The Steel of Raithskar (20 page)

It took all the control I had not to stop in the middle of the road and just stare at it. Every building, large and small, was faced with smooth, polished marble. The westering sun cast soft shadows into the streets and across the lower buildings. The murmur of the river in the background added to the whole effect. The city looked clean and cool; its wide avenue was an open invitation; and the crowds of people moving along that avenue amid peals of laughter made me conscious of being alone and very tired.

It was hard to keep my eyes on the road, but I tried. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself for looking like a classic case of hickdom. But I needn’t have worried—the city had the same effect on the people around me. In tacit agreement we all began to move a little faster.

As I watched the city draw nearer, I wondered about the odd color of the marble. I decided that there must be a vein of copper in those hills somewhere. Basic copper carbonate, in adequate quantity, might account for the soothing pastel green of Omergol’s walls.

Had the first builders of this city planned to build it of the beautiful marble they found nearby? Or had some Gandalaran analog of Augustus Caesar found a wooden city and transformed it into this cool green elegance? As I passed through the gates, I felt again that sense of antiquity I had experienced when Thanasset and I had too briefly discussed the history of Gandalara.

The wall and gate had been recently refinished with a fresh surface of marble, but just inside, the buildings wore their original faces, which in some places were scarred and rounded by erosion. In rainless Gandalara, only the wind could have accomplished that slight damage. And, even throwing a dust-storm or two every year, my mind simply couldn’t grasp the enormous amount of time these buildings had been standing.

To either side of the wide avenue just inside the city wall were open areas which served as the city’s marketplace. Beyond them the stairs began their ascent, and the wide avenue was edged with open doorways. From them came the savory smell of cooking meat and fresh-baked bread, and a heady mixture of sound. The clatter of dishes and coins and the wooden rectangles used for gaming spilled from the doorways. Music from string and wood instruments, here in a light tune, there offering steady, stirring rhythms, and occasionally acting as accompaniment for voices. Other voices, men’s and women’s, were laughing and talking, in one case, at least, quarreling. In that one case I managed to dodge past the doorway just before two young Gandalarans, farmhands by their dress, and smelling strongly of faen, fell out into the avenue and rolled, struggling together, down the stairway. Several people followed them, shouting with excitement. Roughly half, I guessed, were trying to stop the fight. The other half were betting on their choice to win. From somewhere appeared another group of men with the efficient look of cops.

I had been trying to decide where to stop for the meal and rest I wanted so badly. At that point I decided to move on; the neighborhood seemed a little rough, and the last thing I needed in Omergol was trouble.

So I mounted the rest of that flight of stairs, ignoring my clamoring belly. The second level of the city was less crowded and somewhat quieter. I considered going further up, but rejected the idea. The higher levels were undoubtedly the newest; the business districts would be more expensive and a common traveler would be more conspicuous there.

Just about then I saw it. It was on the other side of the street, its open door inviting me. And above the door, carved in bas relief out of the deepest green marble I had yet seen, was a large and somewhat stylized image of a sha’um. It was passing to the left, but its head was turned out toward the avenue, and it looked quite fierce. Under the carving, set in gold lettering, were Gandalaran characters: The Green Sha’um Inn. It looked like just the place I wanted.

I walked through the door into a narrow lobby. Stairs led upward on my right; a door opened on my left and I hesitated at the cheerful sound of voices and the unmistakable aroma of a bar. First things first, I told myself.

A man was seated at a desk just beyond the beginning of the stairway. As I started toward the desk, he stood up and bowed. “How may I help you sir?” he asked.

“I need a room for the night,” I said.

“There is a room available,” he replied. “The charge will be ten zaks.”

I did some quick figuring and decided that it was a reasonable sum for a night’s lodging. I fished a dozak piece out of my pouch and put it on the desk.

He didn’t take the money immediately. Instead, he brought a huge register book from somewhere behind the desk, a thin brush, and an inkwell. My throat went suddenly dry as I realized that I had never written a Gandalaran word. But my fear passed as the man opened the register book, dipped the pen in ink, and looked up at me. “Your name and home, sir?” he asked, poising the brush above the page.

I was ready for that. I hoped my relief didn’t show as I gave him the alias: “Lakad, Mildak’s son, of
Chizan.
”

He wrote. Then he took the coin, put it somewhere in the desk, and gave me two zaks change.

“I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir.” He handed me a key. “Room eight; up the stairs and to your right.”

“Thank you. I-uh-sure need a bath.” Did the rooms come with one? I suspected they didn’t, but I didn’t want to come right out and ask a stupid question.

“Ah. Koreddon’s Bath-house is just around the corner to the east—almost behind us. You can’t miss it. But they’re closed for the dinner hour. Won’t open for a while yet. Why not have a bite yourself, while you’re waiting? Or a nice cool drink?” I looked at him and he knew he’d made a sale and smiled. “The Onyx Room,” he nodded toward the doorway I had passed as I entered, “is always open. Welcome to Omergol.”

“Thanks.”

The Onyx Room ran the length of the building back from the street. To my right, as I entered, a bar of shiny black marble stretched along the far wall. Behind it were two burly bartenders, each serving half a dozen people of both sexes. I hadn’t realized just how thirsty I was until I saw one of the bartenders serving up a mug of faen. He caught my look and grinned. He was missing a couple of lower teeth, a silent testament to the hazards of tending bar in a neighborhood that could turn rough. I guessed he must have served his apprenticeship on the first level of the city.

He poured a mug of faen and handed it across the bar to me. I took a deep drink. “Thanks. Can I get some dinner?”

“The best in town,” he answered, and the smoothness of his voice was a surprise. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll inform the kitchen the dinner crowd is starting to arrive.”

The room was fairly wide, with tables and chairs scattered across the marble-tiled floor. Against the wall opposite the bar was a regular pattern of tables and high-backed benches which created a booth-like effect. The tables had mosaic surfaces of green and black marble shavings, the visual effect very similar, though more dramatic, to the wood parquetry I had seen in Raithskar.

I drained the mug and handed it back for a refill before I walked over to a small booth and sat down. I was facing the rear of the large room, and I watched the bartender go to the far end of the bar, open a door and say something, then return to his work. He grinned at me again and said my dinner would be ready soon. I nodded and smiled my thanks, but I could feel my mind drifting. Whether it was fatigue or the faen I had downed so quickly, I couldn’t tell, but I suddenly felt completely relaxed and free of worry.

For the first time since I had left Raithskar I began to wonder, in a comfortably detached sort of way, what I would do when I did reach the stronghold of the Sharith. I had little doubt that arriving unseen would be impossible. From all I had heard, they were too well-trained to forego an effective sentry system. And if it were somehow possible for me to slip through the “human” guards, how could I elude the sense of smell of their sha’um?

I floated in a sort of limbo, separate from the noise of the growing crowd in the bar, aware of my surroundings, but only peripherally, as if they did not concern me at all. I thanked the bartender, who personally brought my dinner, and I was not too detached to enjoy a well-cooked glith steak and a rich assortment of fruits.

At times I watched the people around me, and I was vaguely surprised to see that not everyone was enjoying the same meal I had been served. In fact, now that the crowd had arrived, there were waiters and waitresses taking orders for specific dishes. The bartender, obviously, had chosen my meal for me. I was somehow deeply flattered that he considered me a steak-and-potatoes type.

I had several more glasses of faen, and I took my time over the meal. The entirety of my experiences in Gandalara wandered through my thoughts. Yafnaar. Keeshah. Thanasset. Zaddorn. Illia. Keeshah. The Ra’ira. The Sharith. Kä. Milda. And always Keeshah.

People came and went around me; I overheard scraps of conversation and was comforted by their triviality. I was nursing what I had decided must be my final glass of faen when there was a general movement in the room. People standing up, chairs and benches scraping. At first I thought,
There must be a very specific dinner hour here, and it’s over.
But that was disproved by the voice of my bartender friend, speaking in the doorway behind me.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Where will you be seated?”

But it was a small mystery and not worth my attention. I stared into my faen and thought about the greater mystery. What had happened to the Ra’ira?

The room had grown quiet, but I assumed that most of the people had left. I was thinking that I, too, should be going, when a deep voice sounded at my shoulder, crashing through my preoccupation.

“I think we will sit
here
,” it said.

I looked up, then. Two men were standing next to me. They were dressed in a manner I had not yet seen in Gandalara. Their trousers and tunics were a finely-woven fabric exactly the color of the desert sands. Their boots and wide-brimmed hats were a darker tan, and tied around their waists were long sashes of a pale yellow muslin. They wore baldrics, swords, and an arrogant manner.

To one side of them stood the bartender, looking at me, his expression one I could not read.

I blinked up at them, trying to will away the fog. I was bewildered by the fact that the room hadn’t cleared, after all. It was still full, but everyone was standing up, away from their tables. Everyone except me.

As I struggled to grasp the significance of that fact, the newcomers glared at me. One of them put a hand to his chin and slid a wooden bead down a slim string. Then he thumbed his hat back from his forehead and it slid off to hang from his shoulders, held around his neck by the string. It was a curious hat, stiff-brimmed with a rounded top.

If it were red instead of tan
, I thought crazily,
that hat would do a nineteenth-century cardinal proud.

“Well?” the stranger asked.

“Well?” I repeated, feeling as though I had just awakened. I was confused. I was beginning to be frightened.

“Stand up, you son of a flea!” he yelled. Both of them took a step backward, and they drew their swords.

Suddenly everything seemed crystal clear to me.

Those are uniforms! They must be local cops. How the hell did Zaddorn get word here so fast?

The effects of the faen and the calmness of my brief reverie faded away from me. I was back in focus, sharply alert, and there was one driving thought uppermost in my mind.

I can’t let them take me now—not when I’ve come this far. Thanasset’s future depends on my getting to Thagorn and finding the truth.

I’ve already killed a cop. They can’t hang me twice … and I can’t go back to Raithskar without some answers.

The glass of faen was in my right hand, still half full. I tossed it into the face of the nearest man—the one who was still wearing his hat. At the same time, I stood up and launched my empty dinner plate at the other one. He ducked.

I had knocked over my bench and the one behind it. I kicked them away from me, and drew my sword.

The bartender moved then. He went behind the bar and with steady, practiced movements, began pulling breakables down from the shelves.

Some of the customers left hurriedly out of whichever door was nearest. Most of them just pressed back away from the three of us, me and the two hats. They looked on with great interest.

I decided I had misjudged the bartender. He needn’t have worked the lower level of the city to have earned those broken teeth.

As the two uniformed men squared against me, my perception shifted the same way it had done when Milda had come into my room the first time I saw her. In one timeless instant, it was as though the flim of life had stopped and I was looking at a single frame frozen on the screen.

The title of the film should have been
Tarzan on the Planet of the Apes.

I was faced by a couple of mad bull apes clad in comic khaki uniforms. The one on my left, who had pushed his hat back, had a snarl on his face that revealed a snaggled right tusk that somehow looked more dangerous than the normal one.

The one on my right had a neat scar that ran down his right cheek from the inner corner of his eye to a point about an inch from the corner of his mouth. You might have called what he was doing a smile—if you were feeling generous.

The film started moving again.

Snaggletooth came in with an overhand cut that was meant to cleave me from guggle to zatch. Scarface came in with an underhand thrust to my belly. These two boys knew how to work together.

I brought my own sword up from my left in a backhand slash that slammed Snaggletooth’s sword aside and brought its edge dangerously close to his partner’s nose. Instinctively, Scarface leaped backward, and his thrust missed me by inches.

As Scarface’s sword arced upward without meeting any resistance, I reversed my own slash and slammed my blade against his. The weapon spun free of his hand and looped to my left, spinning. It clanged point-down on a tabletop, fell over, and skittered off the edge.