He went on a little way. The garden street suddenly ran out, and he found himself in a part of the city where he had never been before. It was so unlike anything he had seen so far that he seriously began to wonder if he had strayed into a nonhuman district. The sun was low in the sky, and Larry began to worry a little about it. Could he, after all, find his way?
He looked around, trying to orient himself in the dimming light. The streets were irregular here, and twisting; the houses close together, made of thatch and chinked pebbles daubed with what looked like coarse cement, windowless and dark. The street seemed empty; and yet, as he stopped and looked around, Larry had the disconcerting notion that someone was watching him.
“Come on,” he said aloud, “don’t start imagining things.”
He started seriously to take stock of his position. The spaceport lay to the east of the town, so that he should put his back to the sun, and keep on going that way.
Somebody’s watching me. I can feel it.
He turned around slowly, getting his bearings. He ought to turn this way, into this street, and keep on eastward, then he couldn’t possibly miss the spaceport. It might be a long walk, but before long he ought to get into some familiar district. Before dark, I hope. He looked back, nervously, as he turned into the narrow street. Was that a step behind him?
He ordered himself to stop imagining things. People live here. They have a right to walk down the street, so what if there is somebody behind you? Anyway, there’s nobody there.
Abruptly the street turned a blind corner, ran into a small open square, and dead-ended in a low stone wall and the blank rear entrances of a couple of houses. Larry scowled, and felt like swearing. He’d have to try again, damn it! And if the sun went down and he had to start wandering around in the dark, he’d be in fine shape! He turned to retrace his steps, and stopped dead.
Across the square, several indistinct forms were coming toward him. In the lowering light, purple-edged, they seemed big and looming, and they seemed to advance on Larry with steady purpose. He started to walk on, then hesitated ; they were moving—yes, they had cut off his return from the way he had come.
He could see them clearly now. They were boys and young men, six or eight of them, about his own age or a little younger, shabbily dressed in Darkovan clothes; their rough-cut hair was lying on their shoulders, and one and all, they had a look of jeering malice. They looked rough, rowdy, and not at all friendly, and Larry felt a touch of panic. But he told himself, sternly, They’re just a batch of kids. Most of them look younger than I am. Why should I assume they’re after me—or that they have any interest in me at all? For all I know, they might be the local chowder and marching society out for an evening on the town!
He nodded politely, and began to walk toward them, confident that they would part and let him through. Instead, the ranks suddenly closed, and Larry had to stop to keep from bumping headlong into the leader—a big, burly boy of sixteen or so.
Larry said politely, in Darkovan, “Will you let me pass, please?”
“Why, he talks our lingo!” The burly boy’s dialect was so rough that Larry could hardly make out the words. “And what’s a Terranan from behind the walls doing out here in the city?”
“What you want here anyway?” one of the young men asked.
Larry braced himself hard, trying not to show fear, and spoke with careful courtesy. “I was walking in the city, and lost myself. If one of you would tell me which way I should take to find the spaceport, I would be grateful.”
The polite speech, however, was greeted with guffaws of shrill laughter.
“Hey, he’s lost!”
“Ain’t that too bad!”
“Hey, chiyu, you expect the big boss of the spaceport to come looking for you with a lamp?”
“Poor little fellow, out alone after dark!”
“And not even big enough to carry a knife! Does your mammy know you’re out walking, little boy?”
Larry made no answer. He was beginning to be dreadfully afraid. They might simply take it out in rough language—but they might not. These Darkovan street urchins might be just children—but they carried wicked long knives, and they were evidently toughs. He began to measure the leader with his eyes, wondering if he would stand up to them if it came to a fight. He might—the big bully looked fat and out of condition—but he certainly couldn’t handle the whole gang of them at once.
Just the same, he knew that if he showed fear once, he was lost. If they were simply baiting him, a bold manner might bluff them away. He clenched his fists, trying with the gesture to hold his voice tight, and stepped up to the bully.
“Get out of my way.”
“Suppose you knock me out of it, Terran!”
“Okay,” said Larry between his teeth, “you asked for it, fat guy.”
Quickly, with one hard punch, he drove his fist into the big boy’s chin. The youngster let out a surprised “Ugh!” of pain, but his own fists came up, driving a low, foul blow into Larry’s stomach. Larry, shocked as well as hurt, was taken aback. He staggered to recover his balance, gasping for breath.
The big boy kicked him. Then, in a rush, the whole gang was on him shoving and jostling him rudely, yelling words Larry did not understand. They shouldered him back, hustling him, forming a circle around him, pushing him off balance every time he recovered it, closing in to shove and jeer. Larry’s breath came in sobs of rage.
“One of you fight me, you cowards, and you’ll see—”
A kick landed in his shins; someone drove an elbow into his stomach. He slid to his knees. A fist jammed into his face, and he felt blood break from his lip. Cold terror suddenly gripped through him as he realized that no one in the Terran Zone so much as knew where he was; that he could be not only mauled but killed.
“Get away from him, you filthy gutter rabbits!”
It was a new voice, clear and contemptuous, striking through the rude jeers and yells. With little gulps and gasps of consternation, the street urchins jostled back, and Larry, coming up slowly to his knees, wiping at his bloody face in the respite, blinked in the sudden light of torches.
Two tall men, green-clad, stood there carrying lights; but the lights, and all eyes, were focused on the young man who stood between the torches.
He was tall and red-haired, dressed in an embroidered leather jacket and a short fur cloak; his hand was on the hilt of a knife. His eyes, cold gray, were blazing as he whipped them with stinging words.
“Nine—ten against one, and he was still giving a good account of himself to you! So this proves that Terrans are cowards, eh?”
His eyes swung to Larry, and he gestured. “Get up.”
The fat bully-boy was literally shaking. He bowed his head, whining, “Lord Alton—”
The newcomer silenced him with a gesture. The smaller roughnecks looked sullen or overawed. The youngster in the fur cloak took a step toward Larry, and a cold, bleak smile touched his lips.
“I might have known it would be you,” he said. “Well, we’re under bond to keep peace in the city, but it seems to me you were asking for trouble. What were you doing here?”
“Walking,” Larry said. “I got lost.” Suddenly he resented the cool, arrogant air of authority in the newcomer’s voice. He flung his head back, set his chin and looked the strange boy straight in the eye. “Is that a crime?”
The fur-cloaked boy laughed briefly, and suddenly Larry recognized the laugh and the face. It was the same insolent redhead he had seen his first day on Darkover; the youngster who’d spoken to him at the spaceport gate.
The Darkovan boy looked around at the little knot of roughs, who had drawn back and were shouldering one another restlessly. “Not so brave now, eh? Don’t worry, I didn’t come to stop your fight,” he said, and his voice was contemptuous and clear. “But you might as well make it mean something.” He looked back at Larry, then back to the gang. “Pick out someone of your number—someone his own size—and one of you take him on.” His eye
s raked Larry’s and he added consideringly, “Unless you’re afraid to fight, Terran? Then I can send you home with my bodyguards.”
Larry bristled at the suggestion. “I’ll fight any five of them, if they fight fair,” he said angrily, and the Darkovan threw back his head with a sharp laugh.
“One’s plenty. All right, you bully boys,” he snarled suddenly at the gang, “pick out your champion. Or isn’t any one of you willing to stand up to a Terran without the whole rat-pack behind you?”
The street boys crowded together, looking warily at Larry, and the two looming guards, at the young Darkovan aristocrat. There was a long moment of silence. The Darkovan laughed, very softly.
Finally one of the gang, a long lean young man almost six feet tall, with a broken tooth and a rangy, yellowed, evil face, spat on the cobblestones.
“I’ll fight the—” Larry did not understand the epithet. “I’m not afraid of any Terran from ’ere to the Hellers!”
Larry clenched his fists, sizing up his new opponent. He supposed the street boy was a year or so older than himself. Tall and stringy, with huge fists, he looked a nasty customer. This wasn’t going to be easy either.
Suddenly the boy rushed him, landing a pounding succession of blows before Larry could counter a single punch. Larry was forced backward. One fist smashed into his eye; a second landed on his chin. He struggled to stay upright, hearing the street toughs yelling encouragement to their mate. The sound suddenly made Larry angry. He rushed forward, head down, and brought up his fist in a hard, rocking blow to the roughneck’s chin; followed it up with a fast punch to the nose. The street boy’s nose began to trickle blood. He struck out at Larry, furiously, but Larry, his rage finally roused, easily countered the wildly flailing blows. He realized that in spite of the street boy’s longer reach, he didn’t have the advantage of knowing what he was doing. The ruffian got in one or two low body punches, but Larry, carefully mustering his knowledge of boxing, slowly forced him back and back, stepping on his toes, keeping him off balance, driving punch after punch at the boy’s nose and chin. Head down, the roughneck tried to clinch; grabbed Larry around the waist and grappled with him, struggling to bring his knee up; but Larry knocked his elbow across the boy’s face, managed to pry him loose, and drove up one single, hard punch in the eye.
The street boy reeled back, swayed, stumbled and crashed down full length on the cobblestones.
“Come on,” said Larry, standing over him in a rage. “Get up and fight!”
The tough stirred. He struggled halfway to his knees, swayed again, and collapsed in a heap.
Larry drew a long breath. His mouth was split and tasted of blood, his eye hurt, and his ribs were bruised; and his fists, knuckles skinned raw, felt as if he’d been banging on a brick wall with them.
The Darkovan aristocrat motioned to one of his bodyguards, who bent to look at the unconscious street boy.
“Now, the rest of you rough fellows—make yourselves scarce!” His voice held stinging contempt. One by one, the gang melted away into the lowering mists of darkness.
Larry stood with his knuckles throbbing, until no one was left in the square but himself, the Darkovan boy, and the two silent guards.
“Thanks,” he said, at last.
“No need to thank me,” the Darkovan lad said brusquely. “You handled yourself well. I wanted to see how you’d come off.” Suddenly, he smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned the freedom of the city. You’ve done something to deserve it. I’ve had an eye on you for several days, you know.”
Larry stared. “What?”
“Do you think a redheaded Terran can walk in places where no other Terran ever dared to go, without half the city knowing it? And things come to the ears of the Comyn.”
Comyn ... Larry didn’t know the word.
The boy went on, “I was sure it was only a matter of time until you got into trouble, and I wanted to see whether you’d handle it like the typical Terran”—again there was a trace of contempt in his voice—“and try to scare off your attackers with cowards’ weapons, like your guards with their guns, or shout for the police to come and help you out of your troubles. No Terran ever settles his own affairs.” Then he grinned. “But you did.”
“I couldn’t have without your help, though.”
The boy shook his head in disclaimer. “I didn’t lift a hand. I only made sure that the settlement was an honorable one—and as far as I’m concerned, you can go where you like in the city, from now on. My name is Kennard Alton. What’s yours?”
“Larry Montray.”
Kennard spoke a formal Darkovan phrase, inclining his head. Then, suddenly, he grinned.
“My father’s house is only a few steps away,” he said, “and I’m off duty for the night. You can’t possibly go back to the Terran Zone looking like that!” For the first time, he looked as young as he was, the formal soberness disappearing in boyish laughter. “You’d frighten your people out of their wits—and if your mother and father worry the way mine do, it’s nothing to look forward to! Anyway, you’d better come home with me.”
Without waiting for Larry’s answer, he turned, motioning to his guards, and Larry, following without a word, felt a smothered excitement. What looked like a nasty situation was turning into an adventure. Actually invited into a Darkovan house!
Kennard led the way to one of the high houses. A wide, low-walled garden surrounded it; there were flights of stone steps up which Kennard led Larry. He made some curious gesture and the door swung wide; he turned.
“Enter and welcome; come in peace, Terran.”
The moment seemed to demand a formal acknowledgment, but Larry could only say, “Thank you.” He stepped into the wide hall of a brightly-lit house, blinking in the brilliant entryway, and looking around with curiosity and wonder.
Someone, somewhere, was playing on a stringed instrument that sounded like a harp. The floors under his feet were translucent stone; the walls were hung with bright thin panels of curtain. A tall, furry nonhuman with green intelligent eyes came forward and took Kennard’s cloak, and at a signal Larry’s torn jacket also.
“It’s my mother’s reception night, so we won’t bother her,” Kennard said, and, turning to the nonhuman, added, “Tell my father I have a guest upstairs.”
Larry followed Kennard up another long flight. Kennard flung open a dark door, hummed a low note, and the room was filled suddenly with bright light and warmth.
It was a pleasant room. There were low couches and chairs, a rack of knives and swords against the wall, a stuffed bird that looked like an eagle, a framed painting of a horse, and, on a small high table, something that looked like a chessboard or checkerboard with crystal pieces set up at each end. The room was luxurious, but for all that it was not tidy; various odds and ends of clothing were strewn here and there, and there was a table piled high with odd items Larry could not identify. Kennard threw open another door, and said, “Here. Your face is all blood, and your clothes a mess. You’d better clean up a little, and you might as well put on some of my things for the time being.” He rummaged behind a panel, flung some curiously shaped garments at Larry. “Come back when you’re presentable.”
The room was a luxurious bathroom, done in tile of a dozen colors, set in geometric patterns. The fixtures were strange, but after a little experimenting, Larry found a hot-water faucet, and washed his face and hands. The warm water felt good on his bruised face, and he realized—looking into a long mirror—that between the gang-jostling and the fight, he had really been given quite a roughing up! He began to worry a little. What would his father say?
Well, he’d wanted to see Darkovan life close at hand, and he’d worry about getting home late, some other time! Dad would understand when he explained. He took off his torn and dirty clothes, and got into the soft wool trousers and the fur-lined jerkin which Kennard had lent him. He looked at himself in the mirror; why, except for his red hair, cut short, he might be any young Darkovan! Come to
think of it, except for Kennard, he hadn’t seen any red-haired Darkovans. But there must be some!
When he came out, Kennard was lounging in one of the chairs, a small table drawn up before him with several steaming bowls of food on it. He motioned to Larry to sit down.
“I’m always starved when I come off duty. Here, have something to eat.” He hesitated, looking a little curiously at Larry as the other picked up the bowl and the long pick like a chopstick, then laughed. “Good, you can manage these. I wasn’t sure.”
The food was good, small meat rolls stuffed with something like rice or barley; Larry ate hungrily, dipping his rolls in the sharp fruity pickle-sauce as Kennard did. At last he put down the bowl and said, “You told me you’ve been watching me, while I’ve been exploring the city. Why?”
Kennard reached for the bowl containing some small crisp sticky things, took a handful and passed them to Larry before answering. He said, “I don’t quite know how to say it without insulting you.”
“Go ahead,” Larry said. “Look, you probably saved me from getting badly hurt, if not killed. Say anything you want to. I’ll try not to take offense.”
“This is nothing against you. But nobody in Thendara wants trouble. Terrans have been mauled or murdered, here in the city. They usually bring it on themselves. I don’t mean that you would have brought anything on yourself—those street boys are alley rats and they’ll attack perfectly harmless people. But other Terrans have made trouble in the city, and our people have treated them as they deserve. So it should be settled—a troublemaker has been punished, and the affair is over. But you Terrans simply will not accept that. Any time one of your people is hurt, no matter what he has done to deserve it, your spaceforce men come around prying into the whole matter, raking up a scandal, insisting on long trials and questioning and punishment. On Darkover, any man who’s man enough to wear breeches instead of skirts is supposed to be able to protect himself; and if he can’t, it’s an affair for his family to settle. Our people find it hard to understand your ways. But we have made a treaty with the Terrans, and responsible people here in the city don’t want trouble. So we try to prevent incidents of that sort—when we can do it honorably.”
A World Divided Page 4