The Steel of Raithskar Read online

  “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 promine
nt 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.”

  19

  “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.

  “I don’t know all the answers, myself,” I told them. “Thanks for your help.”

  Bareff barked a short laugh. “Sure. Anytime you need more help, just kick our teeth out again.”

  He slapped me on the shoulder, and he and Liden started back toward the door through which we had entered. The Lieutenant waved at me, and he and I, followed by Thymas, walked around the dais toward a door in the opposite wall.

  “As you can guess, we would have recognized the Ra’ira if it had been with the caravan,” the Lieutenant told me. “No man or woman of the Sharith would keep it from its rightful place in Raithskar. That would be breaking the pledge made by the first Lieutenant to Serkajon during the time of the Last King.”

  We had reached the door, and we stepped outside to find it already dark. Thymas and Dharak reached to either side of the doorway for torches, and I looked out over the valley of Thagorn.

  Across the stream which divided the long valley, single-family homes had been built in clusters of six, with a community cooking area in the center of each. I had noticed that much as we had climbed to the Hall. At night each cluster cast a soft glow upward into the blackness, the inner walls of the homes reflecting and channeling the cheerful light of the cookfires.

  It looked as though someone had lit giant candles and placed them with pleasing randomness on the floor and around the edge of the valley.

  Through the silence surrounding the empty Hall, we could hear distant laughter, and catch strains of music from a stringed instrument. Children screeched and were hushed. Sha’um roared and were quieted. The sounds came to us clearly, if faintly, from across the stream.

  It was so beautiful that I wanted to share it. I reached out for Keeshah.

  *Yes,* came the acknowledgement instantly, eagerly. The touch of that warm and familiar link made the beauty of the night complete.

  *Can you see, Keeshah? Through me? Can you see this?*

  There was a moment of silence, then a question so wistful that I felt my chest tighten with physical pain.

  *I come there?*

  *Not now, Keeshah,* I told him. *What I’m doing here is too important to my father. But one day we’ll come back together. I can’t promise,* I told him, thinking about the horrible moment when the point of my sword sank into a man’s throat, *but if it’s possible at all, we’ll return to Thagorn together one day.*

  Light sparked beside me and I jumped, breaking the contact with Keeshah. Thymas had lit a torch with a small contraption that looked like a pair of tongs. The arms were twisted as well as curved, so that their tips would pass one another. In the tips were mounted a piece of flint and a very small piece of steel. This, I reflected, must be Gandalara’s primary use of Raithskar’s rakor. No wonder a sword made of steel was so rare and highly prized.

  We turned away from the peaceful scene on the other side of the stream and went back down the hill toward one of the barracks buildings.

  “Some of the caravan people are still with us, waiting for the arrival of Eumin, the slave trader from Eddarta,” explained the Lieutenant. “Perhaps one of them has information which will help you find the Ra’ira.”

  A recent memory crossed my mind. “Is there among them, by any chance, a man with four fingers on his left hand? The smallest finger missing?”

  “I have seen too little of them to know,” said Dharak. “Thymas? Have you seen such a man?”

  “Yes, Father,” said Thymas, who had remained strictly silent after the confrontation with his father. There was a note of controlled excitement underneath the subdued tone he used now. “A man called Hural. He has been very quiet since his capture, hardly eating.”

  “We’ll soon find out what he knows about this,” the Lieutenant assured me grimly. “I blame myself in part; I should have known that Gharlas, flea though he is, wouldn’t have come to us just for the reasons he gave me. He—”

  Just then a shout of laughter rang out from the guards on the wall, which lay now to our right. We had reached the main avenue and had clear sight of the gate area, which was ablaze with light activity. Four men on each side swung open the huge doors of the gate, and two men rode through it. A shapeless bundle was suspended between them in what looked like a rope net; the supporting lines for that cargo net were looped around the men’s hips so that they, and not their cats, would bear the chafing.

  The bundle was moving and shouting. I felt every single hair on my head stand at attention.

  It was Zaddorn’s voice.

  There flashed through my mind, finally, that memory of Markasset’s which had been warning me vaguely but eluding me as to specifics. It was the end of a foot race, an annual event by the size of the crowd cheering as Zaddorn was awarded the cash prize. He looked much younger in the memory, and Markasset felt much younger—and exhausted. He had come in a poor second to Zaddorn, who wasn’t even breathing heavily.

  In a world where most people traveled on foot, Zaddorn was an endurance runner. The memory gave me another piece of information, too. Clearly through the years came the special smirk of triumph Zaddorn flashed to Markasset from the awards area. Their rivalry had not begun with Illia.

  The Lieutenant called to the two Riders, and they swerved toward the sound of his voice. Their cats stopped barely two yards away from us and sidled closer together so that the bundle slapped to the grou
nd; they released brass catches at their hips to loosen the carrying ropes.

  I felt a sweeping relief. Had things happened differently, I was certain that I’d have arrived in Thagorn in exactly this manner.

  Zaddorn quieted until he had been unrolled and untangled from the net. One of the Riders leaned down to help him up; Zaddorn grabbed one of the man’s legs and jerked him off balance, delivering a knee into his midsection as the man fell. Zaddorn twisted on the ground to face the other Rider, but stopped dead still. The point of a bronze sword hovered just above his throat.

  “You put your groundloving feet in the dirt and stand up, you,” the Rider said. He moved his head toward us, and I stepped back a pace, out of the torchlight. “This is Dharak, Lieutenant of the Sharith, and his son, Thymas. Show some respect or I’ll gladly give your blood to the ground.”

  Instantly the snarling, fighting animal who had been hauled into this place as a potential slave was transformed into the elegant city official I had met in Thanasset’s house. He stood up and bowed gracefully to the Lieutenant, then a little less deeply to Thymas.

  His clothes were dusty and torn, and his handsome face was swollen along one side of the jaw. His skin was abraded from the friction of the rope; one muscular shoulder was completely bare, crusted with blood.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. I could almost see the soft gray of his suit, the swirl of his cape. “May I introduce myself? I am Zaddorn, Chief of Peace and Security for the City of Raithskar. I have come in friendship, seeking only information. I am looking for—”

  I had been quiet long enough. “The same thing I am,” I said, interrupting and stepping forward. Zaddorn wasn’t surprised to see me; rather, he smiled with satisfaction. “A man with four fingers on his left hand.”

  Zaddorn stared at me, considering. It was obvious he knew I hadn’t told the Lieutenant who I was, and that identifying me would prove me a liar. I was standing, armed, in the company of the leader of the Sharith and he had been dragged into Thagorn like a load of glith skins. He wanted to expose me; I could see it in the way his jaw tensed.