by James Gurley
“The Quarn say we stole their world.” The words burst from his mouth like an accusation.
His uncle looked at him and slowly shook his head. “Some say the Haffa stole it first, enslaving the Quarn or forcing them into hiding in the mountains. Terrans freed the Quarn. We might have been a bit heavy handed in our dealings with them, but the Quarn wanted nothing more than solitude, so we avoided them as best we could. We built cities and factories on the ruins of their abandoned Warrens and pretty much ignored them.”
“Until the Fall.”
“Yes. After the Veil came, every intelligent species had to stand together or fall into oblivion. The infighting and blaming came much later. To this day, the Quarn remain apart from all others except for an occasional foray into Delphi or other cities for things they can no longer produce in their cities.”
Tad glanced back at the slow moving Quarn sungliders. “I wonder what they think of us.”
His uncle shrugged. “Who knows how a Quarn’s mind works? They stay out of everyone’s way and keep a low profile. There are some old ruins that look Quarnish, so maybe they were more civilized once long ago before the Haffa came. There are a few renegade Quarn running with Marauders, I hear, but I ain’t ever seen one.”
Tad struggled with the mental image of a meter-tall Quarn holding a crossbow or pistol in its tiny four-fingered paw as it attacked a Caravan and quickly gave up. The Quarn never showed emotions, though he imagined that they must have them, and never carried arms. The Quarn offended no one. That was their defense, their very inoffensiveness.
Tad fought back a wide yawn and stretched his arms. The Caravan, so near its destination, had continued to roll throughout the night rather than stop again on the open dusty plains where every step produced a cloud of stinging alkali dust. He, like everyone else, was weary of the journey and eager to reach his destination. They would stop soon when they found water.
A commotion from the direction of the head of the Caravan attracted Tad’s attention. The blare of a horn sounded over the constant creaking of the carts’ wheels. He turned to his uncle.
“Trouble?” he asked.
“I see no one arming themselves,” his uncle said as he slowly reined in the karth, using his mind to soothe their restlessness.
“I’ll go see,” Tad yelled, jumping down from the cart and racing ahead.
“Wait!” his uncle called uselessly, shaking his head at his nephew’s youthful exuberance.
At the fore of the Caravan, several carts had pulled off to the side of the worn track, forming a barricade of sorts. Four Saddir, armed with rifles, stood atop the carts.
“What is happening?” Tad asked the Saddir driving the lead cart. The Saddir looked down at Tad with his almond-shaped silver eyes, ubiquitous of all Saddir. Tiny scintillating flecks sparkled in the reflected light. Tad recalled that the Saddir’s name was Hanat. His long white hair formed a single braided strand that draped over his shoulder like an epaulet. His creamy white skin was mottled with red dust where not covered by his leather and chain mail armor. A small scar etched his lower right cheek. His hand rested easily on the pommel of his long sword and the handle of a pistol protruded from his belt. He looked very much the fighting man. Hanat nodded ahead. Tad looked and saw riders approaching, dozens of them, creating their own cloud of dust. His heart raced.
“Marauders?” he asked in concern. Small bands of Marauders often attacked caravans. That is why they had hired the Saddir to escort them to the city.
In a voice as soft as a breeze, Hanat said, “They ride two abreast like soldiers. I think they are from Delphi.”
“Delphinium Guard,” Tad whispered in awe, straining his eyes to get a good look. He had heard of them, but had never seen any. They never ventured as far as Casson at the foot of the Black Mountains where he lived. As he watched, the Delphinium rode to the head of the Caravan and stopped. Their dust cloud melded with the Caravan’s, creating a red shroud that blocked out the sun. The officer in charge, another Saddir older than Hanat, ignored the dust. He lightly touched his breast with his clenched right hand. Hanat returned the gesture. Tad noticed several decorations of honor on the Saddir’s metal breastplate and the mark of a Captain of the Guard on the sleeve of his tunic. His face was a map of battle scars, from the deep furrow across his brow to the long red welt that ran from his left ear, across his neck and disappeared inside his tunic.
“Welcome to Delphi,” said the captain. “You will have a safe, easy journey from here. The road ahead is secure.”
“We thank you,” Hanat replied, and then cocked his head quizzically. “You rode here just to greet us?”
The Saddir captain’s silver eyes narrowed. “No, we ride much farther, to Larkspur. There have been reports of Marauders about. We go to cleanse the land of their presence.”
As the two Saddir spoke, Tad inspected the company of soldiers. Among them were a few Terrans and Amazon-like Lilith. Tad was amazed at the dark beauty of the Lilith, but also slightly repelled by them. They were fierce warriors that conceived their young in ancient cloning tanks, disdaining the seed of men. Each bore features that marked her as sister to her race—long black hair, dark eyes, narrow nose and a grim expression. Most of the group of Delphinium Guard was Saddir or Gecks, huge reptilian creatures who spoke no language but their own and followed no one who could not speak it. The Gecks were a warrior race once at war with Terrans, but that was long ago.
“Go with my blessing,” Hanat said, touching his breast again.
The captain eyed Hanat for a moment, whispered, “Korath,” nodded and turned away. Tad noticed the manner in which Hanat’s eyes glowered at the word. Before he rode off, the captain of the company glanced over at Tad. He spoke to Hanat again. “This Terran is tall and strong for his age. He would make a good addition to our company.” He waved his hand and the group rode off.
Tad swelled with pride. “Did you hear that?” He yelled at Hanat as the Guard rode away. “He said I could be a Guard.”
“Be calm, young Tad de Silva,” Hanat cautioned, his eyes following the captain. “Before you can enter the Delphinium, you must complete two years as servant to the Guard, then two more as apprentice weapon smith. It is hard and thankless work designed to strip you of your pride in order to forge you into a weapon. The Delphinium have no companions but fellow Delphinium.”
“Were you a Delphinium?” Tad asked cautiously, remembering the odd eye contact between the two Saddir.
Hanat was silent for a moment before answering. His silver eyes glinted as he spoke. “Once, long ago, but I betrayed someone dear to me and felt I could no longer serve with honor. Instead, I now ride shotgun on a Caravan.” He laughed. “It is a fitting end for a failed life,” he said with undisguised bitterness. Tad did not try to stop him as he stalked away.
On the way back to his uncle, Tad passed one cart with a Terran driver, an old man named Hugh Suitor, a Terran, bringing metal scraps to the city’s foundries. He saw an ancient double-barreled shotgun lying across the man’s lap and smiled.
“Ready for trouble, I see, Mr. Suitor,” he said.
“Better ready than dead,” the scrapper answered with a cackle.
Tad pointed to the wagonload of scrap metal. “Do you get much for such things?”
“Good steel is worth much, iron less, copper depends on the market.” He pointed to small ingots of a silvery metal. “Now palladium is worth its weight in silver.” He cackled again. “But I imagine I’ll leave broke again this trip.”
Tad had never seen so much palladium, a heavy metal used in manufacturing ships rudders and bow sprints. “Broke? But this is worth a small fortune.”
“Ah, lad, you’ve never seen the gambling halls of Delphi, have you? Near naked women sit on your lap and whisper sweet things in your ear while you roll dice or bet on gladiatorial events. For a few gold Crowns, Plin Mages can return your youth and vigor for a day. I’m old, but I’m not so old I don’t remember my youth. It’s worth a few mont
hs wages to feel young and robust again even if the dawn light reveals a weary old man once again.” He whistled loudly and shook the reins to move his team of ponies forward.
Tad wondered what else the Plin Mages were capable of doing. He waited until his uncle’s wagon caught up, then climbed aboard. “The Saddir captain said I would make a good Delphinium Guard,” he bragged.
“Did the Saddir captain tell you that only two out of fifty make it to the ranks of Delphinium and that the average life of a Guard is eight years?”
“Eight years?” Tad was shocked.
“The Delphinium roam the outlying provinces. Their lives are hard and there are many Marauders, as well as rebels and thieves. All will kill for weapons, food or just for the pleasure of killing. The Constabulary protects the city proper, not the Delphinium. That’s what you should be, a Constable.” He laughed. “They’re usually fat and lazy and live long lives.”
“There’s no glory in being fat and lazy,” Tad replied.
“Glory? Ha, boy! Glory is for the long dead. A fresh corpse is just dead meat.”
Tad rode in silence. His uncle’s words disturbed him. If not a Guard of the Delphinium, what could he be? He had already decided that there was no reason to return to Casson. His uncle had enough hired hands to handle the farm and there was no school there beyond the tenth year. He could become an apprentice, he supposed, though to what Guild he would apprentice he did not know. Like most lads of sixteen, he dreamed of glory, but knew that he would probably have to settle for a life of years of hard work to become a metal smith, a cook or merchant. None seemed to offer much opportunity for adventure.
The Caravan was so near the city that they chose to eat midday meal on the go rather than camp, just as they had chosen to ride throughout the previous night using the wan light of Cleodora to reveal the path. Everyone was eager to reach Delphi. Excitement ran through the Caravan like a fever. Cold sandwiches sufficed for Tad and his uncle’s lunch, though Tad complained that he ate more dust than meat with his sandwich.
Golden Corycia, First Sun, was now near its zenith, while pale blue Cleodora was dipping below the western horizon. It would rise again a few hours after Corycia set. Both were mere blobs of light in the dust-hazed sky. By late afternoon, the dry plains began to give way to scattered groves of oak and sycamore amid fields of high green grass. Small streams, at first red-laden with dust, then later crystal clear as the Caravan progressed farther east, crossed their trail. The draw animals stopped frequently to enjoy their first long drink in many days. At one of the larger streams, edged by rows of sycamore, cottonwood and tall, spindly Medusa trees, so named for the crown of writhing branches that absorbed trace nutrients from the dust, a few of the travelers, especially the fastidious Haffa, took the opportunity to bathe. Several hours of daylight yet remained in the day, but by mutual consent, the Caravan made early camp. Abundant water and sufficient grazing for the animals made the stream a suitable spot for rest and refreshment.
Tad found a small pool away from the others and stripped naked. Plunging into the cool, clear water revitalized him after days on the arid plains. His parched skin soaked up the refreshing water like a frog’s skin. He swam underwater until his long brown hair felt clean for the first time in twenty days. He broke the surface and floated on his back smiling at the sensation of the cool water.
“I thought you weren’t coming up.”
He looked up in shock and saw Sira Han looking at him from her perch on a boulder. He tried to hide his nakedness, but the water was too clear and too shallow. He covered his groin with his hands and tried to look less uncomfortable than he felt.
“Did you come to spy on me then, Sira?”
“As if you were the only Terran boy in the Caravan, eh, Tad?” she replied icily, folding her arms under her ample bosom.
“Hand me my clothes,” he said.
She picked up his shirt and pants and threw them at him. “I won’t touch your filthy undergarments,” she laughed. “They have seen better days.”
Tad danced on one foot trying to pull on his wet pants while treading water. He walked out of the pool, grabbed his undergarments from the rock and dropped them in the water with his shirt.
“There! I’ll let them soak a while,” he said.
Sira produced a bar of soap from a pocket in her apron and tossed it to him. “Use this to clean them.”
“Aren’t you going in?” he teased.
“When you are finished and return to the Caravan, I’ll bathe,” she said.
“I could stand guard,” he suggested. “There may be wild animals about.”
She laughed. “None as wild as you, I’ll bet, Tad de Silva. Now wash your filthy things and give me my soap before the entire Caravan finds this spot.”
Tad rubbed the bar of soap on his shirt and undergarments until they were nice and sudsy. He beat them on a rock to pound out the dust and grime, and then rinsed them, noting that they had indeed seen better days. “I’ll dry them later,” he said, slinging the wet clothes over his shoulder.
“What about your pants?” Sira teased.
“I think I’ll keep them on, thank you,” he said with a laugh. He tossed her the soap. It was a bad throw, but she caught the slippery bar deftly with one hand. They had played catch a few times with others their age on the journey and she was quite good at it, better than he was actually. Her hand-eye coordination was remarkable. He watched as she walked ankle deep into the water, pulling up her dress as she waded, and wondered what she looked like without the long, bulky dress and high collar she wore most days. She had fair skin with a scattering of freckles on her rosy cheeks and arms and long reddish-blond hair. She was almost as tall as he was and surprisingly strong for a girl. She had kissed him once, just a quick peck on the cheek, but her lips had been soft and warm and his skin beneath her lips had tingled for an hour. Most girls in his village were stocky, broad of hip, plain of face, and more interested in the weekly washing than running in the fields or climbing hundred-limbed jujaw trees. Sira loved to explore and run.
Sira traveled with her parents from the Province of Stiringly Astor on the Astor River far to the south to Delphi to join the University as a second-year student. She and Tad had whiled away the boring hours on the long, sixty-day journey, drawn together at first as two of the few Terran youths in the Caravan, and then later out of mutual attraction.
“I’ll see that the others don’t intrude,” he yelled over his shoulder, “but keep a watch for water scorpions. I wouldn’t want to have to come back later to pick up your gnawed bones.”
When he returned, the Caravan was undergoing a magical transformation. The arrival of the Caravans was a big event in Delphi, celebrated by the city for days with dancing, singing and games. New canvas came out of storage, replacing tattered and filthy wagon covers. Travelers swept away the dust and washed the sideboards clean of weeks of mud and grime, preparing for the entrance into Delphi. A few industrious Gecks sold their services to repaint some carts in a dazzling array of bright colors and intricately woven designs. Watching the large, reptilian Gecks, seemingly so stolid and somber among others, produce such delightfully magical art with hands better fitted to weapons or plows made Tad wonder what else they were capable of besides fighting. A few, he knew, were farmers, but most followed the tenets of their warrior culture and chose professions as soldiers, mercenaries or town constables.
He found his uncle grooming the ostrich-sized karth. He picked up a soft brush and helped wipe down their brilliant plumage. The karth were difficult to handle as draft animals, even with the control bands, but saddled they provided rapid transportation, faster even than ponies. Tad had raced them many times for fun and sport in village events. The pair’s name was Flick and Flack.
“Flick seems to have a sore foot,” his uncle said, “Probably a stone bruise. Would you fetch me the ointment?”
Tad went to the back of the cart and pulled open the drop tailgate. There, beside the ointment, was a p
ackage bearing his name. Curious, he opened the paper-wrapped bundle and found a new suit of clothes, laboriously stitched by his aunt. The pants and matching short brown jacket were made of tarim fibers, tightly woven for a light, almost waterproof garment. The cream-colored shirt was of soft cotton, comfortable and durable.
“What’s this?” he called out to his uncle.
“I thought you might want to look your best as we enter the city, first impressions and all.”
“Thank you,” he said as he handed his uncle the ointment. “I’ll change now since I’m clean.”
He rummaged through a trunk, found his best leather boots, and polished them until they shined. Donning the new clothes, he paraded around the Caravan showing off. He saw Sira, wet hair hanging down her back, returning from the pool.
“How do I look?” he asked, slowly turning to model his new suit.
“How handsome!” she said. “Are you going courting?”
He ignored her. “I want to look grand for our entrance into Delphi. I’ll bet there will be dozens of good looking girls there.”
“I’m sure they won’t have eyes for a hick rube from the sticks like you.”
Her words stung him like nettles. Harsher than he had intended, he answered, “At least I won’t have to wear a black skull cap and a ghastly black robe like you university students. You all look like pall bearers at a funeral.”
Sira’s face reddened. She spun on her heel and strode quickly to her wagon.