The Hostage of Zir (4 page)

“English, if you please,” said Reith. “Are you Commissioner Gorbovast bad-Sár?”

“I am he, sir. You are Mr. Reese, of whom I am hearing, wiz a party of travelers from your planet. What can I do for you?”

Reith explained his predicament. Gorbovast said: “Oh, zat is easy. You and your travelers shall stay at my humble house.”

“Oh?” said Reith warily. “There are twelve besides myself, and a Duro priest with two attendants.”

“Zat is nossing. I have room. Where are zese children of misfortune?”

“At Haftid’s. The bastitch wouldn’t let us in, even though the agency had sent him a deposit.”

Gorbovast smiled and gave the Krishnan equivalent of a shrug. “Zat happen. I sink he is one of zose wiz a prejudice against earsmen, so he was glad of an excuse. Have you dismiss your transport?”

“Yes.”

“Well, zen . . .” Gorbovast spoke in rapid Gozashtandou to the other two Krishnans, who departed on their scooters.

“Wait, Mr. Gorbovast,” said Reith. “How much is all this going to cost us? I have a budget to meet . . .”

Gorbovast looked pained. “My dear sir, it shall cost you nosing! You are my guests. After all, I am who I am. Now let us go to Haftid’s to reassure your people, who must be anxious.”

Feeling relieved. Reith walked back to Haftid’s with Gorbovast. Roqir had set; but Karrim, the largest of the three moons, was high in the sky, so there was still plenty of light. As Reith approached, the tourists began to yammer. He silenced them with a gesture and introduced Gorbovast.

“I still want my little blue case!” grumbled Maurice Considine.

Privately, Reith was not sure that Gorbovast’s hospitality would cost them nothing. His own experience with tours had made him cynical. At the moment, however, there seemed nothing else to do.

The two Krishnans whom Gorbovast had sent away appeared, each with several hackney coaches in tow. Gorbovast’s assistants and the drivers loaded the baggage aboard, and the string of carriages set out at a brisk trot through the crooked streets.

###

In the gathering dusk, the carriages wound through the city and out a massive fortified gate. In the suburb, they turned into a graveled driveway and drew up outside a big square structure with blank outside stone walls.

“My humble home,” said Gorbovast, waving the tourists in through a small, thick door.

The house was built in the form of a hollow square, so it looked able to stand a minor siege. When he passed through the short tunnel beyond the door, Reith found himself in a spacious courtyard, where flowers bloomed and fountains tinkled. There were other Krishnans, whom Gorbovast introduced. First was his wife; then sons, daughters, and in-laws. The children of these raced about, yelling, in some Krishnan children’s game.

“Wow!” said John Turner. “He can call it a hovel, but it looks more like a palace to me. We sure were lucky.”

Professor Mulroy’s dry old academic voice spoke out: “Charles Darwin, writing of his
Beagle
voyage, said that a traveler should learn to be suspicious; but that he would also discover how many kind-hearted people there are, who would extend him disinterested assistance. This appears to be a case in point.”

Gorbovast’s servitors took the baggage and led the earthlings to the rooms, as if the sudden descent of sixteen unexpected guests were the most natural thing in Krishna.

###

“My friends,” said Gorbovast after supper, “let us consider ze plans for your stay. What do you propose to do tomorrow, Mr. Reese?”

“I thought I’d take them on a general sightseeing tour of the city,” said Reith.

“If I may make a suggestion, you might do better to put zat off for one day.”

“Why?”

“Because ze city will be at its most crowded tomorrow, which is a general holiday. Ze shops will be mostly closed, and you will not be able to see much because of ze press of people. Ze day after would be better.”

“Then what do you think we should do tomorrow?”

“I have ze idea. I suppose you allow your people a day for shopping?”

“Oh, yes. We had figured on doing that the day before the
Sárbez
sails, three days from now.”

“Ze shopping in Majbur during ze festival is bad at best, especially if you do not speak ze language. Ze crowds, ze noise! Sometime a fight begins among ze religious ensusiasts, and zen it is not good for earsmen to be zere. We have some ignorants, full of barbarous racial prejudices.”

“Then, how—”

“I can get word to ze merchants, to bring zeir goods here to zis house. You tell me what sort of sings you want to buy, and you shall make your choices in peace and safety.”

When most of the tourists approved this plan, Reith assented. Next morning witnessed a procession of merchants from Majbur, spreading out their wares in Gorbovast’s courtyard. When he saw that the shopping was under control, with Gorbovast as interpreter, Reith went back to Majbur with Khorsh and Khorsh’s servants, in Gorbovast’s private coach. Saying he had business in one of the temples, the priest left Reith but promised to rejoin the group the following day. Reith hunted up the berth of the
Sárbez
to confirm his reservations and the sailing date.

###

Reith returned to Gorbovast’s mansion in the afternoon, as a couple of the merchants were loading their carts to return to the city. Nearby stood Maurice Considine, examining a new sword and trying to communicate by sign language with a merchant.

“Fearless!” said Considine. “Maybe you can make this gook understand. I’ll buy his sword, since I’ve got to have one, but I still think he’s a robber. He wants three times as much as that Krishnan at Novorecife.”

In halting Gozashtandou, Reith passed the message on to the merchant, who spread his hands.

“What expects this
Ertsu?”
said the swordseller. “All prices are up because of the Festival. Moreover, with the vast commission of twenty-five percentum, which Master Gorbovast charges us poor merchants, I needs must elevate my prices thus to show any profit whatsoever. Thinks this wight from far and barbarous worlds that I’ll arm him with a blade of fine Mikardando steel for nought? True, Dashmok enjoins upon his followers the virtue of charity; but as says Nehavend, charity begins at home—”

Reith held up a hand to check the flow of oratory in rolling, rhythmic, guttural Gozashtandou. “He said prices are up because of the Festival and because Gorbovast nicks him one-quarter of it as commission. Sounds like our native earth; our charming host isn’t going to be out-of-pocket on our account.”

“What?” yelled Considine. “Why, the lousy crook! Bringing us out here, saying it’s all free, and turning these vultures loose on his captive market! They’re all crooks!”

“What are you crabbing about? They do it back home.”

The remark only further infuriated Considine. “And here it’s a whole day since one of ’em stole my little blue case, and you haven’t done a thing about it. What sort of police have they got? I’ll find somebody to translate and go to ’em myself to make a stink. I’ll tell ’em we earthmen could wipe this crummy city off the map with one bomb! I’ll get some action out of this bunch of lying thieves if you can’t. I’ll . . .”

A weather-beaten Krishnan of vaguely familiar aspect approached on foot from the highway. Racking his brain, Reith recognized Captain Ozum of the
Zaidun.
The riverboat skipper accosted Considine, saying in bad Portuguese: “Senhor, is this not yours?”

From under his arm, he produced the missing blue case, explaining: “I found it in your cabin this morning. I looked for you all over Majbur, until someone told me ye were here.”

“Oh,” said Considine, when Reith had translated. After a moment’s hesitation, Considine muttered
“Obrigado”
and turned back to the swordseller to pay for his new blade.

“He is speechless with gratitude,” said Reith to the captain. “Anyway, let me thank you most sincerely. Would you accept a small gift?”

He pressed a silver kard on Ozum, who made a show of declining but finally accepted the coin. The captain bade Reith a ceremonious farewell, cast a scornful glance at Considine, and swung into a departing cart.

###

“This,” said Reith, “is the temple of Dashmok, the god of dancing and fun and the tutelary deity of Majbur. Before we go in, you will have to take off your shoes.”

“You mean,” said Maurice Considine, “leave ’em outside, where anybody could steal them?”

“Yes. The doorkeepers, those tall fellows with the spears, will watch them.”

“I still don’t trust any of these gooks,” growled Considine. “I’ll take mine with me.” He removed his shoes but hung them around his neck by tying the laces together.

“Boy,” said Valerie Mulroy, regarding the stalwart, olive-skinned doorkeepers, “they look as if they could do a woman a world of good.”

“Keep your mind on higher things,” said Reith. “This is a religious center, so lower your voices. Don’t touch anything. Father Khorsh, what did you say was the customary donation?”

After a wait in the vestibule, Reith’s gaggle was taken in tow by a young Krishnan acolyte. The visitors exclaimed over the gilded magnificence of the interior, the intricate floral tracery on the walls, the colorful murals, and the columns inlaid with patterns of mother-of-pearl and glittering semi-precious stones of scarlet and green and azure.

The acolyte knew his lecture but tended to rattle it off without pauses for translation. Moreover, he spoke too fast and in too strong a Majburo accent for Reith to follow. Khorsh had to translate into Portuguese to Reith, who rendered that version into English for his people. When Reith asked the acolyte to repeat something he had missed, the Krishnan got confused, went back to the beginning of his speech, and started over.

At the far end of the cella stood the main statue of the jolly god, cross-legged, pot-bellied, grinning, and thrice life size. In front of this statue rose a pedestal of onyx. On this shaft, lit by lamplight focused by concave mirrors, gleamed a replica of the big statue, a mere ten centimeters high and made of a green translucent substance.

“This,” said the acolyte, indicating the statuette, “is our most sacred property, carved from a single
balzhik
stone by the artistic demigod Khorbizé, in the days of the Kalwm Empire. It is on this image that we focus our current of etheric force when we pray to Dashmok.”

“What does he mean by a
balzhik?”
asked Reith.

The priest spoke to the acolyte, who volubly replied. Then Khorsh said: “It is just the
balzhik.
I do not know what you would call it.”

“Nothing but a hunk of green glass,” said Silvester Pride.

Aimé Jussac screwed a jeweler’s loupe into his eye socket. “Ask him, please, if I may take a close look.”

“He says okay, if you don’t touch,” said Reith.

Jussac stepped close and peered, then turned and put away the loupe. “Either it is an emerald of surpassing size and brilliancy, or the Krishnan art of synthetic gems is in advance of ours.”

“Gee!” said Pride. “Can I look, too?”

“Don’t drool on it, Silvester,” murmured Considine.

“Listen, jerk—” began Pride loudly, but Mrs. Whitney Scott shushed him.

“Come on,” said Reith. “We’re due at Kosambi’s chapel in a quarter-hour Krishnan.”

###

The chapel of the Lords of Lights was a large, bare room, which the sect had rented a block from the temple of Dashmok. There had been some effort, with hangings and religious pictures, to give the place a sacerdotal air, but the effect was still depressing.

There were no chairs. Thirty-odd Krishnans sat on the floor in rows, facing the far end of the room. There behind a lectern stood Ganesh Kosambi, in an orange-yellow robe.

“Welcome, kind friends!” said Kosambi, beaming, as Reith and the tourists straggled in. “Sit wherever you like.”

The travelers folded themselves up on the floor. Kosambi renewed his discourse in Gozashtandou, pausing betimes to give a summary in English. The talk appeared to be a sermon of the sort that one could hear almost any week in a Terran house of worship, exhorting the congregation to refrain from lying, theft, assault, and murder; to be good to their kin, kind to their neighbors, and hospitable to strangers; and to practice all the other conventional virtues. It was high-minded but stupefyingly dull.

Silvester Pride muttered: “Bullshit.”

Kosambi ended his discourse. The congregation sang in Gozashtandou.

“Now,” said Kosambi, “my new friends, this is a part of our ritual I wish you would join in. When you hear me call out:
shar pu’án!,
please to cover your eyes and bow your faces to the floor. The reason is that we shall pray for one of the Lords of Light to manifest himself in this room, and some time one of them might do so. Then, if your eyes were not covered, you might be blinded by his glory.”

Kosambi switched back to Gozashtandou. When he ended a passage with a loud
“Shar pu’án!
, Reith bowed his head and covered his eyes.

Kosambi’s prayer continued for half a minute. Then the Indian said: “All right, my friends, you may look up now.”

Reith stared around. With grunts of discomfort, his tourists were changing their positions from kneeling to sitting. At first he saw nothing wrong. Then a feeling grew upon him that something was missing. He counted his people and realized that Silvester Pride had vanished.

Behind the lectern, Kosambi had launched into another sermon. Reith became impatient. Loath as he was to interrupt, he wished to show his tourists several more local sights before returning to Gorbovast’s house. Further, he did not trust Pride on his own.

A rising clamor came from the street outside. Feet pounded on the stair. Pride burst into the room in stocking feet, holding the emerald figurine of Dashmok. After him came the two guards from the temple, spears at ready, and after them several white-robed priests. The screaming rose until Reith could understand nothing.

“Save me!” mouthed Pride, ducking behind Reith to avoid a thrust from one of the spears.

Reith hesitated, wondering whether to draw his sword. He dismissed that idea at once. As the guard drew back his spear for another jab, Reith placed himself in front of the Krishnan, spreading his arms and shouting one of the few Gozashtandou words he could recall:
“Astoí!
Halt!”