Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles)

by Dale B. Mattheis

  Belstan’s expression overflowed with contempt. “And the council will discover that gold is not a sovereign specific while being marched to the scaffold.”

  “Yes,” Jeff replied, rubbing tense neck muscles, “but not until thousands of the innocent have perished. Let us pray that our suspicions are unfounded.”

  It was a sober trio that split up that evening, each bent on separate errands. Accompanied by Rogelf’s son, Ostfel, Jeff had been cruising military hangouts in search of information. On the way out of the room, Rogelf took Jeff’s arm.

  “I have given Ostfel other tasks this evening. My younger child has returned from visiting family in the farmlands and will accompany you.” Rogelf hurried off.

  Jeff looked after him with a puzzled expression. “What odd phrasing, and why is he in such a rush?” Shrugging, he ticked off goals for the night’s effort while walking from the warehouse.

  Rounding a corner, he slammed into someone who was nicely padded. Jeff caught himself but the woman couldn’t save it and crashed to the floor. He extended his hand to help her up.

  “My apologies. I should have been more careful.”

  The redhead slapped his hand away and leaped to her feet.

  “You incredible, stumbling oaf! Which barnyard did you escape from?”

  “No harm was intended, I have apologized. Good day.”

  Jeff stepped aside to pass. As luck would have it, she stepped in the same direction and they collided again.

  “You are an imbecile devoid of breeding. Get out of my way!”

  Staring levelly into green eyes brilliant with anger, Jeff said, “You have legs.”

  For a moment he thought she would try and hit him. Instead, the woman brushed by with a parting curse and disappeared down the hall.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jeff muttered, watching her out of sight. “What a banshee! I wonder if she eats nails for breakfast?”

  He had stepped outside in search of his partner for the evening when he heard footsteps behind him. “Oh shit I hope it isn’t her.” Jeff groaned under his breath when the redhead emerged from the warehouse.

  Fists on hips, she looked him up and down in utter contempt. “It would seem I must endure your presence this night. Keep your stumbling frame a safe distance downwind.”

  Jeff smiled pleasantly. “Tell me, what rock did you crawl out from under?”

  “How dare you to speak to me in such a fashion!” The redhead seemed genuinely shocked. “You are…you are naught but a common buffoon and the son of a churl!”

  “And you, lady,” Jeff said in a coldly level voice, “are a spoiled child and possess not the slightest degree of civility. Furthermore, I find your reference to my father so offensive that I will have satisfaction if you ever express it again.”

  The redhead’s complexion flushed to a tint that matched her hair. “My father owns this warehouse and has agreed to suffer your presence. Should I do so this evening, I would not be able to show my face in Khorgan again. You are fit only to shovel filth from stables.” She spun around and marched into the warehouse.

  Memories of confrontations with Sarah had made a strong comeback. Jeff had forgotten what it was like. It made his guts twist.

  “God dammit. Just when I was starting to think I had left that shit behind. Say whatever they want without fear of being called out. No more.”

  Jeff whirled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Belstan.

  “Zimma is a most difficult, hot-tempered young woman. You must not take her insults to heart, for they are a common occurrence and widely applied. I am only grateful that Rogelf was not present to hear them on this occasion. Now come, I will accompany you.”

  Ostfel was back on the job next evening. Over ensuing days Jeff caught glimpses of Zimma, but she was of minor concern to him. Matters were coming to a head. A huge bribe paid to a counselor’s personal secretary confirmed that tribute was in fact being paid, and in an amount that staggered Belstan and Rogelf.

  One of Rogelf’s agents spotted what he thought might be an Arzak entering city hall. Other information confirmed an Arzak presence in council chambers. No one reported sighting a Salchek. That fact was of little importance to Jeff. He was now convinced that, if an invasion was planned or already underway, Arzak would be a likely agent-state for the Salchek and on the take from both sides.

  One step remained to confirm their worst fears. Were Salchek present in Arzak, or not? It was tempting to intercept a courier from Arzak, but Rogelf considered that too dangerous an undertaking. Instead, he organized a trading expedition to the origin of the Megaal River at the southern extremity of Lake Ligura.

  Although there was no city as such at that location, Jeff learned a trading post had come into existence some years previously. More importantly, the post was known to have close ties with Lukash.

  Scandalized at the thought of wasting a perfectly good opportunity to make a linta or two, Belstan insisted the expedition be an all-out legitimate trading effort. Sleep became a precious commodity in days following as trading goods were organized and stowed on board a vessel owned by Rogelf. In addition to the crew required to handle the craft, an eighty-foot schooner, it was decided that Belstan and Jeff would constitute the trading team.

  The night before they were to set sail, Rogelf, Belstan and Jeff were working late trying to put some order to the mission’s paperwork. Trade goods were stowed on the Baktar, but there had been no time to organize bills of lading. The office they were working in was quiet with the exception of an occasional frustrated curse. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the men stopped their paper shuffling and shared a perplexed look. It was close to midnight and Ostfel was out of town. Jeff pushed back from his desk so he could watch the door.

  When Zimma walked in wearing a long gown of silken green festooned with ropes of jewelry, he had to choke off a curse. From the way she wobbled on spike high heels, Jeff suspected Zimma had been drinking heavily. Curling his lip in disgust, he vowed to keep his mouth shut regardless of what she might say.

  Swaying unsteadily, Zimma gazed around the room. Her eyes passed over Jeff as if he were not there.

  “I have deshi…decided to accompany you, Belstan. The south shore of the lake is new to me, and I wish to see it.”

  Belstan didn’t say anything until he had his irritation in hand. “This trip is likely to be fraught with peril, Zimma. I know you to have good sword skill, but you are also young and comely. That fact is likely to pose serious difficulties in Tradertown where there are few if any women. Would you risk compromising our mission?”

  Although Zimma had a hard time focusing her eyes on Jeff, the scowl seemed to come naturally.

  “If this clumsy oaf is to shail…go with you, I feel certain that my presence can only be an ashet. I am coming.”

  It was hard, but Jeff kept his jaw tightly clamped and eyes fixed on a manifest. Bloody drunk, he thought. As soon as Zimma had opened her mouth, the smell of alcohol and another odor he was unfamiliar with had permeated the room.

  Rogelf had turned away to stare fixedly out a window, but every aspect of his posture indicated painful embarrassment. Belstan knew Zimma was the apple of Rogelf’s eye. She also frequently had him on the verge of despair.

  While Belstan wanted to say no very badly, the voyage would give Zimma a chance to dry out. He was convinced she was deeply into alcohol and Kalheesh. Beyond that reason, he had to try one more time for Rogelf’s sake.

  “Very well. You may accompany us on one condition: you must agree to follow my orders and not debate or oppose every decision.”

  Nodding curtly, Zimma threw a triumphant sneer at Jeff and turned to leave. On the way out she collided with the doorjamb. Jeff figured that whatever his feelings, Rogelf’s were ten times as bad.

  The morning of departure, a crisp breeze was blowing from the southwest giving it an offshore slant. The Baktar was moored with her bow facing the lake on the lee side of the pier. The bow line was let go and the foresai
l and outer jib hoisted in a rush of thundering canvas.

  As the bow pivoted away from the pier, the crew raised the mainsail and let go the stern line. Her booms well off to port, the Baktar gathered way and settled onto a broad reach.

  Jeff strolled aft from where he had been standing behind the quartermaster and leaned his elbows on the stern rail. He watched the city recede with a smile of contentment. Since arriving in Khorgan he had haunted the sailing ships at every opportunity. Yacht racing on Puget Sound was exciting, but the big gaff-rigged schooners were a whole new world that had captivated him.

  The breeze picked up as the ship moved farther out onto the lake. When they had made their easting, all hands were called to heave in the sails until they were nearly flat as boards. The captain turned the Baktar south and she went hard on the wind, heeling well over to port.

  Taking station in the bow, Jeff hooked his elbows over the weather rail. Breathing deeply of the tangy air, he admired the spirals of birds soaring around the ship. Blue and white, resembling cormorants, their plaintive cries called his imagination south to tropic shores. Some time later Jeff reluctantly went below to attend a strategy conference with Belstan and the ship’s captain.

  When he entered the captain’s cabin, Jeff paused abruptly. He had completely forgotten Zimma was part of the team. What a bummer, he thought. Why did she have to come? Just one more self-centered bitch. Jeff stared at her for a moment before finding a seat.

  In the one instant their eyes were locked together, Zimma nearly flinched. The extent of Jeff’s contempt was such that she could do nothing but look away. Here on the ship, isolated from her usual environment and friends, an inner voice that had been growing stronger for several years had finally broken through and informed her that she deserved contempt.

  She wanted to say or do something in reprisal, but instead remembered the look on her father’s face the night she had announced she was joining the expedition. The stab of remorse that followed the memory was exquisitely painful and so new Zimma had no defense against it.

  Belstan gazed around the cabin to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “Let us be clear about the purpose of this trading mission. While we are making this voyage to gather information, we are traders as well. The Arzak are a suspicious, arrogant people—never forget that. Although Tradertown is in Chaldesia, in truth it is no man’s land. If the Salchek have returned as we suspect and conspire with Arzak, agents we encounter are likely to be provocative.” Belstan looked directly at Zimma. “Hold your temper, gather information. Perhaps we will turn a few linta to pay for this trip.”

  Zimma’s temper flared at being singled out. While saying nothing in response, she threw a venomous look at Jeff. Her father was due respect, long overdue she conceded, but this seedy barbarian was something else entirely. He will disgrace us all!

  Once on board the Baktar, Jeff had donned his threadbare jeans. One pant leg was out at the knee, and sparks from numerous campfires had burned holes here and there over the rest. Other than the jeans, he was wearing an old tee shirt that had seen better days a year ago. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Zimma compared Jeff to her latest male companion and smirked.

  The rest of the meeting was spent going over trade inventory and picking the captain’s brain for information on Tradertown. Instead of describing the town with words, he sketched it.

  “That is a large trading post,” Jeff said with surprise. “Nearly a city from the look of it.”

  “Yes, but no one terms it a city,” Belstan replied. “If they did, and since Tradertown is in Chaldesia, Khorgan would have to officially claim and defend it. Having no army as such, it has been convenient for Khorgan to leave matters as they are—regardless of what occurs, all may deny responsibility.”

  When Jeff came on deck next morning he found the Baktar idly turning in the occasional breath of wind. It was a hot day and Jeff thought longingly of shorts. Several hours later a breeze filled in from the northwest and continued to make up until it was blowing fresh.

  Belstan went below to get out of the wind, but Zimma planted herself in the bow. One hand gripping a stay, long red hair streaming off to the lee, her cheeks were flushed with exhilaration.

  “Well, what have we here?” Jeff murmured when he noticed her. “Is it possible the dildo is in a good mood?”

  After a hard fight, Jeff convinced himself he should make a stab at patching things up before they hit Tradertown. Halfway to the bow he stopped. On the verge of changing his mind, Jeff squared his shoulders and hurried forward.

  Zimma heard footsteps and turned to see who it was. A familiar scowl immediately formed and she turned her back to him. Leaving plenty of room, Jeff leaned against the weather rail and questioned his sanity. There was no point to his being there, no point in trying to deal with a spoiled little rich girl that could get away with murder. He had to do it or leave.

  “I can imagine what you think of me, and my opinion of you is likely worse, but I see no way of avoiding each other on this trip. As difficult as it will be, perhaps we can at least feign civility in order to free Belstan’s mind from that worry.”

  The back of her neck turned red with anger, leading Jeff to wonder what Zimma’s face looked like. She stared off to the southwest in frigid silence leaving Jeff to watch her hair swirl and twist in the breeze. There were so many shades of red in it that he became fascinated by the play of color. She was also wearing snug breeches.

  Jeff just naturally scanned downward with a clinical eye. One look and a muted “My, oh my” sneaked out, followed by a soft whistle of academic appreciation. She was a bitch all right, but a bitch with one fine rear end.

  Although the noise from sea and wind was substantial, Zimma just as naturally heard the whistle and knew exactly what had prompted it. Pleased in a way that took her by surprise, she tossed her head to set red hair flying in bright whorls. Jeff had said all he intended to and decided he would not move until she answered.

  It was some time before Zimma decided he wasn’t going to leave. Turning to face Jeff, she leaned against the lee rail with elbows on the cap and attempted to view him from a more neutral perspective. It seemed a lost cause. The mere sight of him brought a rush of cutting words to mind. Zimma pressed her lips into a thin line to stop an expression of disgust.

  “Your statement is accurate. My opinion of you is quite beyond hope, and I recognize your distaste for my person. Also yes, I agree that we must attempt to work together. With careful attention to duty, perhaps we will succeed.” Reluctantly, Zimma held out her hand.

  Taking her hand in the spirit it was offered, Jeff intended no more than a simple handshake. Instead, he lifted it to his lips. Their eyes met and neither moved for several heartbeats.

  Cheeks flushing in a different pattern, Zimma withdrew her hand. “I must go below to meet with Belstan. I understand your effort in approaching me was no small matter.”

  The breeze held steady and they sighted the southernmost shore of Lake Ligura late the following day. The captain reduced sail in easy stages as they approached the anchorage, a deep lagoon protected by a spit of land that curved far out into the lake. He settled on a spot that gave ample swinging room, bellowed a string of orders and the Baktar dropped anchor.

  Around sunset the breeze died away to nothing, leaving sweltering humidity. A number of crewmen came topsides to find cooler air. Leaning on the rail, they examined other craft idly drifting around their chains. Jeff was doing the same and ambled over. He gestured with his head.

  “Khorgan?”

  One of the older men was lighting a pipe, and a wreath of smoke lazily curled around his head. It smelled terrible. He pointed a gnarled finger at two of the boats in turn, cackling as he did so.

  “Them scows come from Khorgan, and lucky they was to get this far seein’ as how the rot’s near et ‘em up.” The old-timer scowled at the other two ships and spit over the side. “Gods-cursed slavers by the stench of ‘em—prolly mean ta pick up some poor ba
stards and sell ‘em off at Borgo.”

  Jeff could only agree that the smell coming from the direction of the two craft was much worse than a barnyard. He heard, or imagined he heard, faint cries for water and examined the shoreline in an attempt to block them out.

  Drunken singing drifted from the shore, and the orange glow of bonfires began to appear as night settled in. He was starting a yawn when an agonized scream pierced the night. With utter certainty, he knew that someone had just died.

  Chapter Twelve

  Worse Than Death

  A sullen orange globe hanging low in the east greeted Jeff when he emerged from below. The small effort required to climb the ladder had him sweating, and he plucked a light shirt free from where it was stuck to his ribs.

  Accompanied by the squeal of pulleys, crewmembers lowered a net full of crates into the ship’s launch. When the way was clear Jeff tossed his duffel bag onto a thwart. Belstan and Zimma joined him, and they clambered down into the deeply laden boat.

  With fifty yards to go, stroke oar looked over his shoulder and called out, “Lay into it, lads.”

  Oars bent to a singsong chant, driving the bow onto dry land. Goods came ashore in rapid succession forming a sizable pyramid. Leaving the launch crew to return to the ship for another load, Belstan, Jeff and Zimma waded up the sloping beach in ankle-deep sand and steam bath heat.

  The men carried rolls of canvas and line on their shoulders; Zimma cradled a bundle of poles in her arms. Jeff expected her to whine about the load but she staggered through the sand without a word, hair hanging in sweat-sodden strings. The few palm-like trees they passed under gave only fleeting shade.

  A short distance from the beach they threaded their way through a warren of shanties. On several occasions they were forced to backtrack in search of a way through the maze. The stench of excrement and urine was bad enough, but with their arms full the cloud of biting flies was maddening.