I nodded vaguely, and, vaguely still, noted that the fat cook was now helping me up a wide, beautifully carpeted stairway, with Dardo leading the way. The innkeeper held a large ring of jangling keys in his hand, and selected one as he went along.
“In here,” I heard him say, and noted that we had stopped before a particular door of rich, dark wood. There was a cameo of a female cat’s face, the princess from the legend Ailla, laid on its surface.
I heard the key rattle in the door, felt myself move forward, saw a rectangle of shaded window and then felt the cool, soft hands of a pillowed bed, something I hadn’t slept in in months, enfold me like the arms of a mother.
And then I heard myself gently snoring, and then heard no more.
Until Hermes came back to kill me.
I came instantly awake. I did not know how long I had slept, but I heard the door to the room ease open and felt as much as saw the figure standing over me, holding a long blade.
“Poor girl,” Hermes said. He sounded very drunk. This was confirmed a moment later when he leaned over me as I feigned sleep and I smelled the thick odor of Volcano Ale on his breath. My paw went to my belt under the folds of my robe and stayed there.
He stood swaying with the long blade in his paw and continued to look down at me.
Suddenly he staggered back a step and collapsed to the floor, weeping.
“I am not a murderer,” he sobbed. “Of all the things I have done, I cannot do that!”
Stealthily, I brought my own blade out and slipped out of the bed behind him, pressing the blade to Hermes’s throat.
“Why were you going to kill me?” I whispered. “Tell me, or I will cut you.”
He gasped, and dropped his own blade, which I kicked into the corner.
“Tell me!” I ordered. “Or I’ll bring you back to the Mighty myself and let him deal with you.”
This brought on a fresh bout of weeping. “It’s no use, Ransom. By now the Mighty is gone. They’re all gone!”
I pressed the blade deeper into his throat, and a chill went down my spine. “What do you mean?” I hissed.
“They’re dead by now. The Meridiani Pass, they were to be waylaid there.”
I nearly cut him, such was my rage. “How could you do this?”
“How could I not!” he wailed. “The F’rar have taken my entire family hostage in the east! Just as it was with the girl Hera.” He looked up at me with haunted eyes. “They drew and quartered my brother Timon! They cut out my father’s tongue – and he a singer! And said they would do worse to the rest of them if I did not do as they asked and delivered you to them. If they had known you were still with the Mighty you would be dead by now. Because I did not trust them, I told them you left a week ago and that I was to meet you on the way north. But still they insisted on attacking the Mighty, to make sure. We were lucky to leave when we did.”
“The Mighty trusted you!” I responded.
“It is the worst thing I could ever do!” He buried his face in his paws and wept. “But they have my family!”
“What were you to do after you killed me?” I asked him.
Still weeping, he said, “Bring your body to them as proof. Then they will let my family go.”
“They won’t, and you are a fool. I suggest you go to the morgue and find a suitable replacement for me.”
He looked at me in horror. “The F’rar will kill me!”
“If you follow me, or ever come within my sight again, fat cook, I’ll kill you myself,” I said. “I am sorry for your family, but what you did cannot be forgiven.”
He looked up at me with a kind of pleading in his eyes. “The Mighty never understood that the world is changing. It is a different place now than it was only a few months ago. The F’rar have changed everything...”
“And this is what you do to a man who loved and trusted you?”
“These F’rar are not bound by honor! I had no choice!”
“There is always a choice. Good-bye, Hermes. If you had told the Mighty, he would have knocked down heaven to free your family. Instead you betrayed him.”
I left him there, weeping.
I expected that the door might be watched, but this was not the case. There was a back stairway which led to a storage room and a door into an alley, and, as luck was with me, I was able to mount Hermes’s laden but stronger horse, leaving my poor mare for the traitor, without being seen. I made sure to transfer my things to the larger animal, including my precious book.
After riding slowly through the market square and under the unwatchful eye of the tower sentry, whose snores could be heard from the ground, I kicked the horse into full gallop, already afraid at what I would find at the other end of my short journey.
Nine
No one was left alive.
They had been caught in the middle of the Meridiani pass, just as the fat cook had promised. I wished at that moment that I had slit his throat. From a distance the bodies looked like a string of beads laid out between the wagons, which had been undamaged. The Mighty had not even had time to draw the caravan into a circle. I soon found out why: the F’rar had taken a page from the Mighty’s own book, and hidden themselves in ground traps. A line of these crossed the path of the front of the caravan, and the Mighty’s body lay here, punctured by many bullets and arrows. Myra’s body lay next to him, similarly violated. The rest had been attacked from the sides and from above. Little One had died at the feet of his master.
It must have been over very quickly, and signs of the overwhelming force the F’rar had brought on the little caravan were evident. The rest of the dogs had also been slain.
As the sun lowered itself, I cradled the Mighty’s head and said some of his own prayers, trusting that his gods would forgive me for using Noon ceremony ablations at evening.
I then buried his body with Myra beside him, and tended to the burial of the others as best I could.
It was a long night, and I spent it toiling by the light of Phobos, which kept me company in my labors. I recited one of the Moon ceremony prayers as I worked:
O mighty son of the sky,
Fierce night warrior,
Guardian of the dark ways,
Help me in my pursuits
If they be worthy ones,
And let me not stray
From the path of righteousness,
From the road of good deeds,
And from the way which leads
To the well being of my people.
I had tears in my eyes as the sun rose, and I mounted my laden horse, turned my back on the circle of graves, and left that place.
Part Two
Science
Ten
At first I had sought to travel south, to look for Kerl and the remains of my people. But the way was blocked at every turn. There was a massive F’rar presence near the equator, and the news was that what had been my people, who were now called rebels, had been scattered to the four winds and were being systematically hunted. I concluded that even if I reached the spot where I had last seen them, would they be anywhere nearby after these many months? The best thing seemed to be to find my way safely to one of the smaller cities in the north and try to ferret out the resistance from there.
Hermes’s maps were as good as he had claimed, and I had no trouble getting to my goal. And, somehow, the fat cook had done his job well. When I rode into the city of Shklovskii three weeks later there was, to my surprise, much F’rar presence, and much commotion among the populace. But none of it was over me, because I soon discovered that I had been declared dead, and was therefore no longer a threat.
The F’rar had moved on to other things.
I was dead, which in many ways was a good thing.
Shklovskii was not much of a city, and neither was its twin Sagan, but I soon learned that, as with any place, there were layers to the onion that could be peeled away, revealing more beneath than was apparent on the surface. My bedouin garb immediately attracted attention, not all of it go
od, and I was nearly detained at the city gates until I produced a packet of Takkra root, a bribe which gained me instant admission.
“So you are a spice trader?” the guard, suddenly civil, asked.
I nodded.
“Then you will be staying at the House of the Fox?”
“Of course,” I answered, having no idea what he was talking about.
He lowered his voice. “You might not find it as congenial as in the past. There are” – and here he lowered his voice even more, forcing me to bend my head toward him – “F’rar in residence. You might find the Eagle to be more to your liking.” He straightened. “Even though my brother-in-law runs it, and is a dolt, it is better than the Fox these days. And the ale is superb.”
“Volcano ale?” I asked, failing to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
He spat. “Swill from the midlands. I wouldn’t wash my horse’s arse with it.”
I smiled, thanked him, and handed over another packet of spice.
He bowed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” He looked me up and down. “The best places to eat? New places of business?” He studied me again. “Consorts?”
I employed his advice on the first two, and went on my way. For a brief moment I thought of soliciting his thoughts on the rebels, but was sure that information would quickly find its way to unhealthy places for me.
I did follow his advice and avoided the Fox. The Eagle was a rodent hole, but a serviceable one. Its very disrepute had kept the F’rar away. After paying the innkeeper extra to watch my horse and its wares, and warning him in a civil way (which I’m sure he was used to) that if anything untoward happened to either of them I would cut his throat, I ventured into the sunlight to get my bearings.
It wasn’t long before I saw a column of red-shirted F’rar leading a feline down the street. The citizenry made a wide path, and avoided the eyes of the fellow, who knew some of them by name and shouted to them for support which was not forthcoming.
When this episode was over I asked a citizen standing next to me, who had looked away as this went on, what it meant.
“Are you kidding? They will never see him again. No doubt the F’rar wanted his business, so they took it. It is the same all over.”
He stopped to study me more closely, but I quickly said, “I have been on the road a long time.”
“Well, if you’re a trader hide your wares, because sooner or later the F’rar will confiscate them.
I bowed in thanks, and ate a meal in one of the places recommended to me. I avoided the ale, which was just as well because the food was worthy of a trough, the atmosphere uncongenial. Also, I continued to draw attention because of my garb.
When I returned to the Eagle I found the innkeeper rifling through my horse’s bundles. Stealthily, I drew my blade and lay it against the back of his neck.
He jumped nearly a foot, and fell to the ground stammering his innocence.
I told him to get up.
“What were you looking for?” I asked.
“It was...apparent to me that you carried more than just spices. There are men in Sagan who would pay dearly for some of these materials.”
Though I had no idea what he was talking about, I encouraged him to continue talking.
Still cowering, he reached toward one bundle, and then another. “These chemicals, for instance...”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that, as I said...”
“Point me toward these men. They are not friends of the F’rar, are they?”
“No!” Realizing that he had spoken too quickly and with too much enthusiasm he lowered his voice.
“Come have a drink with me and I’ll tell you more.”
“I think not.” I hefted my blade. “We’ll talk here. What’s your name?”
“Pavin.”
“Talk then, Pavin.”
He told me of a place in Sagan in which I would find a fellow who would lead me to another place, and so on. When he was finished I asked, keeping my voice level, “Are these men of the rebellion?”
His eyes widened with sudden fear. “I know nothing about that! Nothing!”
I paid him in spice, offering more if he stayed away from my belongings, the edge of my blade for certain if he did not. I was learning that most people listen to you if you offer to end their lives if they do not.
It was late in the day now, and I had one more task before the shops closed. There was a milliner down two streets and over one, and after asking advice of passersby, determined that it was the best in the area. I entered, and exited a half hour later dressed more in line with the local population and carrying my robes in a parcel under my arm. It felt strange to be wearing cultivated things again, a skirt, blouse with leather jerkin, some costume jewelry, and at first I felt awkward and out of place. But I soon noticed that I was drawing attention no longer, and became at ease.
I returned to the Eagle, and inspected my room which was nearly absent of light, smelled dank and sported nothing worse than a peephole, which I covered. Then I went out again. It was already dark, and street lamps were lit, something else I hadn’t seen in a long while.
I had another wretched meal, drawing some attention now not for my dress but for the fact that I was female (this bar, it turned out, served mostly working men) and then went back to my poor room and slept.
Or rather tried to sleep, because my dreams were bad ones, filled with all of the treachery and death I had recently seen.
For the first time in a long time I felt very alone.
It was not a feeling that would last long.
Eleven
I was awakened by loud knocking on the door. It was late. A single shaft of light beamed through the tiny window onto the floor. I had meant to get up at dawn.
The banging continued, and I yelled, churlishly, “Leave off that! I’ll be there in a minute!”
A sudden thought struck me that it might be the F’rar – but this was instantly dispelled by the certainty that they would never have knocked except to knock down the door itself.
“Who is it?” I shouted.
“It’s me! Pavin! The innkeeper!”
Hearing that, I lay curled back into the surely tick-ridden bedding. “Leave me be! I’ll be down presently!”
“Then you’ll surely lose your chance, miss! I’m detaining him as it is!”
“Who?”
“Someone you should meet! He’s in the tap room!”
I heard him recede, and I called out, “All right! I’ll be right down!”
“Very well!” his fading voice answered, and then I heard his boots on the stairs.
I reached for my bedouin robe automatically, and then spied the neatly folded pile of city clothes on the room’s single chair and pulled them on instead, groaning as I did so. What little sleep I had attained had been bad. The bed was too soft and the room too dank. And now I had to wear these horrible clothes again, and forego the comfort of my robes...
I nonetheless made myself presentable, and five minutes later entered the tap room.
It was empty – but not quite. In the darkest corner behind the end of the bar was a table. The single occupant, in dark clothing and a cap, had his back to me and the room.
Pavin appeared at my elbow and urged me on.
“He’s paid his bill and is about to leave!”
“Bring me some breakfast – and it had better be eatable,” I ordered.
He was studying my new clothing, about to make comment, but I ignored him and walked to the table, crossing to the opposite side and pulling a chair out.
I sat.
The stranger raised his eyes from his steaming cup. I could smell strong coffee.
For a moment I thought he wore a mask, but saw with a start that it was a trick of the bad light – his face was smooth, nearly devoid of fur, the eyes deep blue and piercing. He was no doubt a member of the L’aag clan, known for these features.
“I hear you are a person of interest,” he said.
His voice was low, gravelly, tinged with irony.
“It depends on who is interested.”
He gave a low snort and waved a paw – again nearly devoid of fur. “Is there anyone in this town except the F’rar who isn’t aware of you?”
“Did Pavin contact you?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Let’s just say that we become interested when any spice trader enters either of the twin cities.”
“You wish to talk?”
He leaned his head closer to mine. His eyes were nearly blazing and his lips pulled back in a smirk.
“I wish to know, first of all, how someone like you ends up with Hermes the fat cook’s wares.”
The eyes didn’t blink, and the grin widened.
“So...”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back. He sipped his coffee without taking his eyes from me. “I was told you arrived in bedouin robes. Were you his...apprentice?”
“Something like that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “When Hermes was executed by the F’rar, we feared his particular talents were lost to us. But perhaps not...”
I realized that he was trying to hide his jubilation.
“Then we will deal,” I said.
“Oh, certainly.” He barked a command to Pavin, who appeared instantly.
“The lady is checking out of your piss hole,” he said without taking his eyes from me. “Gather her things.”
“Of course!”
“And Pavin,” the stranger said, “I will inventory her horse very carefully. If anything is missing I will do twice to you what she would have.”
“Yes! Yes!” the innkeeper said, scuttling off.
“He would have been subtle, but things would have been stolen.”
“I caught him at it yesterday.”
He laughed, and pushed his chair back and rose. He was easily the tallest feline I had ever seen.
“We must go by back ways,” he said, which did not surprise me.
Haydn of Mars Page 8