Ardor on Aros (11 page)

It was one more in the series of shocks that were beginning to make less and less impression upon me; shock was becoming commonplace. The thing about Brynda was that it was exactly what I expected to see. As a matter of fact if you’d like to have a precise picture of it, look it up; I’m sure I’ve seen it in an old Alex Raymond
Flash Gordon.
Sky-aspiring Brynda is an exact replica of that picture, mostly in blues and whites and pale yellows and tan and pale gray.

Add that to the list.

In Brynda, Kronah made certain I knew where she’d be, and extended an invitation. Dejah Thoris seemed to disappear. The caravan-master and Chief Fentris took me to the rich—and of course grossly fat—man who’d financed the caravan. He made wheezing noises of delight, gave me a reward of ten silver pieces—squared coins with off-center holes, for stringing on a breakproof gut and hanging on one’s belt, safer than a purse. He offered me a job. Fentris advised him I was a foreigner, not a member of the Guild, and the fat man apologized—to Fentris. He told me to come back and see him if I should become a Guildsman. Then he apologized to Fentris again.

This damned Guild,
I thought,
has a real stranglehold on Brynda! That man’s obviously rich; he should own the Guildchief and the Guild as well!

We walked through the busy—and startlingly clean—streets to Guild headquarters. I commented on the streets; Fentris shrugged.

“No slooks allowed in the city,” he said, “and no wheeled vehicles. One walks or has oneself carried. It’s a lot safer and avoids a lot of noise and filth.”

I smiled at the pissoirs: little stalls her ad there along the streets, where a man could step in and relieve himself. Superlatively convenient and—momentarily—private. Except that one could both see the feet and hear the stream splashing into the basin. And, occasionally, one could also smell the basins.

But I now understood the city’s double walls, and the many stables, both private and for rent, that lay between them. Fentris had got ERB put into the Warriors’ Guild stable number three, to save me the price of food and care. Bighead had flown off outside the4 city, advising loudly that he’d have no trouble finding me. I sniffed, but was unable to detect the distinctive aroma he’d mentioned.

The desk soldier at Warriors’ Guild, Protector’s Division scowled and stared while Fentris introduced me and detailed my prowess.

“This man is both a foreigner and a scab,” the man said.

Fentris stood taller and jutted his chin. “This man has saved three Bryndoy lives, two of them Guildsmen. He has a warrior’s prowess, the price of admission and dues, and I sponsor him. Fill out the forms.”

The fellow did, churlishly, while I watched grinning. True, I hadn’t been in what American for some reason calls “Service” with a capital S. But I knew that this officer who wielded a sharp pen had many and many a counterpart on Earth, most of them just as snotty. But with more authority. On Aros fighting still comes first, and the sword is a damned sight mightier than the pen. Sex isn’t obscene here and neither is war, and the system of legal duels holds down the insult quotient.

I signed the document with a flourish and reluctantly counted out the price of admission and first semiannual dies: ten pieces of silver. The fat caravan sponsor could have sent it over and saved wear and tear on the coins.

Walking out, I asked Fentris about being called a scab.

He shrugged. “Well, he’s technically right. You acted a as protector of the caravan, but you aren’t—weren’t—a Guildsman. Under other circumstances you could be in a lot of trouble.”

“No one is allowed to wield weapons but union members?”

“Other than in self-defense, no. And even then a man
can
get into trouble. Say a caravan that set out without Guild protectors. It is assumable that it will be attacked. If it is, and the civilians successfully defend themselves, both the caravan-master and the sponsor are in trouble. That isn’t self-defense; they should
know
that a caravan needs proper protection. Now if a man’s home is broken into and he slays or drives off the thief, that’s another matter. But if it’s his place of business…” Fentris shook his head. “Obviously such requires Guild protection and should have had it.”

“Damn!” I took time out to ogle a passing woman wearing a loose gown to the ankles—slit on the left to the hip. Fentris, by the way, now wore just what Koro Kodres had worn: the one-sleeved red tunic, too short, over matching trunks, and the reversible black/white cloak. Also a brass-studded leather cap. He had not been Chief when the caravan left Brynda, and had not appropriated the rank marks of the man whose place he took after his death. Thus Fentris wore no rank marks at all. I wore some stuff he had persuaded (without much difficulty) the caravan-master to give me: a white tunic, two-armed and knee-length, a broad yellow sash, and a short, purely decorative cloak of something lightweight and green. I wore Kro Kodres’ arms and boost, still too big. Yes, I had a callus on each foo, and another coming on the left.

“What would—well, say the caravan we just brought in had not had any of you, and had been attacked, and we’d managed to beat off that attack the other night. What would happen?”

Fentris nodded; I followed his gaze to the woman bending over to inspect the fruits on a wandering merchant’s cart. We grinned and paused to watch until she straightened. She raised an eyebrow at my companion before wriggling away. Uniforms get women, every time.

“Such a case is hardly worth considering,” Stro said, “since the caravan would never have returned. But, IF it happened that way, you would be arrested and prosecuted as scab. The caravan-master and his sponser would be Listed—and pay heavy fines.”

“To—“

“—the Guild, of course.”

“Ah.” On Earth, States support themselves by stealing money from convicted lawbreakers in lieu of punishment. On Aros, at least in Brynda, the Guild enriches itself the same way. Plus collecting its fees from members. Plus taking a sort of agent’s commission for arranging the protectors for an expedition such as the one just completed. Plus collecting the insurance premiums. And since the Guild also sold the insurance, I wondered just what form of pressure might be used in selling short- or long-term policies. Capone called it “Protection,” didn’t he?

The Guild, I quickly learned, was also good to its own.

Stro and I entered the main Guild Headquarters and after thirty or forty minutes were admitted to the office of the Secretary. He eyed me while Fentris explained, nodded, and finally stood to extend his hand. He too looked a little surprised when I shook it rather than mere gripping it. He called in a secretary, sent him after something, and sat back to ask me a few questions. I had expected to meet Guildchief Shayhara and now realized how silly that was; he was a Big Man, the boss. I wonder how far ahead the warden has to make an appointment to visit Hoffa in his cell?

Which is unkind; the Guild is an honestly-enough run organization, and Shayhara was no a criminal or even a Bad Man. Certainly, he enriched himself; he was the powerful man in Brynda. (Besides, his daughter was a sorceress.) But I have never found evidence of his using extralegal means. Pressure and power, yes. But if one presumes those to be extralegal one must postulate that the entire House and Senate of the United States is criminal, and then where are you?

The Secretary’s secretary returned with the requested papers, which Secretary Parnis studied. At last he looked up.

“Stro, I am recommending that your position as Chief be made official and permanent. You should hear from the Guildchief within a week or so. Meanwhile, I will exert my authority to grant you the right to wear the White Stripe.”

Stro nodded with a smile. “Good,” he said, without saying thanks. He and I and Parnis all knew that Stro Fentris was qualified to add the white border to his tunic sleeve and hem: Senior Commanding Guildsman: Commander. Parnis looked at me.

“You are a warrior of note, certainly, from that one encounter with the Vardors. Two Guildsmen and the daughter of Pro Thoris owe you their lives. And now you are a Guildsman First—which Fentris says took the exact amount Fatpockets gave you.” He smiled. “Which is why he gave you ten silvers. Anyhow, with Commander Fentris’ permission I am awarding you ten percent of the insurance premium for that caravan. It will house and feed you for a while.”

“Justified,” Fentris said, and he went over to sign the table Parnis pushed at him.

Parnis was smiling, leaning back. “I don’t mind telling both of you that if that caravan hadn’t got through I would be out a year’s pay—I had a few little things sold in Risathade, and they sold well. If the Vardors had got away with that money….” He shook his head. “Anyhow, I assure you, Ardoris, that I’m delighted you ran onto the caravan and jointed it! Which reminds me. I would suggest we Bryndize your name unless you have objection. It would be less complicated—and wise.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind ‘Ardoris,’” I said, “but I’m mighty attached to my first name.”

“Just put the legally-required preface on it, Parnis,” Fentris said. “Kro Hank Ardoris should be satisfactory. If it isn’t—we can worry about it later.”

Parnis nodded, called the secretary back, dictated, filled out some stuff, and gave me a chit with his signature on the bottom and WARIORS GUILD:
Office of the Secretary
at the top, followed by my (new) name. It was a letter of credit, representing ten percent of the insurance premium paid by the individuals and groups involved in the caravan—including Kro Parnis, I guess. I refuse to go into amounts and a discussion of Arone money, but I will say that the premium was fairly high for one three-month risk. On the other hand, considering the magnitude of that risk and the cost in lives….

“What happens to the rest of that insurance money?” I asked Stro as we left the big new building.

“It goes to the widows of the Guildsmen killed in the operation.”

“And if they weren’t married?”

He shrugged. “More for the widows. Why pay an old man with a lifetime behind him for the death of his son, who chose to enter the Guild of his own accord? It’s the widows need the money, not the old.”

“Um. Are you married, Stro?”

“Three children.”

“And you’ve been ushering me around rather than going home to play with your children…’s mother! Thanks, Stro, but stop it and go home! Parneis said Dejah’s father is Pro Thoris, on the Street of Artisans. Where’s that?”

Stro shook his head. “First go back to the WGPD building and draw a uniform,” he said. “Hang onto those papers from Parnis. Ask them where the street of Artisans is. A man doesn’t go about the city in
clothes
when he can wear a Guildsman’s uniform!”

“Oh, yes—say, am I likely to be assigned to night watchman duty over some wine shop, or something?”

Fentris nodded: he was silently pointing out a succulent young woman again. This one had two children in tow, but hadn’t lost her figure in the process of birthing and feeding them; she looked equipped to nurse quintuplets. We took time out to watch. Then he answered: “No, Hank, not if I have anything to say about it. And I have.”

“You don’t want to sop over a WGPD with me for your white stripe?”

He laughed. “Hank, I’ve had the stripes ready for my wife to sew on for two years. I’ll be handing them to her ten hugs after I get him.”

Which was a charming way for a married man to measure time, no matter how much standard street-ogling he did. We shook hands, I was invited to dinner, and we parted. I returned to the Warriors’ Guild: Protection Division building to draw my uniform. An hour or so later, decked out in eye-dazzling scarlet and the black-and-white cloak, I was following overdone directions to the Street of Artisans. I swear the man gave me the same direction three times, and repeated “You can’t miss it” twice.

Naturally I did, and asked directions twice more—the second time learning that I Was
on
the Street of Artisans, and that that was Pro Thoris’ right over there.

The Arone Dejah Thoris’ daddy wasn’t king of Mars or Helium or Aros or top man in Brynda, nor was he anywhere near top man in Brynda. Perhaps he was king of the silversmiths; he was might good. But that’s what he was, the big man who looked far more like a warrior than a delicate-handed artisan, a shaper of silver into statuary of any form requested or conceived in his mind. He had some gut, naturally enough, because he was a big man, but he was not what can be called fat, unless you’re strictly Pepsi generation.

His hair and beard were interesting. The hair was jet black of course, and crispy wavy, without dressing. On a line above the approximate center of his bushy eyebrows he was bald, from front to back, his head looking like a black-grassed yard whose owner managed to cut one swath before his mower broke down. On either side of that shiny brown bald stripe his hair was jet black—to the ears. Below that, without any twilight zone of gray, it was white. His mustache was black; his beard black with a central white stripe roughly imitating the bald swath on his head. Later I learned that he had the same white stripe in the curling black hair of his chest.

He had the height of Ron Eli with the thick shoulders and arms of Rod Steiger, and those hairy hands looked like anything but a delicate craftsman’s—but have you ever seen a dentist that didn’t have big hairy fingers? His eyes were the liquid brown you’d call “melting”; very warm and friendly. He wore a leather smock over his knee-length brown tunic, and he was barefoot. Pro Thoris wore footgear only when he had to, and he or Dejah or his apprentice swept the whole place—shop with studio and living quarters—twice daily. At least. If he stepped on something in his bare feet the whole establishment got swept again, with Pro Thoris groaning and cursing as though he’d crippled himself for life. (After the sweeping the broom straws were carefully, meticulously collected.)

He was alone in the shop, weighing silver when I entered. He looked at me.

“You’re the man from the other side of the desert,” he said. “I forget the barbarous name. Come in. SKINNY!”

Certain I’d heard a full stop rather than a pause between “come in” and the shouted “Skinny,” I didn’t act insulted. I was right. Skinny was his apprentice, a young man of maybe twenty (he turned out to be fifteen; these people die younger and mature earlier and look old sooner). He was over six feet tall and weighted maybe one-fifty. He too wore a leather smock—with about five burned places in it and some fascinating stains.

“Take over, Skinny. This is a guest: he saved Thorisan’s life.” Pro Thoris turned the deep brown eyes on me. “What in Falkh’s your name again?”