocity than intelligence. Vineh are bigger than the men of Gandalara, and their stance is more erect than that of the apes of Ricardo’s world. They are covered with a coarse and curly fleece, light tan in color.

  In Raithskar, they wore shorts.

  The first time I had seen vineh, I had assumed that the shorts were meant to respect the modesty of the people of Raithskar. That had seemed foolish to me, but on recalling a crusade during my former lifetime to put human-style clothes on the animals in zoos, I wasn’t about to criticize.

  In any case, I had been wrong. The only surefire, ironclad, indisputable reason for one male vineh to beat the living tar out of another one is the fact that the other is male, and might someday be competition for the attentions of a female. Obscuring sight of a rival’s genitalia removed his identity as a rival.

  Don’t ask me why.

  The men of Raithskar had discovered this quirk, collected a colony of vineh, and put the males to work. The females were always in some breeding phase, producing three males for every female. Whether this created the fierce rivalr
y, or was a natural compensation for the high murder rate among males, was a “chicken or egg” problem that didn’t rate much analysis.

  Beyond those facts, Markasset hadn’t known a whole lot about the vineh. Having his memory accessible to me wasn’t the blessing I had first thought it would be. For one thing, I had his understanding of facts and his impression of the events he remembered. For another, I needed always to be setting him aside to view things more objectively. Whenever I looked at anything within Markasset’s experience, it stimulated a natural search for associations that I had come to think of as Markasset’s “echo.” Worst of all, Markasset took this world, these people, this city for granted. A lot of the things I wanted to know, he had never bothered to learn.

  2

  It was almost noon by the time I reached home. The meat pies had worn off, and I was looking forward to lunch.

  *Hungry too,* Keeshah told me, as I started in the front door of the big stone house. He had been given an entire side of glith the evening before, but I could well believe he needed more food. He had carried two men almost six hundred miles in just over four days. Even though he had hunted and fed during that time, his reserves had to be just about gone.

  *Right after lunch* I told him. *I promise.*

  Lunch, as it happened, was going to be delayed.

  Thanasset came out of the sitting room to the right of the midhall as soon as I opened the door. He was taller than I, and his head fur was beginning to darken with age. But he always gave an impression of vigorous health and great dignity. Just now he looked relieved.

  “We were beginning to wonder if something had happened to you,” he said. He didn’t mention Worfit.

  “ ‘We’?” I asked.

  “Yes, Ferrathyn has been here most of the morning, waiting to see you.”

  I hurried into the sitting room, where the slight old man was sipping a glass of faen, the Gandalaran equivalent of beer.

  “It’s good to see you again, Chief Supervisor,” I said. “I’m sorry you had to wait. If I had known …”

  He waved his hand and shook his head. “Not at all, not at all. One of the few good things that has come from losing the Ra’ira has been my frequent visits to Thanasset’s house. He and I have spent the morning renewing a friendship long neglected.

  “Anyway, it happens that I have nothing else to do. Seeing you is my assignment from the Council.”

  Uh-oh, somethings up, I thought. It didn’t take much deduction. Ferrathyn was smiling up at me, wrinkles wreathing his face. And Thanasset was beaming, but not looking at me, as though I might read the secret in his eyes.

  “I am empowered to invite you, Rikardon, to join the Council of Raithskar as its thirteenth member,” Ferrathyn said. “There are normally certain—uh—character tests to be passed, but these have been waived in your case, largely because the Council feels you have already proven yourself to be of excellent character. The Council will have a general meeting tomorrow, just after the luncheon hour. Please attend, and deliver your decision in person.”

  He stood up and sighed. “Now that I’ve completed my mission, I must be on my way. I don’t think I need to say, Rikardon, that I hope you will decide to join us. Good day.” He turned to Thanasset. “Thank you for the refreshments and the conversation, old friend. I’ll see myself out,” he added, with a chuckle, after looking at me. “You’ll be needed to answer questions.”

  “There have never been more than twelve members of the Council!” I said to Thanasset as the street door closed behind Ferrathyn.

  “The Council created this position just for you,” Thanasset said, and I could see he was proud of it. “I didn’t attend last night’s meeting—technically, I was still under suspension until I was cleared—but Ferrathyn told me about it. The Council was very impressed with your command of the crowd outside the house. We all have so much work that there is little communication between the Council and the people. You are to be—well, a liaison, a communications link.”

  A PR man, I translated. Right up there in the public eye. Where Wofit will always know where I am.

  Maybe he’d be less likely to attack a public official? It sounds like the job might be interesting. And I guess it’s time I looked for a way to make a living. Guarding caravans is not a possible choice.

  What else is Markasset trained to do? Trained … the boy was a fine swordsman. Maybe I could use that skill to become an instructor?

  Thanasset watched me thinking about it, and his pleased expression was replaced by one of unbelief. “Don’t tell me you are thinking of refusing the Council’s offer? It is an unprecedented honor.”

  “I realize that, sir,” I said.

  Should I tell him about Worfit? No, he’ll only send Zaddorn to harrass him again, which is partly what started this in the first place.

  “It’s a little sudden,” I told Thanasset. “I’m glad they’ve given me a day to get used to the idea. I just want to think about it for a while.”

  “Rikardon, I wish you would accept the position,” he said seriously. “As a Supervisor, you could learn … so much about Raithskar, so quickly. I have the feeling that you may need information that Markasset didn’t have.”

  Your intuition is right on the money, Thanasset, I thought. And that’s a point well worth considering.

  I smiled and tried to put him at ease. “I do appreciate the honor of being asked, Father, and I want to accept, but I can’t say yes or no right now.”

  Someone knocked at the street door, and Thanasset went to answer it. I poured myself some faen and had the glass halfway to my mouth when Thanasset called to me. I put the glass down on the stone-and-glass shelf and went out to the door. A man in a gray baldric was standing there, and I felt my neck hairs rise.

  You were cleared of all charges, I reminded myself. There’s no reason to be nervous just because a cop comes to your door.

  “Zaddorn’s apologies for not calling in person, Rikardon,” said the man in the street. “He asks if you will join him at his offices as soon as possible.”

  Asks?

  Zaddorn?

  That’s a laugh.

  “Of course.” I lifted my own baldric from the peg beside the door and slipped it over my head. I felt better with the weight of Serkajon’s sword at my left side. “Father, we’ll talk again before the Council meeting.” Thanasset nodded, and I stepped out to the small porch beside Zaddorn’s officer. “Let’s go.”

  The center of the government district—which was very close to Thanasset’s house—was marked by another plaza. The largest building in Raithskar was located here, a three-story structure that held the offices and meeting room for members of the Council. There was also a large open room which took up most of the first floor. On Commemoration Day, the holiday which honored Serkajon’s return to Raithskar, the Ra’ira had been on display in that room, mounted in a special case. The vault where the gem had been kept at all other times was located on the top floor.

  Across the plaza was a long, single-story building which was Raithskar’s jail, and headquarters for the Peace and Security Department. Zaddorn’s office was all the way at one end of the building, with a private outside entrance. The officer led me to that door, knocked, and opened the door for me at the sound of Zaddorn’s voice, oddly muffled: “Enter.”

  I walked in to find him sitting at a huge desk that was covered with paper, some of it punched and bound into sheafs, some of it in neatly tied rolls, a lot of it just lying around loose. There was one small clear space right in front of Zaddorn, and in it was an empty bowl. The lingering aroma told me his lunch had been rafel, a meat and vegetable porridge I had grown to like a lot. Zaddorn was swallowing the last mouthful as I entered, and my stomach growled with envy.

  “You’re looking better,” I told him. He had lost the look of pale weariness he’d had for the last two days of our trip back from Thagorn. “What can I do for you?” Without waiting for an invitation, I dropped into one of three chairs facing his desk.r />
  Zaddorn finished his glass of faen and took the empty dishes to the inside door of his office, where someone was waiting to take them. He came back to his desk, sat down, and leaned his elbows on the clear spot.

  “You can come work for me,” he said. “I’ve had the funding for an assistant for the past three years, but I’ve never found anyone I could trust, or wanted to work with.”

  “You called me down here to offer me a job?” I asked. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “Oh? Who else, if it isn’t prying?”

  “Ferrathyn,” I said, and watched his eyebrows go up. “And the Council. They’ve decided to create a thirteenth Supervisor, and they want me to be it.”

  He was trying hard not to be impressed.

  “You haven’t accepted yet, have you?” he asked.

  “No, I’m to attend a Council meeting tomorrow and give my answer then. I got the impression from Ferrathyn, however, that he regards it as a formality. I think he’s sure I’ll do it.”

  “There’s not the slightest doubt of that,” Zaddorn said with a grimace. “It is becoming increasingly difficult for the Chief Supervisor to conceive of anyone opposing him.” Then he smiled. “You’ve given me another reason to hope that you’ll choose to work for the Peace and Security Department.”

  “Ferrathyn once said something to me about your providing him with a lot of headaches.”

  Zaddorn laughed out loud. “Did he now? I’m delighted to hear it.” He looked at my face and laughed again. “You’re shocked. Beleive me, I show Ferrathyn all the proper respect. But since he has been Chief Supervisor—he moved up when Bromer died, shortly before I took this job—he has become increasingly insistent on having his own way. Maybe it’s his age. But on principle, I oppose pampering anyone, even our most important citizen. So I get in his way when I can.”

  I see one reason why Markasset wasn’t fond of Zaddorn, I thought. He’s so sure of himself, so secure. And he’s graceful, both physically and socially. Markasset had a way of starting off on the wrong foot with people. I’ll bet that’s why Illia was so important to him—she didn’t see his social clumsiness as a handicap. Worfit took some pains to make Markasset feel like a high-class person, and the boy was probably subconsciously grateful. That would have become associated with his love of gambling, and reinforced it.