Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (335 page)

“Rindy’s an odd child, a real Dry-towner. But it’s not my imagination, Race, it’s not. There’s something—” Suddenly she sobbed aloud again.

“Homesick, Juli?”

“I was, a little, the first years. But I was happy, believe me.” She turned her face to me, shining with tears. “You’ve got to believe I never regretted it for a minute.”

“I’m glad,” I said dully.
That made it just fine.

“Only that toy—”

“Who knows? It might be a clue to something.” The toy had reminded me of something, too, and I tried to remember what it was. I’d seen nonhuman toys in the Kharsa, even bought them for Mack’s kids. When a single man is invited frequently to a home with five youngsters, it’s about the only way he can repay that hospitality, by bringing the children odd trifles and knicknacks. But I had never seen anything quite like this one, until—

—Until yesterday. The toy-seller they had hunted out of the Kharsa, the one who had fled into the shrine of Nebran and vanished. He had had half a dozen of those prism-and-star sparklers.

I tried to call up a mental picture of the little toy-seller. I didn’t have much luck. I’d seen him only in that one swift glance from beneath his hood. “Juli, have you ever seen a little man, like a
chak
only smaller, twisted, hunchbacked? He sells toys—”

She looked blank. “I don’t think so, although there are dwarf
chaks
in the Polar Cities. But I’m sure I’ve never seen one.”

“It was just an idea.” But it was something to think about. A toy-seller had vanished. Rakhal, before disappearing, had smashed all Rindy’s toys. And the sight of a plaything of cunningly-cut crystal had sent Juli into hysterics.

“I’d better go before it’s too dark,” I said. I buckled the final clasp of my shirtcloak, fitted my skean another notch into it, and counted the money Mack had advanced me for expenses. “I want to get into the Kharsa and hunt up the caravan to Shainsa.”

“You’re going there first?”

“Where else?”

Juli turned, leaning one hand against the wall. She looked frail and ill, years older than she was. Suddenly she flung her thin arms around me, and a link of the chain on her fettered hands struck me hard, as she cried out, “Race, Race, he’ll kill you! How can I live with that on my conscience too?”

“You can live with a hell of a lot on your conscience.” I disengaged her arms firmly from my neck. A link of the chain caught on the clasp of my shirtcloak, and again something snapped inside me. I grasped the chain in my two hands and gave a mighty heave, bracing my foot against the wall. The links snapped asunder. A flying end struck Juli under the eye. I ripped at the seals of the jeweled cuffs, tore them from her arms, find threw the whole assembly into a corner, where it fell with a clash.

“Damn it,” I roared, “that’s over! You’re never going to wear those things again!” Maybe after six years in the Dry-towns, Juli was beginning to guess what those six years behind a desk had meant to me.

“Juli, I’ll find your Rindy for you, and I’ll bring Rakhal in alive. But don’t ask more than that. Just
alive
. And don’t ask me how.”

He’d be alive when I got through with him. Sure, he’d be alive.

Just.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was getting dark when I slipped through a side gate, shabby and inconspicuous, into the spaceport square. Beyond the yellow lamps, I knew that the old city was beginning to take on life with the falling night. Out of the chinked pebble-houses, men and woman, human and nonhuman, came forth into the moonlit streets.

If anyone noticed me cross the square, which I doubted, they took me for just another Dry-town vagabond, curious about the world of the strangers from beyond the stars, and who, curiosity satisfied, was drifting back where he belonged. I turned down one of the dark alleys that led away, and soon was walking in the dark.

The Kharsa was not unfamiliar to me as a Terran, but for the last six years I had seen only its daytime face. I doubted if there were a dozen Earthmen in the Old Town tonight, though I saw one in the bazaar, dirty and lurching drunk; one of those who run renegade and homeless between worlds, belonging to neither. This was what I had nearly become.

I went further up the hill with the rising streets. Once I turned, and saw below me the bright-lighted spaceport, the black many-windowed loom of the skyscraper like a patch of alien shadow in the red-violet moonlight. I turned my back on them and walked on.

At the fringe of the thieves market I paused outside a wineshop where Dry-towners were made welcome. A golden nonhuman child murmured something as she pattered by me in the street, and I stopped, gripped by a spasm of stagefright. Had the dialect of Shainsa grown rusty on my tongue? Spies were given short shrift on Wolf, and a mile from the spaceport, I might as well have been on one of those moons. There were no spaceport shockers at my back now. And someone might remember the tale of an Earthman with a scarred face who had gone to Shainsa in disguise.…

I shrugged the shirtcloak around my shoulders, pushed the door and went in. I had remembered that Rakhal was waiting for me. Not beyond this door, but at the end of the trail, behind some other door, somewhere. And we have a byword in Shainsa:
A trail without beginning has no end
.

Right there I stopped thinking about Juli, Rindy, the Terran Empire, or what Rakhal, who knew too many of Terra’s secrets, might do if he had turned renegade. My fingers went up and stroked, musingly, the ridge of scar tissue along my mouth. At that moment I was thinking only of Rakhal, of an unsettled blood-feud, and of my revenge.

Red lamps were burning inside the wineshop, where men reclined on frowsy couches. I stumbled over one of them, found an empty place and let myself sink down on it, arranging myself automatically in the sprawl of Dry-towners indoors. In public they stood, rigid and formal, even to eat and drink. Among themselves, anything less than a loose-limbed sprawl betrayed insulting watchfulness; only a man who fears secret murder keeps himself on guard.

A girl with a tangled rope of hair down her back came toward me. Her hands were unchained, meaning she was a woman of the lowest class, not worth safeguarding. Her fur smock was shabby and matted with filth. I sent her for wine. When it came it was surprisingly good, the sweet and treacherous wine of Ardcarran. I sipped it slowly, looking round.

If a caravan for Shainsa were leaving tomorrow, it would be known here. A word dropped that I was returning there would bring me, by ironbound custom, an invitation to travel in their company.

When I sent the woman for wine a second time, a man on a nearby couch got up, and walked over to me.

He was tall even for a Dry-towner, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. He was no riffraff of the Kharsa, either, for his shirtcloak was of rich silk interwoven with metallic threads, and crusted with heavy embroideries. The hilt of his skean was carved from a single green gem. He stood looking down at me for some time before he spoke.

“I never forget a voice, although I cannot bring your face to mind. Have I a duty toward you?”

I had spoken a jargon to the girl, but he addressed me in the lilting, sing-song speech of Shainsa. I made no answer, gesturing him to be seated. On Wolf, formal courtesy requires a series of polite
non sequiturs
, and while a direct question merely borders on rudeness, a direct answer is the mark of a simpleton.

“A drink?”

“I joined you unasked,” he retorted, and summoned the tangle-headed girl. “Bring us better wine than this swill!”

With that word and gesture I recognized him and my teeth clamped hard on my lip. This was the loudmouth who had shown fight in the spaceport cafe, and run away before the dark girl with the sign of Nebran sprawled on her breast.

But in this poor light he had not recognized me. I moved deliberately into the full red glow. If he did not know me for the Terran he had challenged last night in the spaceport cafe, it was unlikely that anyone else would. He stared at me for some minutes, but in the end he only shrugged and poured wine from the bottle he had ordered.

Three drinks later I knew that his name was Kyral and that he was a trader in wire and fine steel tools through the nonhuman towns. And I had given him the name I had chosen, Rascar.

He asked, “Are you thinking of returning to Shainsa?”

Wary of a trap, I hesitated, but the question seemed harmless, so I only countered, “Have you been long in the Kharsa?”

“Several weeks.”

“Trading?”

“No.” He applied himself to the wine again. “I was searching for a member of my family.”

“Did you find him?”

“Her,” said Kyral, and ceremoniously spat. “No, I didn’t find her. What is your business in Shainsa?”

I chuckled briefly. “As a matter of fact, I am searching for a member of my family.”

He narrowed his eyelids as if he suspected me of mocking him, but personal privacy is the most rigid convention of the Dry-towns and such mockery showed a sensible disregard for prying questions if I did not choose to answer them. He questioned no further.

“I can use an extra man to handle the loads. Are you good with pack animals? If so, you are welcome to travel under the protection of my caravan.”

I agreed. Then, reflecting that Juli and Rakhal must, after all, be known in Shainsa, I asked, “Do you know a trader who calls himself Sensar?”

He started slightly; I saw his eyes move along my scars. Then reserve, like a lowered curtain, shut itself over his face, concealing a brief satisfied glimmer. “No,” he lied, and stood up.

“We leave at first daylight. Have your gear ready.” He flipped something at me, and I caught it in midair. It was a stone incised with Kyral’s name in the ideographs of Shainsa. “You can sleep with the caravan if you care to. Show that token to Cuinn.”

* * * *

Kyral’s caravan was encamped in a barred field past the furthest gates of the Kharsa. About a dozen men were busy loading the pack animals—horses shipped in from Darkover, mostly. I asked the first man I met for Cuinn. He pointed out a burly fellow in a shiny red shirtcloak, who was busy at chewing out one of the young men for the way he’d put a packsaddle on his beast.

Shainsa is a good language for cursing, but Cuinn had a special talent at it. I blinked in admiration while I waited for him to get his breath so I could hand him Kyral’s token.

In the light of the fire I saw what I’d half expected: he was the second of the Dry-towners who’d tried to rough me up in the spaceport cafe. Cuinn barely glanced at the cut stone and tossed it back, pointing out one of the packhorses. “Load your personal gear on that one, then get busy and show this mush-headed wearer of sandals”—an insult carrying particularly filthy implications in Shainsa—“how to fasten a packstrap.”

He drew breath and began to swear at the luckless youngster again, and I relaxed. He evidently hadn’t recognized me, either. I took the strap in my hand, guiding it through the saddle loop. “Like that,” I told the kid, and Cuinn stopped swearing long enough to give me a curt nod of acknowledgment and point out a heap of boxed and crated objects.

“Help him load up. We want to get clear of the city by daybreak,” he ordered, and went off to swear at someone else.

Kyral turned up at dawn, and a few minutes later the camp had vanished into a small scattering of litter and we were on our way.

Kyral’s caravan, in spite of Cuinn’s cursing, was well-managed and well-handled. The men were Dry-towners, eleven of them, silent and capable and most of them very young. They were cheerful on the trail, handled the pack animals competently, during the day, and spent most of the nights grouped around the fire, gambling silently on the fall of the cut-crystal prisms they used for dice.

Three days out of the Kharsa I began to worry about Cuinn.

It was of course a spectacular piece of bad luck to find all three of the men from the spaceport cafe in Kyral’s caravan. Kyral had obviously not known me, and even by daylight he paid no attention to me except to give an occasional order. The second of the three was a gangling kid who probably never gave me a second look, let alone a third.

But Cuinn was another matter. He was a man my own age, and his fierce eyes had a shrewdness in them that I did not trust. More than once I caught him watching me, and on the two or three occasions when he drew me into conversation, I found his questions more direct than Dry-town good manners allowed. I weighed the possibility that I might have to kill him before we reached Shainsa.

We crossed the foothills and began to climb upward toward the mountains. The first few days I found myself short of breath as we worked upward into thinner air, then my acclimatization returned and I began to fall into the pattern of the days and nights on the trail. The Trade City was still a beacon in the night, but its glow on the horizon grew dimmer with each day’s march.

Higher we climbed, along dangerous trails where men had to dismount and let the pack animals pick their way, foot by foot. Here in these altitudes the sun at noonday blazed redder and brighter, and the Dry-towners, who come from the parched lands in the sea-bottoms, were burned and blistered by the fierce light. I had grown up under the blazing sun of Terra, and a red sun like Wolf, even at its hottest, caused me no discomfort. This alone would have made me suspect. Once again I found Cuinn’s fierce eyes watching me.

As we crossed the passes and began to descend the long trail through the thick forests, we got into nonhuman country. Racing against the Ghost Wind, we skirted the country around Charin, and the woods inhabited by the terrible Ya-men, birdlike creatures who turn cannibal when the Ghost Wind blows.

Later the trail wound through thicker forests of indigo trees and grayish-purple brushwood, and at night we heard the howls of the catmen of these latitudes. At night we set guards about the caravan, and the dark spaces and shadows were filled with noises and queer smells and rustlings.