Gemworld (8 page)

Stopping at the wagon’s wooden steps, the mages bade him enter. He threw them his best we’ll-settle-up-later look, and stepped inside. He winced slightly as the door slammed shut and the bar slid into place.
Not exactly the point of no return
, Sal thought grimly.
I hit that about the time I jumped from that transport plane
.

Once inside, though, he had to admit that things didn’t look all that bad-minus the impending death thing, of course. The tiny wagon, breezy and well lit by small windows set high in the walls, seemed to have every amenity. To his right was a straw bed, complete with linen sheets, a warm-looking blanket, and goose down pillows. To his left was a polished wood washtub, big enough for two people, and already filled with steaming water. But it was what stood between them that caught and held his attention, driving all other thoughts from his mind. After three days of greyish-green prison sludge, and a week’s worth of trail rations—which, though they had tasted better, were no more filling—he couldn’t have imagined a feast more tempting than the one that was spread on the table before him.

In the center of the table lay a serving platter, filled to overflowing with huge hunks of meat, dripping with grease. Wedges of yellow cheese and piles of spiced potatoes and onions ringed the platter. The platter was flanked on one side by a basket of dark bread and a butter dish, and on the other side by a pitcher of iced water.

Almost fearing that it was a mirage, Sal attacked the platter with a viciousness seldom seen even in third world countries. Large portions of food vanished into thin air as he virtually inhaled the bounty. But as the frontal assault died down to a skirmish, Sal took a little time to enjoy his meal. And enjoy he did. He happily dribbled grease from the corners of his mouth for the next hour, until finally he could eat no more.

Next he turned his attention to the bath. As he stripped down, he noticed for the first time the leathers hanging on the rack next to the towels. Not wanting to soil the clothes, he decided to bathe before examining them.

He took his time. What grime the flower-scented soap missed he was able to get with a coarse-haired scrub brush, also compliments of the management. Somewhat cleaner, he relaxed and let the slowly cooling water work the knots out of his muscles. He would have been tempted to fall asleep in the tub, had the water not eventually cooled enough to be uncomfortable.

Sufficiently refreshed, he pulled the stopper from the drain, and dried himself as he watched two weeks of stench and filth disappear leisurely in a whirlpool. Interestingly enough, he didn’t hear the telltale splashing of water being dumped under the wagon. But at that point, he was still too worn out to care where the water went.

He returned the towel to the rack and put on the clothes his “captors” had provided for him. Along with the doeskin jerkin and trousers, he found a pair of wool socks and some drawstring knit boxer shorts. Not exactly Fruit of the Loom, he thought to himself, but they’ll do in a pinch. He slipped on a pair of calf-high moccasins he found under the bed, completing the ensemble. Then and only then did he realize the one thing that was missing in his prison cell. A mirror.

He looked himself over as best he could. “I’ve gone native,” he chuckled to himself. Everything seemed to fit, more or less. He guessed Reit had described “the outsider” when he was waving his arrows around, perhaps even sending measurements along with his security concerns. No matter. Anything was better than his old BDUs, which lay in a filthy, ragged heap at his feet.

Satisfied that he’d fulfilled all of Reit’s assignments except for one, he slipped out of everything except his boxers, and draped the clothing neatly over the end of the bed. Then, slipping beneath the covers, he determined to “pass the night in contemplation.”

But as his head hit the pillow, sleep stole him, leaving only his dreams to contemplate.

The next morning dawned clear and bright, with the scent of dogwood on the breeze. Sal woke to birdsong, and was content for the first time in what seemed forever. He spent a moment wallowing in blissful innocence, his mind for once not occupied with anything more pressing than
right now
. All too quickly though, the thought of his upcoming “trial” brought him back to reality. Grudgingly leaving his perfect moment behind, he threw back the covers, grabbed the fresh clothes, and dressed.

He had no sooner pulled on his moccasins than the wagon door eased open. At the foot of the steps were his two minders, looking for all the world as if they hadn’t moved an inch all night. Sighing, Sal got to his feet and left the confines of the wagon, extending his elbows toward the mages with a wry grin.

Apparently, the sarcasm was lost on the rubies, for they took the elbows and led Sal onward without a word. He just sighed again, and vowed to liven this group up a bit, should he survive the trial.

The ruby guards steered Sal through the commercial district and onto the village green. There, in the center, a wooden dais had been erected, about twenty feet squared and four feet off the ground, sheltered by a collapsible pavilion. There were four chairs set up in a square in the center of the stage, all facing a single chair in the middle. Sal could guess which one was the hot seat.

Sal and his minders made their way through the modest congregation standing before the dais. Not exactly a strong showing of the village’s interest in the day’s events. Then it occurred to Sal that they were likely the members of the village’s ruling council, there to monitor, and possibly participate in, the questioning of the stranger. As the rubies led Sal to the dais, one of the mages dropped back, as if to stand guard at the foot of the stairs. The other, a bulky black man with a proud set to his chin, continued with him up the stairs to the central chair. Sal had an unnerving vision of walking the gallows. But there was nothing he could do about that right now. He doubted that he could fight off those currently assembled there, much less the entire village. So he just allowed himself to be led to the chair then sat down, waiting for the show to begin.

The first to speak was his minder. “I am Senosh of Deitrich,” he addressed Sal in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the assembly, his red gemstone eyes smoldering in the morning sunlight. He spoke with respect, jutting that proud chin even higher as if to insinuate the honor his prisoner should feel to know who would be judging him. “I am Head of the Ruby Order. I stand opposed to the Highest. I fight for
el
’
Yatza
.” His ritual introduction complete, Senosh took one of the seats behind Sal.

As the ruby sat, an elderly man moved out of the assembly and mounted the stairs. Sal thought the man took the steps a bit too steadily for his apparent age. “I am Menkal of Bastion,” the old mage said in a lazy, country accent through his thick mustaches, fixing his deep blue eyes on Sal. “I am Head of the Sapphire Order. I stand opposed to the Highest, and I fight for
el
’
Yatza
.” That said, the old man sat in the other chair to Sal’s rear.

“I am Delana of Eastwind Delta,” came a ringing soprano, hot on Menkal’s heels. Sal had noticed the pretty woman the day before, but now he had a moment to truly appreciate how beautiful, how very self-possessed she really was. Her night-black hair was done up in braids and bound together at the base of her neck, revealing a copper-skinned face. Her cheekbones stood high on her face, giving her an air of vanity. Sal could almost swear the woman was Hispanic, or of some other western European descent, but her enchanting violet gemstone eyes quickly reminded him that she was not.

“I am Head of the Amethyst Order,” she continued. “I stand opposed to the Highest. I fight for
el
’
Yatza
.” She took the chair to Sal’s right. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile play stealthily across her lips.

There was no smile on Jaren’s face when he appeared though. Cleaned up, the mage almost seemed a new man, with his chestnut hair neatly swept back and wearing robes and finery befitting his station, as the other Heads of Order were. No smile, to be sure, but no other expression of familiarity either. Jaren was all business.

“I am Jaren of Darsen’s Way. I am Head of the Emerald Order. I stand opposed to the Highest. I fight for
el
’
Yatza
.”

That last was said with a conviction Sal thought had to have been born well before Schel Veylin prison. The assembly might have noticed it as well, for they issued a soft murmur of approval as Jaren took his seat.

All seats now filled, Sal’s eyes returned to the bottom of the stairs and fell upon Reit, dressed in tan studded leather. His shining black hair fell in waves about his shoulders, and his goatee and mustache were neatly trimmed. Other than a sheathed sword belted to his side, he wore no finery. Nothing to set him apart from the people he led.

Oddly enough, the same could be said for Retzu. His armor was a dull black studded leather, cut to allow ease of movement. He wore his gold-hilted sword strapped to his back. His hair fell to one side of the hilt, bound in a ponytail by a plain gold clip that matched his hilt. His facial hair matched his twin’s exactly, adorning a somber face that defied his very nature. That look, if nothing else, brought home to Sal the gravity of the situation.

Reit ascended the dais and took his place directly behind Sal’s chair, while Retzu stood guard at the foot of the steps. “I am Reit Windon du’Nograh of Aitaxen,” he said with an authority that surprised even Sal. “I am called
el
’
Yatza
, the Hand of the Crafter. I stand opposed to the Highest. And I fight for my people.”

His last words were met with a deafening cheer, surprisingly loud for such a small assembly. In the surrounding forests, whole flocks of birds took to the air in response, covering the sky in a feathered rainbow. All around the village, people paused in their daily chores for just a moment to take in the ruckus on the green, and then returned to their various duties.

After a few moments, Reit raised his hands for order, which was grudgingly granted. But if anyone was offended by Reit’s call for silence, they showed no sign. The flock before the dais obeyed their shepherd with an appreciation and respect that approached reverence.

“By your leave...” he prompted, indicating the mages spaced out around the dais. As one, they nodded their assent, granting him permission to proceed.

The rebel leader clamped his hands behind him and started to casually circle the central chair, keeping his eyes locked on Sal. Sal got the distinct impression of being sized up by a tiger, trying to decide the best way to attack his prey.

“You are an outsider,” Reit began simply enough, addressing Sal in a decidedly non-ritualistic tone. It seemed enough to explain the situation and cut to the heart of the matter. Sal could respect that. “We know nothing of you, your past, your intentions. During the course of this... interview, we shall try to rectify that. Please put yourself at ease, and answer each question honestly and to the fullest extent of your knowledge. Remember, no harm will befall you if you are found true, no matter your allegiance. Now then, please state your name for those assembled.”

“James Edward Salvatori, Lieutenant, United States Navy,” Sal answered, wondering idly if he should offer his service number as well.

“True,” came three voices, followed by an uncertain, drawling “false”. Sal whipped his head around in confusion. Seemingly unperturbed, as if this were a mere matter of course, Reit paused for a moment and gave the floor to the mage, Menkal.

“He’s not at peace with his answer,” said the sapphire carefully, searching for the right words. “While the answer is essentially true, it’s my opinion that this is not the name he answers to most comfortably.”

Reit nodded his thanks and resumed his pacing. “How are you most comfortably known, James Edward Salvatori?” he asked.

Knowing no other way to answer, Sal shrugged and said, “My friends call me Sal.” This time, he was rewarded with an unbroken chorus of “true.”

Suddenly, it became clear to Sal what was going on, or at least in part. On their flight from Schel Veylin, Jaren had spoken a little about the magical way that mages view the world. Emeralds saw the processes of all things living, sapphires saw stress levels... Having all four types of mages here concentrating their special abilities on him, they were acting like one big polygraph machine.

As he reached this realization, he heard the soprano’s voice murmur, “He’s a sharp one.”

“I agree,” Menkal said. “He just grew very excited, and is now at a deep level of peace. I believe he’s figured something out.”

Reit raised his eyebrows meaningfully, prompting Sal to explain. “I just realized that this is a lie-detector test. Your people need to be able to accept me, so the first thing you gotta figure out is how honest I can be with you. Even the assurance of safety is no guarantee that I can be trusted. That’s why the mages are here—to see if I’m holding back.”

Reit nodded appreciatively. “Yes, but that is a discussion for later. Let us continue. Where are you from?”

“Dothan, Alabama.”

True.

“And where is this place?”

“The United States of America.”

True.

Sal heard whispers among the council. Obviously, this sophisticated and learned council, with all their apparent knowledge of their world, had never heard of such a place. He suddenly felt his lips twitch in mirth. He knew where this was headed.

“I’ve never heard of this ‘America’,” Reit said, confirming Sal’s suspicions. “Where is it?”

“On a planet called Earth,” said Sal, his smile growing.

True. The murmurs grew louder.

“Are you saying that you are not of this world?”

“That’s correct.”

True. The murmuring was stifled in gasps of astonishment, some of which came from the lie-detecting mages themselves. All except for Jaren, who’s own lips twitched, briefly mirroring Sal’s grin before resuming their stoic cast.

“Do you know how you got to this world?”

“No.”

True.

Reit paused for a moment, and changed his line of questioning.

“What was your occupation in your world?”

“I was a Navy SEAL—a member of an elite military group.”

True.

“Ah, a soldier. A warrior. And were you in battle when you came to this world?”

“Yes.”

True.

“Who was the last person you saw in your world?”

That one caught Sal by surprise. Why in the world would this be relevant? Sal couldn’t believe that Reit was planning to make him out to be a traitor, consorting with the enemy. If he’d wanted to do away with Sal, he could have done it any time he’d chosen to. Brushing the irrational fear aside, Sal took a deep breath and answered. “I believe it to have been what you call a granite mage.”

True.

The council exploded. Questions of “how?” and “why?” filled the air as Reit again raised his hands for order. Silence was slow in coming, and not complete when it finally did, but Reit pressed on.

“How is it possible that a granite from our world could appear in a battle in your world?”

“I don’t know.”

True.

“Do you think that the granite might be the common element, or even the cause, of your unexpected visit to our world?”

Sal was stunned silent. It was so simple. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “I think it’s possible. But how…?”

“That is an important question, but one for a day when we can devote the time and resources to finding the solution. Right now, though, I have one more line of questioning.” Reit paused for effect, but it was evident even before he spoke that this portion of the interview had been preplanned, one that Sal had been deftly maneuvered into. “Our Cause is one of freedom. Is this a cause worth fighting for in your world?”

“Yes.”

True.

“Our Cause constantly pits us against the minions of the Highest, who often are, or are affiliated with, the Granite Order. Would you say that it’s possible that we share a common enemy?”

A sober question, and a loaded one. Sal knew what Reit was asking him, and he suddenly realized just how far-reaching such a commitment could be. He knew coming in that Reit would expect Sal to pull his weight, to become more than just a resident of his rebel village. He wasn’t inviting Sal to be a guest—he was inviting Sal into his
world
. Reit wanted to recruit Sal, heart and soul, for his Cause, a proposition that may one day come in conflict with his own personal plans to return to Earth. He almost balked, the fear of never returning home weighing heavily on him. But as he let his eyes wander among the council, he saw the fear and desperation beneath their masks of dignity, and instantly he was ashamed of himself. Here he was, worried about never getting home again, while these people were fighting for their very lives. Wasn’t that why he went into the Navy for in the first place, to protect those who enjoyed freedom and to bring freedom to those who had none?