The Steel of Raithskar (19 page)

“Yes—but I always knew I’d come home someday. That’s why I’ve saved this coin through the years—for the trip home.”

“Well,” he said, stacking the coins on the counter between us and counting them again, this time toward me, “don’t be troubled by what I said. Rumors are only rumors, after all.

“And Raithskar’s a nice city. I’ve been there more than once—I’d be tempted to set up business there, myself, if the folk here didn’t need me so much. But that’s life, eh? Find yourself a niche and make the most of it.”

He pushed the neatly stacked coins across the counter to me. “There you are, young man. Eighteen dozaks in silver, twenty-four zaks in bronze.” I glanced over them. They were stacked by sixes, and easily countable.

“Correct,” I confirmed. “And your commission?”

He carefully lifted two bronze coins off the top of a stack. “Quite right. Less two zaks for my trouble.”

Less than one percent commission for money-changing? “A fair price. A pleasure to do business with you, sir.”

“A smooth trip home to you, young man,” he said, smiling. “And a happy homecoming.”

I thanked him and went back to Nasin’s to pay my bill and collect my pack. I insisted, because of the delay, on paying him for the second bowl of stew. And, since he knew I wasn’t on my last dozak, he accepted, and wished me a happy day. I filled my waterskins at the well, and headed out of the village.

That’s a great way to travel incognito
, I said to myself.
Play the classic rich bum. Get a man to offer you sympathy and undercharge you, then flash a wad that would choke a vlek.

Zaddorn knows I have those gold pieces. And Lorbin will remember me. He believed that homecoming story—but will Zaddorn? Sure he will—when Keeshah rides a vlek.

I had calmed down a little by the time I reached the tree where my other pack and my sword were hidden. Even if I had thought about those gold pieces earlier, what could I have done about it? There had been no time for moneychanging in Thanasset’s house, and no opportunity between there and here.

Keeshah was waiting for me, radiating contentment. He sent me a welcoming thought and indicated that he was ready to move on again.

*
Not right away, Keeshah. Let’s rest a little, and let our lunch settle.
*

Again I felt a sense of surprise from him. *
Thank you.
*

He allowed me to stand on his back to retrieve my things from the treebranch, then he wandered off into a shaded area, curled up and was instantly asleep. The way a cat sleeps, with one ear open.

I pulled the map out of the pack and studied it. If I were Zaddorn, what would I do? What would I think of Markasset? Where would I think he would go?

I thought back to the fight in Thanasset’s garden. The cop I had ended up killing had said:
“The Chief says he has it on him.”

That seemed to mean that Zaddorn believed I had stolen the Ra’ira and was still carrying it around. Did he think I had taken it with me on the caravan and then brought it back to Raithskar, only to take it out of the city again? Going where?
Chizan
, and eventually Eddarta?

Neither city was on the map, but Markasset’s memory told me that
Chizan
was ten days east southeast of Thagorn, and Eddarta some thirty-five days beyond
Chizan
, east and south of it.

No, Zaddorn was no fool and he knew Markasset wasn’t one, either. But he might believe—
that’s it!
I thought.
He must think that I stole the gem and hid it in Thanasset’s house, then left on the caravan to make him think it was already out of the city. He probably thinks I did betray the caravan to the Sharith—to cover my tracks. I went back to Raithskar expecting him to believe that the Ra’ira had been lost with the caravan, so that I could stay home without being suspected.

And do what with the Ra’ira? Pay off Worfit? And what would he do with it?

What does it matter?
I asked myself.
If
you’re writing a fairy tale, don’t quibble over talking bears.

Why I would be confident of not being suspected, I couldn’t imagine. Zaddorn might reason that I expected the entire caravan to be wiped out, and the two escapees had ruined my plan, making it necessary for me to grab the jewel and hightail it out of town.

But where?
I thought irritably.
Damn it, where does he think I’m going? Where will he go in order to catch up to me in the shortest time possible? He knows I’m days ahead of him already, riding Keeshah. What the hell is the man thinking right now?

He could have decided that I would head west—the map didn’t show me what lay in that direction, and Markasset’s memory was not cooperating. But I couldn’t count on that. I’d have to assume he figured I would head southeast. And whether I was going to Eddarta to turn the Ra’ira over to some Lord who had paid me to steal it or whether—and this was a new possibility—I was going to collect it from the Sharith, whom I had paid to steal it—whichever he thought it was, I would have to go through Thagorn.

So Zaddorn is heading for Thagorn, too
, I decided.
And he’d take the quickest route with the best chance of finding definite traces of my passing, knowing that he can’t hope to catch up with me until I stop somewhere—maybe in Thagorn itself.

I drew my finger across the map from Raithskar to the Refreshment House at Yafnaar.
He’d go there first, looking for me. If he doesn’t find news of me there—which he won’t—would he go directly to Thagorn?

No
, I decided.
Because he still wouldn’t have any
proof
that I’m heading for Thagorn. He’ll know that if I don’t stop at Yafnaar I’ll follow the mountains down to Thagorn. But he won’t bother to backtrack to Alkhum—he’ll cut across the Omergol and look for me there.

I did some quick calculation. Ten days for Zaddorn to travel from Raithskar to Omergol. I had been two days on the road, so that made it … eight days from now, Zaddorn would reach Omergol.

*
Keeshah,
* I called. He was instantly on his feet and trotting toward me.

I replaced the maps and retied the packs, mounted Keeshah, and slung the packs across my lap as I had done before. As we started southward, I was thinking:

Zaddorn will be in Omergol eight days from now, and I’ll be there tomorrow. That gives me a clear seven-day lead on him.

So why am I still worried?

The answer to that was readily summed up in one word.

Zaddorn.

I might have made better time if I’d been able to use the road that ran along within a few miles of the towering cliffs, but I didn’t dare. The next town of any size was Omergol, a good day’s ride on sha’um back, and four days by shank’s mare. Any traffic I met would remember me. There were disadvantages to being partners with a sha’um, though the advantages outweighed them by twenty to one.

Like the ancient Roman roads of Europe, the highways of Gandalara don’t need repair very often, and when they do, the job is fairly easy and the materials close at hand. They’re built of rock salt, which is just about as hard as marble. In some places, I found out later, the road is simply a smoothed ribbon over a natural bed of rock salt. In a place where it never rains—
never
—there was no need for the ancient road-builders to take drainage or seepage into account.

There should be an old saying here, “There’s only two kinds of weather in Gandalara—hot and dry.” There should be, but there isn’t. There is no word for “weather” in the language. The concept doesn’t even exist, because the condition doesn’t exist. Climate, yes; weather, no.

Does a fish ever talk about humidity?

The most widely-traveled roads are those that run near the Great Wall, where the water is. So when a rut or a pothole develops in the surface of a road, the locals get a few buckets of sludge from the edge of the nearest salt swamp and fill the defect carefully. When it dries, you have rock salt again.

Since it is only the roads and the caravans that keep trade going, and since only the roads will take wheeled vehicles, the local folk do a pretty conscientious job of keeping them in repair.

Near dusk of the second day the sounds on the highway grew more frequent, and the cheerful voices of men greeting friends blended with the inane bawling of the vleks. I rode low on Keeshah’s back, and we moved carefully through the trees, watchful for the occasional cottage. We had reached the outskirts of Omergol, and it was obviously far different from the sleepy farm village of Alkhum. From the amount of traffic flowing from it, I decided it must be a good-sized city, and I was overcome with a need for a hot meal and a cold beer and a night’s rest on something softer than the salty earth. Surely one more traveler would not be noticed.

I dropped my saddlebags over a nearby limb then slipped off Keeshah’s back.

*
Stay out of sight,
* I warned him, and received an answering flow of scorn—did I think he was stupid? I laughed and scratched his forehead in apology.

*
Back when?
* he asked.

*
Tomorrow. Dawn—no,
* I hesitated. I wasn’t sure, after all, how far away the city was and how long it would take me to get back here on foot. And Milda’s pack of supplies was running low—it might be a good idea to wait until the shops opened and replenish my food rations before I left Omergol.

*
Tomorrow noon,
* I decided.

*
Here?
*

*
Yes. Feed well.
*

I watched his tawny form move silently through the trees away from the road. Then I set out on foot, still following the road, but some distance from it.

That is, I thought I was moving parallel to the road—until I almost stepped right out on it. I caught myself in time and made sure I was screened from the flow of traffic while I took some time to think.

This was a wide and busy highway, with traffic moving at a steady pace going both ways. To my left—toward the city, which was hidden from me by the trees—groups of men moved on foot, laughing and talking. They were dressed in the same kind of coordinated outfits I had seen in Markasset’s closet—not as rich, perhaps, but obviously these were young men all set for a night on the town. Carts traveled in that direction, too, mostly farm carts laden with produce, and men dressed in simple clothing who looked as eager for the city as their better dressed counterparts. But, as I watched, a dusty caravan groaned and waddled by, weighed down with cargo well-wrapped against the dryness of the desert. I thought I recognized in the colored cloth covering the carts one of the merchant banners I had seen in Raithskar.

That’s what gave me the clue that solved the puzzle. When I had looked at Thanasset’s map, I had judged that Zaddorn would cut straight across the desert from Yafnaar to Omergol. It hadn’t occurred to me, then, that the same route might be used as an alternative to the hot, dry march across the desert from the south. The road I was watching was not the one I had been following, but one which intersected it at Omergol.

Any caravans which took this route must follow the Great Wall south—through Thagorn? Under the noses of a band of Riders who raided the desert travelers to collect their just “tribute”?

Tribute—of course. The Sharith probably charged these caravans a high toll for safe passage near Thagorn. And they would pay it—for the privilege of a more comfortable trip, for the safety of the remainder of their goods, and for the assurance of getting to their destinations alive. The Sharith probably regarded anyone who dared the desert route as traitors trying to evade their taxes.

But as I said, I had seen only one caravan going
toward
Omergol, and its role as a trade route stopover would not account for the high volume of traffic. The city itself must have some attraction of its own.

One thing more I learned, watching the traffic moving by. Nine out of ten men on that road going in either direction were wearing swords. And the rest wore long knives at their belts. Well, when in Rome …

I wore my sword. I stepped out from behind the bushes as though I had stepped behind them for personal reasons, and joined the parade. Nobody looked twice at me. I returned the courtesy.

But I did glance at the carts coming from Omergol. They were larger and sturdier than the farm carts, which were wood frames mounted on a single axle with wooden spoke-wheels rimmed with bronze. All the carts I had seen up until now had beds and sides of interlaced rope, which had seemed eminently reasonable to me, considering the time and expense it must have taken just to laminate the long bars of wood together which make up the cart frame, axle, wheels, and tongue.

The carts coming from Omergol were wagons, really, with double axles and beds strengthened with long slats of wood interwoven with rope. It took four vleks to pull the ones I saw, and they were
working
at it. I was finding myself more and more curious about what Omergol produced that had to be hauled away with so much effort.

The road turned a slight corner, and I had my answer. Boy, did I have my answer.

I was looking into the intersection of the two roads, and past that through the gates of the city straight up its throat. I say “up” because Omergol climbed the foot of the Great Wall in huge terraces. I could distinguish five levels, and straight through the center of the city ran a continuation of the wide highway on which I was standing. Stairsteps as wide as the broad avenue climbed between each level.

To the right of the city, further up the slope, which was gentler here than behind Raithskar, I could see a fine mist which meant a river. I could hear it, too, and it was not falling, as the Sharkel did, but rushing down the side of the mountain.

To the left of the city was a huge pit, which had climbed the hillside at about the same rate as the city. A stream of men and women was flowing from that worksite back into Omergol.

And between the pit and the river gleamed the beautiful city of Omergol.

I was to learn later that Omergol was primarily a mining town, digging and polishing semi-precious stones from underground mines further up the slope of the Wall. But it had a second interest which had to be hauled away in double-axle wagons, and which it flaunted. Between its high-demand goods and its place along the trade route, Omergol was a rich city—and it wore its wealth proudly in a mantle of pale green marble.