Spirit Walker (9 page)

The dinosaur was only three years old, no heavier than a huge bull. The wagon it scratched against creaked as if it would shatter.

Ancient laws made it illegal for the creature to be here.

But Mayor Goodman had eight brothers, and people in town had long since learned to look the other way when the mayor’s pet monster tore up a wagon or accidentally speared a dog on its tail. “Someday that thing will grow up and trample a child!” all the women in the neighborhood would say. “And then it will have to go!” But, so far, the children had managed to keep from under the stegosaur’s feet, and no one dared to demand that the mayor get rid of the dangerous beast.

The mayor’s hounds began barking, and the stegosaur quit scratching its belly. Many people opened their windows and doors to see the last Starfarer, for the blue man had not visited this part of the world for fifty years. Yet, strangely, few people spoke. There was a hush over the crowd, rife with expectation.

Phylomon walked softly across the redwood bridge and up the dirt road toward the stegosaur. The beast turned its side toward the blue man, began twitching its spiked tail in warning, and pulled its head beneath the bony plates along its back.

Phylomon reached into his quiver, drew out an arrow, fitted it to the string of his bow. He studied the stegosaur a moment. Wisteria had often heard men tell of their exploits to Hotland. They all said it was hard to kill a stegosaur. The stegosaur’s skull is very thick, making the walnut-sized brain a poor target. Besides, even if the blue man were to hit it, it is the hind-brain on the stegosaur—a thickened portion of the spine—that controls the lashing of its deadly tail, and the hind brain was hidden beneath heavy hide and armor plating. Phylomon crouched and fired an arrow into the monster’s throat, severing the carotid artery.

The stegosaur jerked twice and its tail whipped to the side, striking the wagon’s front wheel. The wheel splintered, and the wagon dropped. The stegosaur’s tail lashed back and forth. For a moment it looked as if the spikes would bury themselves in the planks of the wagon bed, but the planks shattered instead.

The monster opened its mouth at an extreme angle, and blood pumped from its throat in great gushes. Its eyes glazed over almost instantly.

The tail seemed to be working on it own, striking again and again at the wagon, as if glad to have a target. Blood spouted from the stegosaur’s throat into the air. It kicked its legs as if it might outrace death, then it rolled like an alligator, thrashing its tail as it turned.

Phylomon went to the wagon, pulled a length of rope from its bed, made a loop, tossed it over the stegosaur’s spiked tail, and cinched it tight. The monster thrashed, unaware of Phylomon, and he tied the beast to a tree so it wouldn’t knock down the walls of nearby houses in its death throes.

The Pwi came running, shouting the tale of the demise of the mayor’s beast to newcomers, and the humans dashed out from their houses, curious about this man who appeared so seldom. The Pwi crowded round Phylomon, and some of the bolder children even reached out to touch him.

Phylomon straightened his back, and his head bobbed above the crowd. People were shouting to one another, and he asked a question so softly that Wisteria couldn’t hear him. She’d stood still while he killed the beast, but now she jogged toward him again.

No one answered the blue man’s question, but several people glanced up toward the mayor’s house. Phylomon looked up at the house, and trudged toward it, kicking up dust. Obviously he was going to confront the mayor. People were still talking loudly, and over the din Wisteria heard Caree Tech shout clearly, “Careful—the mayor has eight brothers!”

Phylomon nodded at Caree. A man with so many kin in a small town has great power. Phylomon approached the house, then saw the Dryad sitting in her cage in the beating sun.

Phylomon approached the cage and said with infinite gentleness, “What are you doing here, Aspen Woman?” His voice was very soft, and did not carry well—as if his vocal cords had become atrophied after living for years in solitude. He reached through the bars of the cage to stroke the girl’s silver hair.

The bars of the cage were made of mottled aspen—the tree she’d been created to nurture. Her genetic programming would not let her try to break the bars, even to escape. She was young, just developing her breasts—near the time when her kind were driven into a mating frenzy.

“You are a great danger to the people here in town,” Phylomon said. “You should be with your sisters in the mountains, tending your trees.”

And for the first time since reaching Smilodon Bay, words flowed from the Dryad’s mouth. Her voice had a musical quality that reverberated like the song of a flute. “The Mayor keeps me caged,” she said. “He plans to sell me to slavers in Craal.”

Several people gasped at the startling beauty of her voice, and perhaps also at the accusation of slavery. Phylomon tilted his head like a robin studying a worm. “So,” he said quietly, “first your mayor defies the old laws by bringing a dinosaur to our land, and then he begins selling slaves to boot.”

With that Mayor Goodman appeared in his doorway, a large man in girth, with more muscle than fat. “I’m not a slaver,” Goodman said. There was only a trace of fear in his voice, and he carried a tone of authority that the blue man did not equal. “The Dryad is in my care.”

“You mean she’s in your
cage.
” Phylomon held the mayor’s eye, drew his sword, and sliced at the wooden bars of the Dryad’s cage, cutting it as if it were a potato. The Dryad pushed at her bars and began wriggling out.

The mayor blustered, “Sir, I meant no harm. Why, I raised that dinosaur from an egg,” he said, nodding toward the stegosaur. “The Pwi bring eggs from Hotland every year—and no one ever knows what sort of beast will hatch from them. Why, every boy in town has had such an egg at least once. It’s great fun to see what will hatch—but the dinosaurs always die come winter. Only a freak of chance let this beast make it through the winters. And, as for the Dryad, why, she’s not human. It’s not as if I were selling a human. She cost me a great deal—And I’ve fed her these past three months hoping to get a decent price from her!”

Phylomon listened to the mayor’s blustering without watching him, then turned a questioning eye. Wisteria looked at the mayor and tried to imagine him as Phylomon must see him. Goodman was a large man, and strong. Not the kind to be easily withstood. And the lines in the mayor’s face were hard and secretive.

“I will gladly buy the Dryad,” Phylomon said calmly. He reached down to his belt and pulled out a small bag, loosed the string that bound it, and dumped the bag’s contents into his palm. Diamonds, sapphires and pearls gleamed. The whole town gasped. “Take whichever stone you think fair.”

The mayor eyed the stones and concentrated. Sweat began to break out on his forehead. Obviously he did not want to appear greedy—for greed is the father of sin. Wisteria knew the girl was not worth even a large sapphire.

The mayor took a diamond. A medium-large diamond. A diamond that could have bought a ship.

Greed had overpowered his common sense.

Phylomon smiled at the mayor, as if pleased with his choice. “What town is this?”

“Smilodon Bay,” the mayor said, suddenly distant, fearful. He thrust the diamond into his pocket.

“And if you went to war tomorrow with Thrall pirates, how many men could you muster?”

Without hesitation, Goodman answered, “Eighty-six men of war. More, if you want old ones or young.”

“Then have a hundred men of war down at the docks at dusk. Have them bring their weapons,” Phylomon said, “for I will address them.”

Most of the town stood within hearing range of Phylomon’s words, and the rest of the people seemed to be coming.

Wisteria watched the mayor intently. Lady Devarre had taught her girls to try to read a competitor’s thoughts just by the way he held his head, the way the nervous lines crinkled near his eyes, the timbre of his voice.

Mayor Goodman obviously knew that there was no threat from pirates and he feared to gather the town. Phylomon could be plotting to turn the townsmen against him.

“As you wish,” the mayor conceded with false courage.

“I have often heard good report of the inn of Scandal the Gourmet,” Phylomon said, “Is this the town where it lies? Could someone tell him that I'd like a room for the night?”

Scandal’s high, bellowing voice cut through the crowd, “You can tell me yourself!” he said, and the townspeople laughed a false, nervous laugh.

“I’ve heard you have a bed in one of your rooms—a very special bed, guaranteed free from vermin,” Phylomon said softly as Scandal shoved the crowd aside, making room for his belly to squeeze through. “Is that room available?”

Ever the showman, Scandal played to the crowd, answering loudly so that everyone could hear. “Well, a bed is only as free of vermin as the man who’s sleeping in it. If you want my
special
bed, you’ll have to hike up your breechcloth and let me check for fleas, just like every other customer!”

Phylomon grinned at the game and pulled up his brechcloth, exposing his muscular legs. Scandal grunted and bent over, making a great show of scrutinizing the blue man’s skin.

“I hereby declare this man to be totally free of vermin!” Scandal announced, laughing. “And therefore worthy of my finest room—free of charge!” Several people cheered, while others just laughed.

Phylomon said, “Then show me to your inn.” Phylomon took the Dryad’s hand and helped her rise. Together they made their way across town and up the hill.

The crowd began to disperse.

Wisteria felt unsure of what to make of the blue man’s appearance, and wanted to ask her father about it, but she didn’t see him in the crowd. She rushed home to the large house on the north end of town.

Her mother was quietly preparing dinner in the kitchen. Her father sat in a large upholstered chair in his study, reading
The Sayings
, a book of wise words purportedly spoken by Phylomon over the centuries. Wisteria had never seen her father read the book before.

So,
she thought,
he is preparing to meet him.

Her father, Beremon Altair had graying hair and bright blue eyes. He was a learned man, knowledgeable about arcane mathematics and physical theories that let the Starfarers travel faster than light, a man who’d made a fortune backing shipping ventures in dangerous waters. A man others feared because he, himself, was a rare genetic throwback to the Starfarers—Beremon Altair was a Dicton, one of the few humans left on Anee who carried the extra pair of genetically engineered chromosomes that were the Starfarer’s greatest legacy. Beremon could calculate nearly any mathematical problem instantly, and from birth he had known every word in the ancient, universal trade language of the Starfarers, a language from Earth itself, called English.

As a Dicton, Beremon was marked from birth to become a man of power, and he’d lived true to his promise.

Shipping on Anee could be a dangerous gambit. Because of the extreme gravitational pull of the gas giant Thor, Anee’s tides could fluctuate by a hundred feet in a few hours. During raging storms, a strong gravitational wind could send a sailing ship a thousand miles from its destination overnight and leave it smashed against a rocky coast.

By applying his knowledge of mathematics to calculate the shifting tides, and finding the precise moment when the gravitational winds would surge, Beremon had reduced the risk to his own ships. Over the years he’d expanded his hold on the shipping industry until, by age forty, he’d become the most powerful shipping magnate and financier in the Rough.

“Father, Phylomon the Starfarer is in town!” Wisteria said loudly. He did not look at her, and showed no surprise.

Beremon said, “I heard the shouting.”

“Why would he come here?” Wisteria asked.

“He often travels from continent to continent, studying animal and plant populations, doing what he can to keep nature regular. If he had skin the color of any other man’s, we’d think him a vagabond. We’d let him stay in town a day or two, watch our clotheslines and gardens to see what he steals, and the mayor would finally sic his mastiffs on him and send him on his way.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Wisteria said. “I mean, what is he doing here, in this town, now?”

“He doesn’t visit towns often,” Beremon said. “He tires quickly of us short-lived people who can never attain a mental caliber equal to his. He is a man of great intelligence, and he lives alone, and when men like him live alone, their thoughts begin to travel in strange, eccentric paths. Who am I to guess what he might be thinking? Perhaps he has heard of Scandal’s quest? The innkeeper has made no secret of it. Or perhaps his visit is coincidental. I’ve heard from sailors that he’s been in Craal the past few years.

“Down south in Benbow two years ago, he caused quite a stir. It seems that he’s taken aback at how slavery has become a fad in the past century. He’s begun to enforce some of the laws of our ancestors. If you have time, you might persuade a few friends to begin cutting wood for funeral pyres.”

Wisteria’s stomach tightened. She’d feared as much—he’d come to kill the mayor and the other people she suspected of being slavers. She feared to speak her next words even more. “Will he kill you?”

Beremon looked up from his book. He smiled weakly. “You think so little of me?”

“I’m sorry,” Wisteria said. Yet she knew he was a slaver. When she had been a child, her mother had feuded for several months with a neighbor woman named Javan Tech. Javan had accused Wisteria’s mother, Elyssa, of stealing some nails, and no matter what Elyssa or Beremon did to clear their good name, Javan kept trying to prejudice others against them.

Finally, in desperation, Beremon caught Javan and tied her in their basement for a week until he could persuade the mayor to help stash her in the hold of a departing ship. Wisteria herself had helped feed and water the woman.

“Sorry?” Beremon asked. “Don’t be sorry. I made one mistake when I was young. Carting that bitch Javan out of town and selling her to Craal seemed a good idea at the time. A fun idea. We got rid of a problem and made some pocket change in the bargain. I still think it was a fun idea. But remember, my Apple, it was only once.”