The Steel of Raithskar (23 page)

We traveled south for the rest of the day, stopping frequently to let me shift from one cat to the other. The sha’um hunted while we slept that night, and in the morning were fresh again. At midday we rounded the southernmost point of the Mokadahl range, marked by a sheer, looming cliff, then headed eastward.

We had been following the road from Omergol, through semi-cultivated areas dotted with grainfields and orchards. When we turned east, the ground began to rise and go wild. The curly-trunked trees I had seen so often on the way south had been cultivated and trained to their upright stance and umbrella of branches. Here the same trees covered the hillsides, twisting closer to the ground and all overgrown with branches.

The low trees, tall grass, and other types of brush made the hillsides ideal for the concealment of small animals. As the sha’um passed by, the creatures concealed near the road panicked and fled, and I amused myself by trying to classify the types I saw.

None of them were identical to the animals Ricardo had known, though there were similar body configurations. I asked Markasset’s memories for the names of the animals I saw; it gave me a few, but not many. I gave up fairly quickly and simply watched the activity and listened to the hoorah stirred by the passing cats. There seemed to be a huge bird population in these foothills, and some of them had very musical voices.

A poet might say I was watching a living symphony. But I’d have to be more truthful and admit it sounded more like Spike Jones’ band tuning up. In a hurry. Loudly.

But it made the day pass quickly, and I was surprised, that afternoon, when the cats reached the top of a long slope and stopped to catch their breath.

I slid off the cat’s back—Liden’s—and stretched as I looked up at a fortified wall made of stone and packed with earth. It had been built as a dam is built, filling a narrow depression between two steep hillsides. It was perhaps a hundred feet long, and at the deepest point of the valley it stood at least thirty feet high.

There were men stationed at intervals along the level top edge of the wall, but just now their attention was focused on the gate at the center of the wall. A caravan master was supervising the payment of his toll fee. He was talking to a man wearing the same type of uniform as Bareff and Liden, except that the sash tied around his waist was red. They conferred over a list and checked things off as items were laid on a low stone shelf that had been built, apparently, as part of the wall.

It was a noisy scene. The caravan vleks were hysterical with the smell of sha’um all around them. Those men who weren’t actually unloading goods were busy swearing at the vleks, trying to control them. The actual appearance of Bareff’s and Liden’s sha’um was hardly noticed by the frenzied animals.

So this is Thagorn
, I thought.
The wall must guard a sheltered valley—a strong defense position. Even if you discount the cats, it’s easy to see why nobody wants to take on the Sharith.

I just hope I can find some answers, get out of here with my skin intact, and get that skin back past Zaddorn.

I looked up at Bareff and Liden, who were still mounted. The heads of the cats were turned toward me, nodding slightly with their heavy breathing. Was it my imagination, or had the gleam of hatred I had seen in the eyes of Bareff’s sha’um faded somewhat?

He’s just tired
, I decided.
And he deserves to be. It wasn’t an easy trip for them, either.

“Your sha’um,” I asked the men, “what are their names?”

“Their names?” Liden sounded surprised. His jaw had returned to normal size, but the bruise had turned so black that the white of his scar looked like an open wound. He reached forward and stroked his hand along the cat’s right jaw. “Cheral.”

I looked at Bareff.

He made the same gesture and said: “Poltar.”

I moved to stand in front of the two huge cats. Poltar was much darker and shorter than Keeshah; Cheral had a rangy look, and splashes of slightly varying shades of tan, giving his fur an indistinct color. They were standing, still carrying their Riders, and I had to look up into their faces.

I raised my hands to my waist level, palms upward.

“Poltar, and Cheral—thank you.”

The two great heads lowered, and my upturned palms felt the very lightest touch of their furred muzzles.

I turned away and started walking toward the gates, frying to clear a tightness from my throat. I would have given everything, at that moment, to have Keeshah with me to ride through those gates as the unquestioned equal of the Sharith. But if I couldn’t ride Keeshah, I’d walk.

I had taken only a few steps when I discovered that I had company: Bareff and Liden on either side of me, Poltar and Cheral following them. I glanced quickly at their battered faces, but they stared straight ahead and didn’t look at me. So I turned my eyes forward and the three of us marched abreast toward the city gates.

We approached the man with the red sash, stopped, and waited. He glanced up at us, his face almost hidden by the brim of the hat which shaded his eyes, and nodded slightly to acknowledge our presence. Then he gave his attention back to the caravan master and his tally sheet.

The man with the sash seemed satisfied, and he signed one of his men to hand over a colored cloth, which was tied to the pack of the leading vlek. Then he turned to us.

“Bareff. Liden.” He didn’t even look at me. “Come inside the gate; the fleabitten vleks will not pass while your sha’um wait out here. And though Shaben is one of the few who pay their fair duty willingly, I have had enough of caravaners for one day.”

We walked through the gate, and I had another surprise. I had not yet seen any city gate in Gandalara closed, even at night—but the heavy wood-and-bronze gates of Thagorn swung shut behind us.

Now
he looked at me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but the hat brim moved up and down in my direction. “Is this the man you sent the message about?”

“Yes,” answered Bareff.

“He wants to talk to the Lieutenant,” added Liden.

I was relieved to learn that red-sash wasn’t the Lieutenant. I hadn’t gotten a clear look at his face, but I was sure he was fairly young. Something in his slimness or the slight swagger in his walk, the effort audible in his speech to make his light baritone voice convey authority.

“
He
wants to talk, does he? Well, talk, groundwalker.”

“To the Lieutenant,” I said quietly.

The boy took a deep breath—to calm himself or to swell his chest, probably a little of both.

“I am Thymas, Dharak’s son. Anything you have to say—”

“He’ll say to the Lieutenant,” Bareff interrupted. “After he’s had a chance to get cleaned up.”

“And what say do you have in this?” the boy asked, seething. “He’s a common groundwalker—”

“He’s not a
common
groundwalker, Thymas,” Liden said, “and he’s here as our guest.”

“Tell your father that
we
need to talk to him. Tonight, if possible. We’ll come to the Hall after supper,” said Bareff. He nudged me and the three of us, followed by the cats, started off toward some large buildings to the right.

Behind us, we heard a sword leave its scabbard. “You need a lesson in manners, Bareff,” said the boy’s voice, shaking with anger. “I am the Lieutenants son; no one gives me orders!”

Bareff stopped and turned slightly, talking over his shoulder. “You make me draw my sword, I’ll have to kill you, boy. Now no groundwalker, even an
uncommon
one, is worth this kind of fuss. Ask Dharak. Let him decide.
But ask him.
” We started forward again. My back itched until I heard Thymas put away his sword and move off in the opposite direction.

I also heard muffled laughter and whispering from the ramparts of the wall.
Public humiliation
, I thought,
is no way to make a friend of the boss’s son.

The large buildings turned out to be barracks, with a dining area and individual, fairly comfortable apartments. Bareff pulled out some of his own clothes for me—“civvies,” I was relieved to note, instead of a tan uniform—and directed me to the common bath-house near the river which bisected the valley. Then he and Liden went off to attend to their cats. They joined me later; we returned to the barracks and were served a flavorful rafel by a girl of an age equivalent to thirteen or fourteen human years. Then we walked back to the main thoroughfare which led from the gate, crossed it, and climbed a gentle hill toward a big square building which topped it.

I had expected an ornate audience hall such as I had seen in European palaces. Instead, we went through one of many sha’um-sized doors into a HALL.

It had a high ceiling, walls of wood parquetry polished to a high glow, and a floor inlaid with thousands of small marble tiles that must have come from Omergol. It was the size of half a football field, and in its exact center a huge block of pale green marble served as a speaking and review platform.

There were two men standing on the platform. One was the boy who had met us at the gate. He wasn’t wearing his hat now, and the light from oil lamps suspended from the ceiling washed over a head of pale golden hair, lighter even than Illia’s.

And the halo seemed drab compared to the white crown the other man wore. While the boy seemed only to be waiting for us, the man beside him was compelling us, drawing us across the marble floor toward him like a magnet.

He was wearing tunic and trousers of desert tan like the others, but the cloth was a tighter, finer weave. The tunic draped softly, and was cinched to the large man’s trim, muscular waist with a blue sash of a material that resembled shiny brocade. The trousers were tucked into the tops of sueded leather boots, and the upper edges of the boots were reinforced and trimmed with leather stitching on the outer edges.

He was an elegant, commanding figure: the Lieutenant.

Bareff and Liden and I had marched, shoulder to shoulder, in silence across the huge room. There had been only the whisper of cloth against cloth and the reassuring swish of my sword against my pantleg as we walked. I had dared only one quick glance at the other two: the rough, marginally sloppy men I had encountered in a bar in Omergol had been transformed into soldiers.

As we halted neatly in front of the dais, I called up my own military training. I needed every inch of it to stand at attention under the penetrating eyes of the Lieutenant.

“Why is a groundwalker brought before me armed?” he said at last. His voice was rich and deep, resonant in the empty Hall. If there had been a thousand troops around us, every last one of them could have heard him clearly.

Beside me, Bareff spoke up. “His name is Rikardon.” There was respect in his voice, but no fear or tension. “He won our life-debts, and freely gave them back. He said he needed to talk to you.”

“And you think I should listen?” the Lieutenant asked. “What do you say, Liden?”

“I say he’s not afraid of sha’um. By the time we got here, he was riding second place with respectable skill. Poltar was carrying him willingly.”

“Cheral, too, Lieutenant. I don’t know what he wants with you,” Bareff said, “but I’ll stand for him while he’s in Thagorn.”

“So will I,” added Liden.

The Lieutenant stepped down from the dais to stand in front of me. Thymas moved to the edge of the platform, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Rikardon,” the Lieutenant said, nodding slightly at me. He was taller than I, with a narrow face well-lined with age. The bristling shock of snow-white fur which swept back from his prominent forehead seemed anomalous to me—everywhere I had been so far, age had darkened the Gandalaran brow.

“Dharak,” I said, and nodded back at him.

For a few seconds we just stared at one another.

“You bring a high recommendation, Rikardon,” he said at last. “Say what you have to say. I’ll listen.”

“Someone I care about is unfairly accused as a thief, Lieutenant,” I said. “I believe that the stolen article was on the caravan of Gharlas and I know that the Sharith—uh—
acquired
the goods on that caravan. May I look through them?”

“The goods we—uh—
acquired
” he said with the hint of a smile, “have already been distributed among the families. Perhaps if you’ll tell us what you’re looking for …?”

I cupped my hands close together and called up Markasset’s memory. The men around me faded and I spoke to them through a vision of the Ra’ira resting in its glass case. “A gem about this size, Lieutenant. Irregular, clear blue if you look through the edge, darker and twisting toward the center—”

“The Ra’ira!” Thymas shouted, startling all of us. “Father, if the Ra’ira has left Raithskar—”

Dharak whirled toward his son, and Thymas’s voice choked in his throat. “Bareff, Liden,” said the Lieutenant as he turned back to us, “you’ve done well, bringing Rikardon to me. I understand I owe you, Bareff, another vote of thanks for not taking Thymas up on his challenge this afternoon.”

“Father!”

The Lieutenant went on as if he hadn’t heard the furious outcry. “If you wish it, Thymas will apologize publicly for his rude treament of your guest and his disrespect to you.”

“I’ll do it when Eddarta frees the slaves!”
The boy jumped down from the platform and started to draw his sword.

Dharak caught Thymas’s sword hand in one of his, and forced the sword back. They stood there, eye to eye, a tableau of the struggle between generations. Then Thymas relaxed, lowered his gaze, and stepped back a pace. The muscles along his neck stood out with the force of his anger. The old man seemed outwardly calm, but the torchlight reflected from his eyes with an odd shine.

“The boy needn’t apologize,” said Bareff. “It’s all past the gate now, anyway.”

“Thank you,” said Dharak. “Again. You’re training the cubs tomorrow morning, aren’t you?”

Bareff nodded.

“Then I’ll let you get on with your preparations. You brought Rikardon here, left him, and didn’t hear a word he had to say. Understood?”

Liden and Bareff both nodded, then turned to me. “I hope someday we find out what this was all about,” said Liden.