The Children of Kings by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Hayat had the sense to realize that the men below were not only aware of his presence but were ready for trouble. With a glance at Merach, he nudged the white horse downhill again. The horses, picking up the tension of their riders, flicked their ears unhappily.
By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, a third man had joined Poulos and the guard. Gareth did not recognize him, although he’d met all the men in the camp. The three carried the rod weapons in plain sight and with an ease that spoke not only of familiarity but of supreme confidence. These men had nothing to fear from horsemen armed only with swords. Gareth thought of the poisoned well and of the value Dry Towners placed on cunning and deceit. Perhaps the odds were not as uneven as Poulos clearly assumed.
On the other hand, Poulos had fired the village.
Hayat shouted out a reasonably polite greeting, which had no visible effect on the off-worlders. Poulos remained immobile, his face set, his gaze never faltering. When Hayat continued, rattling out the traditional phrases that every Dry Towner would know, still Poulos did not respond. Offenbach shifted uneasily; perhaps he understood a little or wanted to take out his translator device but dared not put down his weapon. At last, when Hayat was on his fourth or fifth iteration and growing visibly impatient, Poulos jerked his chin in Offenbach’s direction.
“Ask him what the devil he wants.”
Offenbach said something in Dry Towns dialect, so broken and ungrammatical that if Gareth had not known what the spacer intended, he might well have guessed wrong.
Hayat turned to Merach with an expression of disdain. “What sort of mumble-mouthed uttering is this?”
In the pause that followed, Gareth kicked his horse forward. “Magnificent lord, if I may—”
“May what?” Hayat’s temper was barely under control.
“—now act as translator?”
“Merach, your opinion?”
“I do not believe he will play us false, my lord. He has no reason to love these outlanders.” Merach meant, After what they did to the village.
“Go on then, wretched boy! But at the first sign of trouble, I will have your hide flayed from your bones.”
Gareth bowed as best he could in the saddle. He had not expected Hayat to agree so readily. He weighed and discarded the idea of riding up to Poulos. A man on horseback had psychological as well as tactical advantages, but he did not want to needlessly antagonize the off-worlder chief. Poulos would be sensitive to the indignity of having to look up to someone he regarded as having lesser status. Praying his knees would not give way under him, Gareth leaned over the mare’s neck, dragged his right leg over her rump, and slid to the ground. Fire shot through his inner thighs and hip joints. He clung to her mane, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He did not need to feign hesitation in approaching Poulos. He could barely walk.
The off-worlder’s eyes narrowed as Gareth halted, well beyond arm’s reach, and bowed.
“Traitorous little sneak. What are you doing with them?”
Gods, this wasn’t going to be easy.
Gareth tried unsuccessfully to still the quivering in his legs. Now that he was this close, he was certain he’d never met the unfamiliar spacer. He said, using Terran Standard, “You destroyed the village.”
“So now you’ve brought the local police force to set things right? I didn’t mark you as that stupid. Naïve, but not stupid.”
Gareth took a breath. He would gain nothing by responding to insults. “These men have nothing to do with the villagers. They’re from Shainsa, across the desert, and their leader—the one on the white horse—is the son of the lord of that city. He was greeting you in the respectful way of his people. Perhaps the words do not translate properly without cultural connotations.”
As Poulos considered this, his expression became a little less belligerent. “What does he want, then? The same deal as I had with the villagers? Tell him, Not a chance. I made that mistake once already.”
“It would be better to speak to him yourself. If I may translate . . . ?”
“The kid does speak their ling’,” Offenbach said.
“Will you know if he messes up?” Poulos muttered, not taking his eyes off Gareth and the Dry Towners beyond him.
“In anything essential, I think so. Not in the finer points, though, and I might make even worse errors. The translator doesn’t handle regional variations well, and it’s set for the village dialect.”
Poulos made a sound deep in his throat. “All right, then. But first tell him, that chief of theirs, at the first sign of trouble, they’re all fried. Dead. Got it?”
Gareth bowed again and went back to Hayat, to whom he bowed even more deeply. He was getting used to all this scraping and found to his surprise that the movement helped to loosen his back.
After a few exchanges, with Gareth shuffling back and forth, the talks progressed enough for Poulos to permit Hayat and Merach to come closer, unmounted. By slow steps and subtle prompting, Merach managed to convince Hayat to suggest that although the Shainsans sought a trade for weapons, they had far more to offer than had the villagers.
“News travels quickly across the sands, and there are many who would seek to take the fire-weapons for their own,” Gareth translated Hayat’s words. He did not add that the attack on Nuriya would only fuel the desire to obtain the means of such destructive power. Then he explained, “Lord Hayat says he is a great warrior among his people, capable of dealing with such—I believe the word he used is stable sweepings.”
“Protection, eh?”
“They’re offering to deal with the locals so you won’t have to be bothered, yes.” Gareth turned back to Hayat. “Magnificent lord, I do not think the off-worlder chief is willing to give away the sun-weapons after the treacherous manner in which the villagers repaid his generosity.”
“Perhaps he might consider an exchange,” suggested Merach. “Among Shainsa’s many riches are goods such as our gold filigree that is without compare in the Dry Towns. These off-worlders appear to be traders, and traders know the value of craftsmanship. Even everyday items can become precious commodities when no one else has access to them.”
“Precious commodities, hmmm.” Hayat tugged a ring off the little finger of his left hand. It was no doubt the least of his personal ornaments, being worn on the least of his fingers, but he would not offer a blade to an outlander, not even an eating knife.
Poulos examined the ring carefully. Although he kept his expression impassive, Gareth detected his keen interest in the way he turned the ring over, testing its weight in his hands, running his fingers over the gold. The ruby would be of excellent quality, or the son of the Lord of Shainsa would not have worn it.
When Poulos looked up from his examination, he was smiling. “I believe this discussion is worth pursuing. I propose a trial period, beginning after the conclusion of my present business. Until I am certain we can trust one another, however, I will not commit to a trade for weapons.” He held out the ring.
After Gareth had translated, Hayat refused the ring with a munificent smile and bade Poulos keep it as a token of goodwill. “May this be the first of many gifts we will bestow upon one another.”
Poulos slipped the ring into a pocket and suggested that the party set up their own camp on the edge of the base, well away from the crates. “Take your rest. The water’s been made safe, and there’s enough for your animals as well.”
At this point, the discussion came to a halt as a shuttle appeared overhead and began its descent. The air vibrated unpleasantly and a wind sprang up. Hayat’s white horse jigged sideways, ears flicking, tail wringing. The other horses snorted and circled as their riders wrestled them under control.
“You,” Poulos shouted to Gareth over the din of the shuttle’s engines, “get over to the barracks!”
Outrage flickered across Hayat’s features, but it faded when Merach direct
As Gareth hurried away, he glanced back at Rahelle, who was already occupied with managing the restive horses. He wished he could think of a way to bring her with him, but a horse boy could not desert his responsibilities at a time like this.
Tucking his head, Gareth broke into a shambling run. Whirling air currents from the shuttle stirred up clouds of dust. He ducked through the open door into the closed-in dimness of the barracks. The walls shook with the roaring of the shuttle. The air still smelled of disinfectant, but less strongly than before. Taz was sitting up, slouched against the wall. He lifted his hand in greeting and pointed to the other bunk.
At Gareth’s approach, Viss lifted his head. He said something, but his voice was so soft, Gareth could not understand him over the din.
Gareth raised his voice. “Do you need anything?”
Viss made an ineffective effort to roll up on one elbow and made a gesture of drinking. Gareth found a cup and a plastic bottle of water. He poured out a cup. The water looked and smelled all right, but without using his starstone, he couldn’t be sure. Poulos had said the water was now safe, so perhaps Offenbach had found a way to neutralize the poison. He glanced at Taz, who nodded encouragingly and pointed to the bottle beside his own bed.
Gareth slipped one arm under the sick man’s shoulders and held the cup to his mouth. Viss gulped down most of the water, then lay back with a visible sigh.
The racket from the shuttle died down. A horse neighed. The barracks felt closed-in, a prison. Gareth wondered whether he’d find the guard on duty outside.
“Offen said you’d gone,” Taz commented.
“I came back. How do you feel?”
“Ah. Weaker’n a Vainwal mud-puppy. But I’ll be around for the next rainy season.”
“Mud-puppies? On Vainwal?” The reference reminded Gareth of Nebran. “The Dry Towners worship a toad god.”
“Resurrection myths. Every planet’s got ’em.” Viss broke off into coughing.
Gareth chuckled, although the situation was hardly humorous. Here he was, discussing comparative religion with a space smuggler, when Hayat might be concluding his deal.
“The shuttle took off,” he said, “and another one landed.”
“Customer,” Taz said, as if that explained everything.
“For what’s in the crates?”
Taz slitted his eyes as he returned Gareth’s stare, as if to say, What else?
Viss broke into another fit of coughing. Gareth didn’t like the sound of the cough, wheezy and congested. He’d heard of men contracting pneumonia after inhaling their own vomit; it was said to be very bad.
Viss said, “You were in my dreams . . .”
“You were pretty sick—” Gareth protested, uncomfortably aware that Taz was listening and might remember his own healing.
“. . . surrounded by blue light. . . like an angel . . .”
“You must have been hallucinating.” Gareth shook his head, hoping he sounded reasonable. “All I did was get enough clean water into you so your body could get rid of the poison.”
“Yeah, don’t go making the kid here into some kind of hero,” Taz drawled. A note in his voice clearly indicated he didn’t think much of anyone who would run out on his comrades in the middle of a crisis.
The accusation stung. “I went over the hills. To the village. Do you know what happened? Poulos,” Gareth almost spat out the name, “burned them! Women, babes, old people, everyone! They live on the edge of the desert, just barely surviving. Now they have nothing, those that are left!”
“Forget them—”
“Don’t tell me to forget!” Gareth could not remember ever being this angry. He knew it wasn’t rational to take it out on these two men. They’d had no part in the decision. They’d been lying here, too sick to even lift their heads, while the village burned. “Listen, if you’d been there—”
“No, you listen, kid. Or weren’t you here when me’n’Viss almost took the Starry Walk? I could’ve sworn you were.”
Gareth refused to be sidetracked. “If Poulos had the sense of a rabbit-horn, he would have known that Cuinn would never let such an insult go unavenged.” He shut his mouth, appalled that he was about to justify the poisoning of the well.
Taz sighed. “Kid, it don’t matter. It’s too bad about the villagers, but when all’s said and done, that’s the way of it. On these backwater planets, if it isn’t one thing—warlords or plague or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time—then it’s another. Better they learn right off not to mess with us. They hit us, we hit them back harder. This ain’t no business for soft hearts.”
Gareth’s chest pounded with the beating of his heart. His breath came as fast and hot as if he’d just run all the way from the village. In a way, in his mind, he had. What kind of men were these, friendly enough one moment and callous the next? What kind of business did Taz mean, that attracted such men?
“What in the seven hells is in those crates?” Gareth said.
Taz shot Gareth a stony glare that said men had died for asking that same question. Viss was silent except for the phlegmy noise of his breathing.
Gareth gulped. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“Captain decides you’re in, he’ll tell you. I have to say, that’s not looking too likely at the moment. Not that I’m not grateful, mind. Took care of us right proper you did, when you could’ve run off. But . . .” Taz shook his head, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
“. . . like an angel . . .” Viss murmured. Gareth wished he would shut up.
Gareth went over to Robbard’s empty bunk. It had been stripped of bedding except for the pad. He sat down, braced his elbows on his knees, and rested his face on his hands. And tried not to think about what might be happening outside.
It occurred to him that he didn’t have to stay in the barracks. Neither Taz nor Viss was in any shape to stop him. He could sneak out . . . and then what? Single-handedly disarm both the Shainsa party and the off-worlders?
He would simply have to wait, wait and reflect how very poorly prepared he was to deal with any serious problem.
Raising his head, he said, “If there’s a chance Poulos will keep me on, I’d like to know what’s in store. Okay, you can’t tell me what’s in the crates. How about those shuttles—there’s more than one, right?”
“Used to have three but lost one out by Ephebe when a deal went bad.” Taz, evidently deciding this was a safe enough topic, warmed to the story. “Not that it was any great loss, mind. Eygen—that’s our engineer, and she’s spent so much time in micrograv her bones can’t take dirtside, so she don’t never leave the Lamonica—Eygen had patched that thing together so many times, you could’ve opened a—” and here he used a term Gareth didn’t know “—shop with it. General rule’s to keep one onboard, one dirtside. When we got us a customer in orbit, they take turns, like.”
“So they’re never in the same place at the same time,” Gareth said. Defensively, that made sense. Without backup, a ship without landing capability couldn’t afford to have cargo or crew stranded, without any means of reaching them. He could no longer hear the shuttle’s engines and wondered why Poulos had come “dirtside.” Perhaps whatever was in the crates couldn’t be entrusted only to crew.
“Ephebe,” he repeated, turning the name over in his mind. He’d heard of it before, something about a Federation intervention there. “Wasn’t there some big military action at Ephebe?”
“Yep.” Taz sucked air through his teeth. Outside, men were shouting to one another. “Bad for the locals but good for business. Now there’re a dozen Ephebes, more every day. Gods of Hyades, what a mess! I’ll be just as glad when I can cash out and
If you found us, then someone else will find you, Gareth almost said. Then two parts of his thoughts meshed. The Lamonica had been at Ephebe, Ephebe, which the Federation had felt a need to subdue . . . “good for business . . .”
“Weapons!” Gareth exclaimed. “You’re weapons dealers—smugglers—selling to planets that rebel against the Federation.”
“I never said that. And neither did you.”
Gareth caught a wash of emotion from the other man’s mind, and it was confirmation enough. No wonder Poulos had set down in a remote location, well away from the Domains . . . which might still have radio contact with the Federation.
Just then, a figure appeared at the door, silhouetted against the brightness outside. It was the off-worlder Gareth didn’t know.
“You work,” the crewman said.
Gareth got to his feet. “I understand Terran Standard,” he said in that language.
“. . . an angel . . .” Viss murmured.
The spacer frowned. “What’s wrong with Viss?”
“I don’t know. His cough sounds bad.”
The crewman hesitated. For all Gareth knew, the two were friends as well as shipmates. “We’ll take him up on our last run. The Castor Sector ship has a medic. So the sooner you stop yammering and come with me, the sooner he’ll get help.”
“What needs doing?”
“Loading crates on the shuttle.” The crewman glared at Taz, as if Taz had created a work crisis by deliberately getting sick. Taz slumped even farther on to his bunk.
Gareth followed the crewman, whose name was Jory, to the stacks of crates. There were only three of them with himself and Offenbach. Taz and Viss wouldn’t be fit for work for a while yet. Offenbach drove the crawler, with Gareth and Jory loading and unloading the crates at either end. The crates themselves had indented handholds, which made handling them easier.