The Bronze of Eddarta Page 8

  I didn’t dare let my outrage show, so I turned my face away and aimed my steps in the direction of the large central building. It stood some five hundred yards away from the water, and looked to be two stories or more. It was octagonal, with one face opening on the stone-paved avenue which led through the entryway, and one face fronting each of the seven walkways.

  Columns composed of shallow marble blocks, carved to stack smoothly, supported canvas awnings stretched across wooden frames. The awnings shaded the area around Lord Hall, giving an effect much like the columned porticoes of Ricardo’s ancient Rome, and extended to provide shade for the seven walkways which radiated from Lord Hall, each one joining the entrances to the Hall with the entrances to one of the seven family areas.

  Sendar had said that Pylomel’s living area was the largest in the city, and was located to my right. The walkway which joined it to Lord Hall led across pontoon bridge; a channel had been diverted from the river itself to run through Pylomel’s much-prized garden.

  There was no denying that Lord City was beautiful. The segments of territory between the radiating walkways had been landscaped with meticulous care, and these mini-gardens boasted a variety of trees and bushes, as well as flowering plants I hadn’t seen anywhere else. The overall impression was one of lushness and wealth—undoubtedly the object of the careful arrangements.

  The lovely garden areas proved an obstacle to me, however, for they implied that it was mandatory for visitors to keep their feet on the pavement. Even though I was standing nearer to the entrance of Pylomel’s area than to Lord Hall, I had to follow the avenue up to the immense building, then turn back toward the river along the walkway.

  Sendar had said, and it was readily confirmed, that the entrance to every family area led into the courtyard bounded on either side by wings of the guardhouse. As I walked carefully across the pontoon bridge, I could see two men on duty at the arched stone entrance to Pylomel’s area. The courtyard was visible through the archway. Beyond it, a pathway branched immediately. From what Sendar had told me, I assumed that the left-hand branch led into the garden, and the right one led around to the front entrance of the huge building that had to be Pylomel’s home.

  The luck I was feeling was still with me. The attention of the outer guard was directed to the unloading platform. The weight of one raft’s load had been poorly distributed, the men unloading it hadn’t noticed until too late, and it looked as though load and workmen all were going for a swim very shortly.

  I stepped into the shrubbery and moved quietly to my left. A low stone wall running from the guardhouse back to the river was a token marking of the boundary of Pylomel’s personal domain; high brush just inside that wall provided privacy for his garden. I heard a step, and crouched behind a bush just in time to avoid being seen by a guard patrolling that short stretch of wall.

  Just then, a sound I had attributed to the river came clear—another guard at the water’s edge, drinking. I crouched back out of sight as he walked into view. He stood beside the wall, midway from the guardhouse to the river.

  Two guards, one stationary, one patrolling, I thought, and spent a few seconds swearing under my breath.

  There’s no way to get into that garden without taking out one of those guards, which would kill my little play-act about wanting work.

  I sat tight and thought about it for a while. I could try for the guard job, and hope to have the opportunity to contact Zefra later. I could turn around and leave right now, and tell Sendar I’d changed my mind about the job, once I saw Obilin. But both courses would result in delays we couldn’t afford.

  Something made me decide to chance it—a whiff of fragrance that was subtly nonfloral. Perfume.

  The use of perfume was rare in Gandalara, but it seemed to be, socially, the exclusive property of wealthy women. I knew, so surely that I’d have bet my tusks, that I had come at the right time. Zefra was walking in Pylomel’s garden.

  I summoned all the patience I could, and waited my chance to move. Little by little, while the guard’s attention was fixed somewhere, I crept closer to the wall, keeping to the cover of the larger bushes. I had my big chance when I heard the hollering and splashing from the river as the poorly balanced load finally knocked a couple of the workers into the river. Both guards moved toward the guardhouse to get a clearer view of what was going on. I ran for the wall, slid over it, and made my way on my belly, slowly, through the tangled growth at the base of the privacy hedge.

  The garden was truly beautiful. The channel which brought the river water formed a series of tiny streams and ponds, and every kind of plant Markasset had ever seen—plus a few species that were new to him—was represented in the garden. But I didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to admire the botanical genius of Pylomel’s gardener.

  Zefra was there.

  10

  She wasn’t alone. There were guards inside the garden, and though they stood at a respectful distance, I got the distinct impression that they weren’t so much protecting Zefra as keeping her under surveillance.

  She was walking along the pathways slowly, bending to examine flowers, meandering in my direction. I eased myself to my feet, but stayed hidden in the hedge, waiting. If she kept on going, she would walk right by me …

  She stopped to examine a flower on the bush next to me. I was stunned by her close resemblance to Tarani. Her body carried a few extra pounds for her twenty extra years, but the fine shape of her face, the lustrous black of her headfur, even the graceful way she used her hands—I could see Tarani clearly within the frame of her mother.

  I hope she has Tarant’s coolness, too, I thought. I don’t have time to do this gently.

  “Volitar is dead,” I whispered. Her hand, cupping the flower, tightened to crush it. “Tarani is in Eddarta. Send for Rassa, the dressmaker. Your daughter will come to you instead.”

  “She must not be seen in this place,” Zefra whispered fiercely.

  “She will be seen only as Rassa,” I said.

  The woman gasped, and her composure almost deserted her. To cover her sudden motion, she moved past me and began to examine a different flower.

  “Then Tarani has learned to use her mind-gift,” she said. “Who are you, and why have you brought Tarani into danger?”

  I refrained from asking her why she assumed that I had done the bringing. Instead, I answered: “I’m a friend, Zefra. Tarani and I have an important job to do. We need your help. She’ll explain when she sees you.”

  “And if I refuse?” she asked. But her eyes were closed, and her hands were trembling. I didn’t say anything, and after a moment, she sighed deeply. “I will do it. Tell me your name.”

  “Rikardon.”

  “If my daughter suffers harm from this, Rikardon, I will not rest until your heart has been fed to Pylomel’s dralda.”

  She cried out suddenly, and put her finger to her lips as though a thorn had stuck her. She turned and hurried out of the garden, and the guards watched her go.

  So they didn’t see me slide back across the wall.

  The outside guard was returning from the ruckus at the river. He was, in fact, less than ten feet away from me. He was saying something over his shoulder to another guard, so that his head was turned.

  There was nowhere I could go in a hurry, so I stood up and walked toward him. “Excuse me?”

  He jumped. When he landed again, his sword was in his hand.

  This guy’s no slouch, I thought. And Sendar—I wouldn’t care to take him on. Pylomel’s got some good-quality heavies on his side.

  “Where in the name of Harthim did you come from?” he asked, looking around. The wall into the garden was the closest concealment; I saw his eyes narrow with suspicion.

  “Are you Obilin?” I asked him, to distract his attention from the garden. It worked. He looked at me as though I should be stepped on.

  “No,” he grunted. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Lakad,” I said. “Fellow named Sendar, a
t the gate, said I should talk to Obilin about joining the High Lord’s guard.”

  “He must have given you directions, too,” the man said. “You’re pretty far from the main path.”

  “Yeah, he warned me about that,” I said. I tried to grin companionably, but I’m sure the effect wasn’t very convincing. “I just got sidetracked by these trees—I’ve never seen any like this.”

  Half-true, I thought.

  “They’re pretty rare, all right,” the man said, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest as if he personally had planted every one of those trees.

  “But listen,” he added gruffly, “don’t wander around until you’ve signed up—otherwise you won’t live to meet Obilin.”

  “If you’ll tell me where he is, I’ll go straight over there now,” I said sincerely.

  “I’ll show you,” he said, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the walkway and the entrance to the guardhouse. I dug in my heels; he stopped and looked at me in surprise.

  Not used to folks who don’t jump when you say so? I wondered. Well, I’m not going to start my career as a fifth columnist by being pushed around.

  “I can walk very well alone, thanks,” I said, and pulled my arm out of his grasp. There was a visible pulse at his temple as he considered contesting the point, then he shrugged and waved me ahead of him.

  Up to this point, I’d had some choices left. I could have gone back out the gate, sent Tarani in to see her mother alone, and made further plans after their meeting. If Tarani weren’t spotted. If Tarani didn’t just decide to stay with the mother she had never met before. If one of the hundred other possible complications that would keep me chewing my nails didn’t actually happen.

  Unappealing as it was, the choice had been feasible up to the time I was buttonholed next to the forbidden garden. As I walked through the brick-faced archway and turned left into the common room of the guardhouse, I knew I was committed to our plan, sketchy as it was. The next step was to get myself hired on, which would involve, if I had understood Sendar correctly, a competitive test of my fighting skills. In other words (in Ricardo’s words), a brawl.

  The stone walls of the rectangular room were topped by a high, flat ceiling made of unfinished wood. There were several long tables and benches, and padded stone shelves around the edges of the room which seemed to serve as lounging seats. A game of mondea was in progress at one table—it had the same persistence among Gandalara’s military-style folk that poker had in Ricardo’s world.

  “Watch him,” my escort growled to the players, then left by a door which led off to the right, and which he closed behind him.

  The four players looked up at me briefly. Appearances aren’t everything, I know. But from the look of those scarred, slack-jawed faces, I’d have bet there wasn’t an ounce of charm among them.

  I smiled. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “And I’d rather watch you. Who’s winning?”

  “Me,” growled the biggest man, who was missing one ear and several teeth. “You can watch. Quietly.”

  I nodded, and moved closer. It was a fast game, with rules that were slightly different from those I had learned from Bareff and Liden during my short stay with the Sharith. I became so completely absorbed in the action of the mondeana, the dicelike playing pieces, that I was surprised by a light touch on my shoulder.

  I turned around to face a very small man, while the clatter and hooting at and around the dice table crashed into absolute silence.

  “I’m Obilin,” the little man said. Then he hit me in the stomach.

  It was a sharp, high-powered jab of surprising power. He delivered it with his left hand, and I saw his right get ready to swing at my head as I doubled over. I let my knees fold, so that I dropped clear to the floor, moving faster than he expected. Then I swung my body to my left, catching Obilin’s midriff on my shoulder, and heaved myself upright again, sending the little man flying into the air. While I took short, quick breaths to try to get back my wind, I watched Obilin right himself in the air and come down on his feet.

  Chairs scraped away from the table behind me, and I heard the clinking as the coins and mondeana were gathered up hastily.

  “Wouldn’t you rather do this outside?” I suggested. “Not much room to move around in here.”

  The smile was still there, and I heard a soft, whispery laugh that made my skin crawl.

  “Good,” he said. “No questions. No complaints. Immediate grasp of the situation. Very good, Lakad.

  “But, to answer your question, no, we’ll stay here. A fighter has to be aware of his surroundings, as well as his opponent, don’t you agree?”

  One minute he was standing quite still, nearly ten feet away from me. Suddenly he was on top of the table next to me, a kick heading for my chin.

  I ducked aside, grabbed for the moving leg, missed it, grabbed for his balance leg, but it was already gone. He was on the floor on the other side of the table, bouncing.

  You certainly are a fast mother, Obilin, I thought at him, as I hit the floor to dodge his two-fisted dive across the table. And smooth, I added, as I watched him somersault down the narrow aisle between tables and come up on his feet, facing me. How can you judge distances so well?

  The answer occurred to me almost immediately.

  Because you’re not distracted by defending yourself, that’s how. You stage these fights in here to keep your opponent a safe distance away from you. Your game is all offense, Obilin, I realized. Let’s see what happens when you’re cornered.

  The other men in the room were reclining on the benches against the walls. If I’d had time, I would have been surprised that they weren’t calling bets back and forth, or encouraging one of us. But they were quiet, and I noticed that only long enough to be glad for the chance to give my complete attention to Obilin.

  He came at me again, aiming his right arm and using the inertia of his self-propelled body to add weight to the intended blow. I stepped aside with the intention of snagging him and pinning him down—but he had anticipated me. His right hand missed me, but his left hand came up out of nowhere and slammed the side of my head, and sent me reeling. I let myself go loose, and I groped for support from a nearby table, lowering myself to the bench. Obilin closed in, the smile unchanged on his face, his short stature towering over me where I sat. Then he made his first mistake.

  He grabbed my head with both hands, to steady it as a target for his knee. I let him begin the knee jab, but then I snapped my head up, grabbed that upraised leg, and yanked with all my strength. Obilin was very quick; I felt his body register the danger the moment I touched his leg, and he tried to brace himself to resist. But that hard pull brought him down, with his legs scissored around the bench. I had time to deliver one sharp, backhanded blow before he slipped away from me, rolled, and stood up.

  The smile still looked the same. It still scared me.

  “Well done, Lakad,” he said. “You impress me. Still, the true test of a fighter is in his sword work, wouldn’t you say?” He held out his hand, and someone slid a sword, hilt-first, across the nearest table to me. I left it there.

  “Well, Lakad?” he said, gesturing at the sword.

  Suddenly, I wanted to laugh. Didn’t I watch this scene in a pirate movie with Burt Lancaster? I wondered, a little hysterically. Then I looked at Obilin’s face, and a new thought chilled me. That smile was genuine, and reflected real pleasure, real anticipation.

  I stopped being scared, and started to dislike Obilin. A lot.

  I picked up the sword, just in time to block his first blow. He was fast, but not really strong. As long as I could anticipate him, and get a block up in time, he couldn’t touch me. But the very speed of his attack kept me backing away, and on the defensive.

  Same game plan, I realized. All offense. I realized something else, looking into the small man’s grinning face. The way to get hired on around here isn’t to beat this guy. If I win, he’ll hate me. On the other hand, if I lose badly, he’l
l have no reason to hire me. I need to show some capability, and then lose. And somehow, in the process, stay alive.

  That last seemed to be the hardest part, because there was no doubt that Obilin was sincerely trying to kill me. If I gave him an opening …

  I had backed up against a table, and suddenly the chance I needed was there. He brought in a low slash and, instead of blocking it, I jumped the blade and scrambled up on the table. On my knees, I had the advantage of extra striking room in a downward swing, and for an instant, Obilin was defending himself against the overhead attack.

  Then he did what I expected; he grabbed a leg of the table and heaved, to knock me off balance. I fell off, banging my shoulder on the stone-paved floor, and when I stopped rolling, I felt a sword point against my throat.

  The smile was still there. “You’re hired,” he said, and put away his sword.

  11

  I spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted with the area and with the rules, courtesy of a wrinkled old man who seemed to be a butler-type person for the barracks. He issued me a sword—to be used until Sendar came off duty and returned my own (Thymas’s)—and delivered all his information in a bored monotone, eyes and voice aimed into the air above my left shoulder.

  My quarters were surprisingly comfortable—one large room, divided into sleeping and visiting areas. The duty roster was complicated, but not hard to live with. A series of shifts (six hours on, six off) for three days, then one full day off. Meals were served in a community room, except on your day off Then, if you requested it, a woman would serve your dinner in your rooms, and stay with you through the night.

  So that’s what Sendar meant by the “extra benefits” to be had by working for Pylomel.

  “The High Lord is very generous,” I said to the old man, whose name was Willon. “Who do I ask for this extra service?”

  “The High Lord ain’t got much to do with it,” Willon said, looking straight at me, finally. “You ask me when you’re ready.”