Ardor on Aros (8 page)

 I couldn’t stay there in that nutty Parrot’s Paradise, and Pope Borgia, who admitted his subjects were a bunch of dummies anyhow, elected to accompany me. ERB was a little nervous, but didn’t seem to mind over much the garrulous, sharp-voiced bird who now rode my shoulder or saddle-horn or flew about us. But before I take this account away from Pope Borgia’s jungle kingdom, there are a couple of things I want to mention.

First, the men: they weren’t. They were, as he had put it, real dummies. Without the parrots I swear they’d have stood around or collapsed and eventually died of starvation or thirst. They not only didn’t have the sense to come in out of the rain, they wouldn’t know rain from an apple or a banana from a banyan tree.

Second, another theory: that this place was not a dream, but a dream-phantasy. Certainly it was, in Pope Borgia’s case. But not in mine. Would I have postulated what I’d been through? Well, maybe, but not that snotty Jadiriyah, certainly. I still remember clearly the conversation Evelyn and I had had that night, about Burroughs and the position of women in barbaric cultures. Sure, a sorceress would have been accorded respect—or else. But I was just as sure that I’d not have postulated a sorceress. A sorcer
er
, maybe. Probably
me,
which would make me superior here, brawny or not. And certainly I would not have wished up a scene in which I drained helplessly out on the sands, while a beautiful woman, less than a mile away, was being ravished. Surely my own concept would have been that I’d got there in time, downed the baddies just as I had, and availed myself of their erstwhile prey—who would have thrown herself at me. THAT’S a male dream-phantasy.

Which left me nowhere. Aros was a somewhere world, with a lovely paradise for an Amazon parrot named Pope Borgia, but with a series of blows and paradoxes to damp the spirit, blow the mind, and quell the ardor of Hank Ardor. It seemed a planet designed to blast the theories of Aristotle and Ayn Rand. If A, then A is—sometimes. Contradictions do not exist, except—when they do. Contraries may or may not be. Black is black, but it might also be white, tomorrow, or this afternoon, or when the sun goes down, or if someone rubs a magic ring. If this is so and this is so, then this is so—maybe. Yet it wasn’t so pronounced that I would call it a null—A world.

Things just weren’t what they seemed, and they weren’t necessarily so, either.

There was another possibility, and I liked it less than any other:

This was some sort of experiment. Capitalize: Experiment. I was in a lab, along with (according to his official papers) Rodrigo de Lancol y Borgia, The Lord Alexander Pater Patrum VI: Pope Borgia. We were performing beneath a giant microscope, and someone, some gigantic scientist or god, was noting down our reactions to a series of oddities.

As an experiment, I had the distinct impression that we were not working out.

And the final possibility, at least the fine one I could then conceive: we were Controlled. We were puppets, bestringed marionettes, performing at the behest and in accord with the plan of some Secret Master or Masters. Worse: we were performing at the behest of some planless Secret Master who was quite insane.

I’d have been better off of course, just to have gone along, to have accepted. But as I have pointed out I am not built that way. I kept asking why.

An hour or so after we rode away from the purlieu of His Holiness the Borgia Pope Alexander VI, I had another of those shocks, and another
why
to add to my mental list.

I glanced back. No reason, I just did. We were riding along, paralleling the jungle, plodding forward toward the roadway I was sure must eventually cut through it to put me back on course to Brynda.

“I wonder what we’re going to find?” Pope Borgia said.

“People,” I said. “A city. Lots of people, normal, non-parrot-ridden people. A way through the jungle. Maybe even a caravan.”

“What’s a caravan, Hank?”

And for some reason, thinking about the possibility of a caravan, which reminded me of the possibility of Vardors or other hostiles, I twisted around and looked back.

Behind us lay only the yellow desert. Beside us and ahead of us the jungle lay, and it ran back a little way behind, and got sort of misty, as if it were an out-of-focus film. And then a few yards back it just stopped. But we had been riding along beside it for at least an hour!

“Oh god!”

“What is it, Hank?” Pope Borgia turned to look at me, saw me looking back, and twisted his head to follow my gaze.

And there was the jungle, a long line of green running back as far as I could see. I blinked and touched my forehead; I felt weak, not for the first time on Aros.

“Huh? What is it?”

I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said. “I think I’m getting too much heat.” And I rearranged my cowl-type headdress. I stared ahead, squinting. Watching a long dune-hill grow as we neared it.

“What’s a caravan?” Pope Borgia asked again; I had forgot he’d asked.

I told him. A long line of people, probably on slooks, with some slooks loaded with packs and maybe a carriage or three or sedan chairs mounted on slookback or something like that.

“Oh,” he said. And, tensing myself, biting my lip, gripping the reins as if they were likely to flicker out of existence even as I held them, I looked back.

Desert. The jungle was gone again.
Oh, god!
This time I just kept quiet about it. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. It was going over the edge. I’d been too long in the sun, I’d had too much sunglare blasted up into my eyes from the bright saffron dust, I’d been too long without human companionship. I jerked my head around.

“Why don’t I do something about this suspense,” Pope Borgia said. “I think I’ll just fly up ahead and see what’s on the other side of that hill.”

“Dune,” I said, rather mechanically.

“Pedant,” he snapped, and he took off with a lot of flapping. Then he sort of soared on ahead, moving swiftly forward with lazy-looking flaps of his ragged green wings.

“Bighead,” I muttered, in Arone:
Sorrfelinas.

ERB (and Kline, I guess; he just plodded along behind us, content to follow in the footsteps of the head slook) and I watched as Bighead/Pope Borgia flapped on, climbed, turned, went sliding down and out of sight beyond the dune, then popped back into sight again. Returning. People or not, he was still a parrot and he couldn’t seem to help imitating a stoned rock combo while he flew. But
he
didn’t like noisy monkeys!

He braked above my head, slid sideways, and came down on my outstretched arm—protected with a strip of leather cut from Oth’s belt; I wore Ard’s—with a great backflapping of wings. ERB shied and snorted, even going so far as to growl, once. He cranked his neck around to peer back. I patted his neck: “O.K., big boy,” I told him, and he believed me and turned his head and kept on plodding.

“See anything?”

“Caravan,” Pope Borgia said.

“Really? Oh wonderful—what’s it look like?”

“Lots of colors. A long line of people on slooks. A lot of other slooks with packs on them. Three have some kind of funny little houses on their backs. With curtains. I couldn’t see in. Some bigmouthed creature swiped at me with his goad. Another tried to put an arrow through me! I think we’d better get into the jungle where it’s safer.”

I glanced over; the jungle was there. I wasn’t about to look back. Why feed one’s psychotic delusions?

“We’ll be O.K.,” I said. “All they have to do is see you’re with me.”

“What if they don’t like you?”

“Uh—” Suddenly I realized that was a possibility. Purely aside from standard barbarian-type xenophobia, I was nattily begirt in Vardor desert garb.

“What were they wearing?” I asked.

“All sorts of stuff,” Pope Bighead said, with that wing-shrug of his. “Mostly like what you’re wearing. But other things, too. In lots of colors—all light. White cloaks.”

I sighed. We’d be all right, then. I wouldn’t be pounced upon as the foremost of a contingent of Vardors, anyhow. All I had to worry about was xenophobia. Well, I thought, think positive.
They’re gonna love you. They’ll welcome you with open arms.

A rider appeared on the dune: a burnūsed, slook-mounted man in a white cloak. He shaded his eyes, looking at me. I wagged my arm. After a time he waved back. He wheeled and vanished behind the dune. Bu the time I was half-way up its long slope, he was back. Again he halted, looked, and again I waved. He paced his mount slowly forward, and he had company: two other mounted men, both in white cloaks, both with ready bows. I had already pushed back my hood to let them see I wasn’t blue-gray of skin, and I kept my hands in plain view.

They came in on both sides of me, slowly.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Hank Ardor,” I said. “Who are you?”

“We’re three and you’re one; we’ll ask the questions.”

“We’re
two!
” the parrot snapped. “Are you blind?”

The man goggled. “That bird talked?”

“No,” I said, “I’m a—sure he talked.” There wasn’t any word for “ventriloquist” in my vocabulary, and that was snotty anyhow. “His name is Borgia.”

“A strange man wearing Vardor clothes and a bird that talks—and both of you with funny names.” The man glanced at his bow-bearing companions, then shook his head. “Where are you from?” His eyes were on the chiming watch. I’d supplemented the chain with leather and hung it around my neck. It ran. Backwards.

“Earth,” I said.

“I haven’t heard o that one, either. Where the Dark Power is Earth?” (Dark Power; Power of Darkness:
Falkh
).

I swung an arm. “Miles,” I said. “Beyond the mountain on the other side of the desert. Where are you from?”

“Brynda. But there isn’t anything on the other side of the desert. Besides, how could a lone man cross it anyhow?”

I grinned. “It wasn’t easy,” I said. I slapped my chest. “The Vardors didn’t
give
me this clothing. And the bird was a lot of help. But—Brynda! I met a Bryndoy out there, this side of the mountains. Vardors had put an arrow in his belly, and he had a broken leg. He’d dragged himself into a cave. They’d take his slook and I guess couldn’t be bothered making sure he was dead—he was dying, and couldn’t have got anywhere without a mount. His name was Kro Kodres.”

The man looked at the others. “You know that name?”

One of them nodded. “Of course. He’s a Guildsman—I mean was. Little fellow, bearless and slender?”

I grinned at him. “Uh-uh. Scalplock, short beard, thin mustache. Built big; huge legs and arms. He also had a ring, which he asked me to deliver to a lady he’d left. I did, incidentally killing two Vardors who’d got to her first.”

“A ring! Who was she? Where is she?”

I shook my head. “Brynda, I guess. A lot of gratitude she showed me, for the ring and for saving her from the Vardors, too. She grabbed the ring, slipped it on, and—” I decided to run a test—“you know what happened then.”

“She vanished.”

“Right. I don’t even know her name; she didn’t stay long enough to tell me. She’s the jadiriyah of Brynda. Hair so black it’s bluish, big dark eyes, spoiled-looking mouth, very thin, straight nose—big in the chest and short in the leg.”

Their eyes were big, all three of them. “No wonder she didn’t stop to pass the time with you! That was Sorah!”

“Oh.” Sorah? So what? “Who’s she?”

This time all three of them laughed. “You’re telling the truth, fellow, and you’re certainly not from this part of the country! She’s the daughter of Guildchief Shayhara of Brynda! But surely even she offered Julan?”

“She did. So what? I wasn’t after a reward.”

They exchanged a look. “How did she act?”

“Disturbed, grateful, sort of. Then she took the ring and vanished. She didn’t bother to say thanks, or offer to bring me along.”

The man who’d know Kro Kodres laughed. “No, I’m sure she didn’t.” He looked at the first man. “He tells the truth about Kro Kodres, and certainly about the Shayharan Jadiriyah, Stro Fentris. I—”

“How do we know he didn’t slay Kro Kodres?” the other bowman asked. His partner looked at him as if he should have a parrot on his head.

“Why would he kill a Bryndoy, then ride toward Brynda and tell us he was with Kro Kodres when he died, slook? Hank Ardor doesn’t look that stupid to me.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyhow, Fentris, I’d say we may as well believe the rest of it. It will be easy enough to check in Brynda—if Her Bitchiness will deign to identify him. And another man wouldn’t hurt us, at all.”

Stro Fentris looked at me. “You’re a warrior?”

I shrugged. “I managed to put away a couple of Vardors,” I said, wondering what he’d say if I showed him a few of my mind-boggling calisthenics.

“Why are you heading for Brynda?”

“Kodres gave me a message to deliver. Apparently it’s important. It’s verbal, not written. And I am interested in seeing that beautiful jadiriyah of ours again, if I can find employment in Brynda.” I wondered what skills I had. I’d had enough of the adventurous life to have no further desire for secretarying.

He nodded. He was a broad man, full-bearded beneath his cowl, which was white—and lined with black, like Kro Kodres’ cloak. “I will not ask you the message,” he said. “Who is to receive it?”

“Uh—I don’t think I should tell you that, either,” I said, hoping that would be acceptable. I had no idea who was to receive Kro Kodres’ cryptic words. The Jadiriyah, I supposed: Shayhara Sorah.

“All right. We are about to enter the jungle. Will you put your slook in the caravan and accompany us?”

“Will you give me a receipt for my pack slook?”

He laughed. “I will give you a receipt, Hank Ardor, and I think we are well-met.”

“I hope so,” I said, and I went back over the dune with them and down to their caravan. It was within thirty feet of the jungle, which was pierced by a broad clearing lane of grass. Some of it was rather high, but jungles have always been reluctant to allow any permanent encroachments. Stro Fentris introduced me to the caravan master—Fentris was commander of the Protectors—and I watched them insert Kline into the line of slooks.