The Steel of Raithskar Read online

  I drew my finger across the map from Raithskar to the Refreshment House at Yafnaar. He’d go there first, looking for me. If he doesn’t find news of me there—which he won’t—would he go directly to Thagorn?

  No, I decided. Because he still wouldn’t have any proof that I’m heading for Thagorn. He’ll know that if I don’t stop at Yafnaar I’ll follow the mountains down to Thagorn. But he won’t bother to backtrack to Alkhum—he’ll cut across the Omergol and look for me there.

  I did some quick calculation. Ten days for Zaddorn to travel from Raithskar to Omergol. I had been two days on the road, so that made it … eight days from now, Zaddorn would reach Omergol.

  *Keeshah,* I called. He was instantly on his feet and trotting toward me.

  I replaced the maps and retied the packs, mounted Keeshah, and slung the packs across my lap as I had done before. As we started southward, I was thinking:

  Zaddorn will be in Omergol eight days from now, and I’ll be there tomorrow. That gives me a clear seven-day lead on him.

  So why am I still worried?

  The answer to that was readily summed up in one word.

  Zaddorn.

  15

  I might have made better time if I’d been able to use the road that ran along within a few miles of the towering cliffs, but I didn’t dare. The next town of any size was Omergol, a good day’s ride on sha’um back, and four days by shank’s mare. Any traffic I met would remember me. There were disadvantages to being partners with a sha’um, though the advantages outweighed them by twenty to one.

  Like the ancient Roman roads of Europe, the highways of Gandalara don’t need repair very often, and when they do, the job is fairly easy and the materials close at hand. They’re built of rock salt, which is just about as hard as marble. In some places, I found out later, the road is simply a smoothed ribbon over a natural bed of rock salt. In a place where it never rains—never—there was no need for the ancient road-builders to take drainage or seepage into account.

  There should be an old saying here, “There’s only two kinds of weather in Gandalara—hot and dry.” There should be, but there isn’t. There is no word for “weather” in the language. The concept doesn’t even exist, because the condition doesn’t exist. Climate, yes; weather, no.

  Does a fish ever talk about humidity?

  The most widely-traveled roads are those that run near the Great Wall, where the water is. So when a rut or a pothole develops in the surface of a road, the locals get a few buckets of sludge from the edge of the nearest salt swamp and fill the defect carefully. When it dries, you have rock salt again.

  Since it is only the roads and the caravans that keep trade going, and since only the roads will take wheeled vehicles, the local folk do a pretty conscientious job of keeping them in repair.

  Near dusk of the second day the sounds on the highway grew more frequent, and the cheerful voices of men greeting friends blended with the inane bawling of the vleks. I rode low on Keeshah’s back, and we moved carefully through the trees, watchful for the occasional cottage. We had reached the outskirts of Omergol, and it was obviously far different from the sleepy farm village of Alkhum. From the amount of traffic flowing from it, I decided it must be a good-sized city, and I was overcome with a need for a hot meal and a cold beer and a night’s rest on something softer than the salty earth. Surely one more traveler would not be noticed.

  I dropped my saddlebags over a nearby limb then slipped off Keeshah’s back.

  *Stay out of sight,* I warned him, and received an answering flow of scorn—did I think he was stupid? I laughed and scratched his forehead in apology.

  *Back when?* he asked.

  *Tomorrow. Dawn—no,* I hesitated. I wasn’t sure, after all, how far away the city was and how long it would take me to get back here on foot. And Milda’s pack of supplies was running low—it might be a good idea to wait until the shops opened and replenish my food rations before I left Omergol.

  *Tomorrow noon,* I decided.

  *Here?*

  *Yes. Feed well.*

  I watched his tawny form move silently through the trees away from the road. Then I set out on foot, still following the road, but some distance from it.

  That is, I thought I was moving parallel to the road—until I almost stepped right out on it. I caught myself in time and made sure I was screened from the flow of traffic while I took some time to think.

  This was a wide and busy highway, with traffic moving at a steady pace going both ways. To my left—toward the city, which was hidden from me by the trees—groups of men moved on foot, laughing and talking. They were dressed in the same kind of coordinated outfits I had seen in Markasset’s closet—not as rich, perhaps, but obviously these were young men all set for a night on the town. Carts traveled in that direction, too, mostly farm carts laden with produce, and men dressed in simple clothing who looked as eager for the city as their better dressed counterparts. But, as I watched, a dusty caravan groaned and waddled by, weighed down with cargo well-wrapped against the dryness of the desert. I thought I recognized in the colored cloth covering the carts one of the merchant banners I had seen in Raithskar.

  That’s what gave me the clue that solved the puzzle. When I had looked at Thanasset’s map, I had judged that Zaddorn would cut straight across the desert from Yafnaar to Omergol. It hadn’t occurred to me, then, that the same route might be used as an alternative to the hot, dry march across the desert from the south. The road I was watching was not the one I had been following, but one which intersected it at Omergol.

  Any caravans which took this route must follow the Great Wall south—through Thagorn? Under the noses of a band of Riders who raided the desert travelers to collect their just “tribute”?

  Tribute—of course. The Sharith probably charged these caravans a high toll for safe passage near Thagorn. And they would pay it—for the privilege of a more comfortable trip, for the safety of the remainder of their goods, and for the assurance of getting to their destinations alive. The Sharith probably regarded anyone who dared the desert route as traitors trying to evade their taxes.

  But as I said, I had seen only one caravan going toward Omergol, and its role as a trade route stopover would not account for the high volume of traffic. The city itself must have some attraction of its own.

  One thing more I learned, watching the traffic moving by. Nine out of ten men on that road going in either direction were wearing swords. And the rest wore long knives at their belts. Well, when in Rome …

  I wore my sword. I stepped out from behind the bushes as though I had stepped behind them for personal reasons, and joined the parade. Nobody looked twice at me. I returned the courtesy.

  But I did glance at the carts coming from Omergol. They were larger and sturdier than the farm carts, which were wood frames mounted on a single axle with wooden spoke-wheels rimmed with bronze. All the carts I had seen up until now had beds and sides of interlaced rope, which had seemed eminently reasonable to me, considering the time and expense it must have taken just to laminate the long bars of wood together which make up the cart frame, axle, wheels, and tongue.

  The carts coming from Omergol were wagons, really, with double axles and beds strengthened with long slats of wood interwoven with rope. It took four vleks to pull the ones I saw, and they were working at it. I was finding myself more and more curious about what Omergol produced that had to be hauled away with so much effort.

  The road turned a slight corner, and I had my answer. Boy, did I have my answer.

  I was looking into the intersection of the two roads, and past that through the gates of the city straight up its throat. I say “up” because Omergol climbed the foot of the Great Wall in huge terraces. I could distinguish five levels, and straight through the center of the city ran a continuation of the wide highway on which I was standing. Stairsteps as wide as the broad avenue climbed between each level.

  To the right of the city, further up the slope, which was gentler here th
an behind Raithskar, I could see a fine mist which meant a river. I could hear it, too, and it was not falling, as the Sharkel did, but rushing down the side of the mountain.

  To the left of the city was a huge pit, which had climbed the hillside at about the same rate as the city. A stream of men and women was flowing from that worksite back into Omergol.

  And between the pit and the river gleamed the beautiful city of Omergol.

  I was to learn later that Omergol was primarily a mining town, digging and polishing semi-precious stones from underground mines further up the slope of the Wall. But it had a second interest which had to be hauled away in double-axle wagons, and which it flaunted. Between its high-demand goods and its place along the trade route, Omergol was a rich city—and it wore its wealth proudly in a mantle of pale green marble.

  It took all the control I had not to stop in the middle of the road and just stare at it. Every building, large and small, was faced with smooth, polished marble. The westering sun cast soft shadows into the streets and across the lower buildings. The murmur of the river in the background added to the whole effect. The city looked clean and cool; its wide avenue was an open invitation; and the crowds of people moving along that avenue amid peals of laughter made me conscious of being alone and very tired.

  It was hard to keep my eyes on the road, but I tried. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself for looking like a classic case of hickdom. But I needn’t have worried—the city had the same effect on the people around me. In tacit agreement we all began to move a little faster.

  As I watched the city draw nearer, I wondered about the odd color of the marble. I decided that there must be a vein of copper in those hills somewhere. Basic copper carbonate, in adequate quantity, might account for the soothing pastel green of Omergol’s walls.

  Had the first builders of this city planned to build it of the beautiful marble they found nearby? Or had some Gandalaran analog of Augustus Caesar found a wooden city and transformed it into this cool green elegance? As I passed through the gates, I felt again that sense of antiquity I had experienced when Thanasset and I had too briefly discussed the history of Gandalara.

  The wall and gate had been recently refinished with a fresh surface of marble, but just inside, the buildings wore their original faces, which in some places were scarred and rounded by erosion. In rainless Gandalara, only the wind could have accomplished that slight damage. And, even throwing a dust-storm or two every year, my mind simply couldn’t grasp the enormous amount of time these buildings had been standing.

  To either side of the wide avenue just inside the city wall were open areas which served as the city’s marketplace. Beyond them the stairs began their ascent, and the wide avenue was edged with open doorways. From them came the savory smell of cooking meat and fresh-baked bread, and a heady mixture of sound. The clatter of dishes and coins and the wooden rectangles used for gaming spilled from the doorways. Music from string and wood instruments, here in a light tune, there offering steady, stirring rhythms, and occasionally acting as accompaniment for voices. Other voices, men’s and women’s, were laughing and talking, in one case, at least, quarreling. In that one case I managed to dodge past the doorway just before two young Gandalarans, farmhands by their dress, and smelling strongly of faen, fell out into the avenue and rolled, struggling together, down the stairway. Several people followed them, shouting with excitement. Roughly half, I guessed, were trying to stop the fight. The other half were betting on their choice to win. From somewhere appeared another group of men with the efficient look of cops.

  I had been trying to decide where to stop for the meal and rest I wanted so badly. At that point I decided to move on; the neighborhood seemed a little rough, and the last thing I needed in Omergol was trouble.

  So I mounted the rest of that flight of stairs, ignoring my clamoring belly. The second level of the city was less crowded and somewhat quieter. I considered going further up, but rejected the idea. The higher levels were undoubtedly the newest; the business districts would be more expensive and a common traveler would be more conspicuous there.

  Just about then I saw it. It was on the other side of the street, its open door inviting me. And above the door, carved in bas relief out of the deepest green marble I had yet seen, was a large and somewhat stylized image of a sha’um. It was passing to the left, but its head was turned out toward the avenue, and it looked quite fierce. Under the carving, set in gold lettering, were Gandalaran characters: The Green Sha’um Inn. It looked like just the place I wanted.

  I walked through the door into a narrow lobby. Stairs led upward on my right; a door opened on my left and I hesitated at the cheerful sound of voices and the unmistakable aroma of a bar. First things first, I told myself.

  A man was seated at a desk just beyond the beginning of the stairway. As I started toward the desk, he stood up and bowed. “How may I help you sir?” he asked.

  “I need a room for the night,” I said.

  “There is a room available,” he replied. “The charge will be ten zaks.”

  I did some quick figuring and decided that it was a reasonable sum for a night’s lodging. I fished a dozak piece out of my pouch and put it on the desk.

  He didn’t take the money immediately. Instead, he brought a huge register book from somewhere behind the desk, a thin brush, and an inkwell. My throat went suddenly dry as I realized that I had never written a Gandalaran word. But my fear passed as the man opened the register book, dipped the pen in ink, and looked up at me. “Your name and home, sir?” he asked, poising the brush above the page.

  I was ready for that. I hoped my relief didn’t show as I gave him the alias: “Lakad, Mildak’s son, of Chizan.”

  He wrote. Then he took the coin, put it somewhere in the desk, and gave me two zaks change.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir.” He handed me a key. “Room eight; up the stairs and to your right.”

  “Thank you. I-uh-sure need a bath.” Did the rooms come with one? I suspected they didn’t, but I didn’t want to come right out and ask a stupid question.

  “Ah. Koreddon’s Bath-house is just around the corner to the east—almost behind us. You can’t miss it. But they’re closed for the dinner hour. Won’t open for a while yet. Why not have a bite yourself, while you’re waiting? Or a nice cool drink?” I looked at him and he knew he’d made a sale and smiled. “The Onyx Room,” he nodded toward the doorway I had passed as I entered, “is always open. Welcome to Omergol.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Onyx Room ran the length of the building back from the street. To my right, as I entered, a bar of shiny black marble stretched along the far wall. Behind it were two burly bartenders, each serving half a dozen people of both sexes. I hadn’t realized just how thirsty I was until I saw one of the bartenders serving up a mug of faen. He caught my look and grinned. He was missing a couple of lower teeth, a silent testament to the hazards of tending bar in a neighborhood that could turn rough. I guessed he must have served his apprenticeship on the first level of the city.

  He poured a mug of faen and handed it across the bar to me. I took a deep drink. “Thanks. Can I get some dinner?”

  “The best in town,” he answered, and the smoothness of his voice was a surprise. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll inform the kitchen the dinner crowd is starting to arrive.”

  The room was fairly wide, with tables and chairs scattered across the marble-tiled floor. Against the wall opposite the bar was a regular pattern of tables and high-backed benches which created a booth-like effect. The tables had mosaic surfaces of green and black marble shavings, the visual effect very similar, though more dramatic, to the wood parquetry I had seen in Raithskar.

  I drained the mug and handed it back for a refill before I walked over to a small booth and sat down. I was facing the rear of the large room, and I watched the bartender go to the far end of the bar, open a door and say something, then return to his work. He grinned at me again and said
my dinner would be ready soon. I nodded and smiled my thanks, but I could feel my mind drifting. Whether it was fatigue or the faen I had downed so quickly, I couldn’t tell, but I suddenly felt completely relaxed and free of worry.

  For the first time since I had left Raithskar I began to wonder, in a comfortably detached sort of way, what I would do when I did reach the stronghold of the Sharith. I had little doubt that arriving unseen would be impossible. From all I had heard, they were too well-trained to forego an effective sentry system. And if it were somehow possible for me to slip through the “human” guards, how could I elude the sense of smell of their sha’um?

  I floated in a sort of limbo, separate from the noise of the growing crowd in the bar, aware of my surroundings, but only peripherally, as if they did not concern me at all. I thanked the bartender, who personally brought my dinner, and I was not too detached to enjoy a well-cooked glith steak and a rich assortment of fruits.

  At times I watched the people around me, and I was vaguely surprised to see that not everyone was enjoying the same meal I had been served. In fact, now that the crowd had arrived, there were waiters and waitresses taking orders for specific dishes. The bartender, obviously, had chosen my meal for me. I was somehow deeply flattered that he considered me a steak-and-potatoes type.

  I had several more glasses of faen, and I took my time over the meal. The entirety of my experiences in Gandalara wandered through my thoughts. Yafnaar. Keeshah. Thanasset. Zaddorn. Illia. Keeshah. The Ra’ira. The Sharith. Kä. Milda. And always Keeshah.

  People came and went around me; I overheard scraps of conversation and was comforted by their triviality. I was nursing what I had decided must be my final glass of faen when there was a general movement in the room. People standing up, chairs and benches scraping. At first I thought, There must be a very specific dinner hour here, and it’s over. But that was disproved by the voice of my bartender friend, speaking in the doorway behind me.