Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  There had to be something of value in the human’s gear. Something he could use himself, something he could sell, or at the very least something that would speak to the true rationale behind the offworlder’s excursion to this out-of-the-way place. Not for a moment had Ibatogh bought the human’s assertion that he had traveled this far from the offworlder station to satisfy a simple “curiosity.” But among his gear, there was nothing.

  He had suspected from the beginning, from his first glimpse of the human, why the offworlder was here. He could think of only one reason why a human would eschew the wonderful comforts of the station and forgo the familiarity of his own kind, food, entertainment, and security. That was to make contact, for better or worse, with the only other human in this corner of the world. Most likely for worse. Based on the events of the past several ten-days, it stood to reason. The only surprise was that it had not happened sooner.

  And yet…and yet…among the human’s effects there was no hallmark of officialdom, no sign that a formal pursuit had been initiated. More tellingly, there were no weapons. What kind of long-distance traveler, offworlder or Larian, journeyed without weapons? Of course, the human and his guide might be keeping such valuable devices on their person. Ibatogh was an excellent informant, but he was no fool. He would gladly carry out a covert inspection and report on everything he learned, but he would not challenge suspicious visitors directly. Not representatives of his own kind and certainly not an offworlder. Especially one who appeared to be a magician.

  The red-furred offworlder might not be heavily armed, but he had demonstrated that he was a clever trickster. Sometimes guile was a more effective weapon, stealthy and easily reloaded, than the biggest cannon. Fortunately, it only fell to Ibatogh to report. It was for his Leethliege to respond.

  The offworlder insisted he could not read minds, only sense how someone was feeling. It was a trick: of that Ibatogh was certain. No one could “read” the feelings of another. The alien was a clever magician, was all. Ibatogh would make his report.

  Finding his way out of the complex without waking the stablemaster, he returned to his own unpretentious dwelling. Out back, the rookery was quiet, its occupants asleep. Choosing the healthiest of the dozen or so ryhnets, he slipped the rolled message he had written into its belly pouch and then sealed the fleshy compartment with a strip of mafier glue. Neither the message nor the adhesive would inconvenience the rhynet.

  From his pocket he drew a small, narrow-necked flask of purple glass. Unsealing it, he waved the mouth beneath the rhynet’s single flat nostril. Instantly, wide gold-flecked eyes, of which there were two facing forward and two facing backward, snapped open. The rest of the teardrop-shaped, streamlined body twitched; gently at first, then violently.

  After resealing the flask as tightly as he could without breaking it, Ibatogh lifted the rhynet into the air, drew back his right arm, and launched it into the night sky. Four membranous wings spread wide. Searching for the source of the powerful pheromone to which it had just been exposed, the rhynet circled overhead, meeping querulously as it rose higher and higher, until it was swallowed by the night mist.

  Satisfied, Ibatogh considered returning to the gathering establishment, decided against it. Anything worth salvaging from the loser of the skirmish would by now have been swept up by the small crowd of onlookers.

  The offworlder had said he was just that—nothing more than a curious onlooker. Ibatogh doubted him, and had responded accordingly. He had done his job. It was out of his hands now. The rhynet would home in on the nearest source of matching pheromone. With Ibatogh’s flask sealed tight, that would mean the flier would be led to another that was always left open. Ibatogh was much satisfied with his work and he hoped his Leethliege would be pleased.

  As far as he was concerned, the only thing threatening about the two offworlders he had thus far encountered was that they smelled funny and sang worse. Though it might prove dangerous to toy with a magician.

  Let Zkerig deal with him, he decided as he returned to his own dwelling. As far as he was concerned, and based on what he had seen and observed this night, one such encounter was more than enough.

  11

  ■ ■ ■

  The following day was made extraordinary by something extraordinarily simple.

  The sun was out.

  It was hardly a Cachalot morning, but the presence of unmistakable patches of pale blue sky separating the lowering clouds bolstered Flinx’s spirits more than he would have expected. As for Pip, she could hardly restrain herself, rocketing out of her tube to luxuriate in the atypical bright sunshine, executing cartwheels and loops, and generally terrifying an assortment of local avians with a combination of aerial acrobatics and flashing iridescence.

  Wiegl was similarly pleased if less overtly enthusiastic. “I will miss the mist, but this will make our travel easier; not so much because we can see farther ahead, but because we can see any interference looming, from whatever source. Even better will be, the fact that the ground will dry some, making footing steadier, for our noble mounts.” As he patted the lower leg of his nearby brund, he had to dodge hastily to one side to avoid a thin shower of urine.

  Another world, another awkward lesson learned, Flinx mused, pondering the memory of the previous night as he prepared to repack his own towering, stilt-like steed. Plainly, not everything that woozes the mind comes in the form of strong drink or designer pharmaceuticals. Even something as simple as an edible but otherwise unfamiliar molluscoid can contain unexpected mind-unsettling substances. His head did not throb, as it would from a liquor-induced hangover, nor did it ache, as it might had he injected or ingested a medicinal. Instead, there was a weird lingering hum in his ears, a sort of soporific tinnitus, like a bit of water sloshing about in a shell. Shaking his head did not make it go away. Periodically Pip would dive down to check on his condition, her slitted eyes peering speculatively into his own, before soaring away satisfied that while her master might not be feeling at his best, neither was he about to keel over.

  Though he otherwise felt fine, before starting out he would make certain that he was properly secured in his saddle basket high up on the brund’s flank.

  It was while checking his stock of dehydrated food supplements that he noticed something amiss. Instead of being neatly aligned within their satchel, they were slightly out of order. Could someone have gone through his supplies and rearranged them in haste? Or had they simply come loose in the course of the journey? Certainly the jolting stride of their mounts was not conducive to smooth travel, but still…

  He pointed it out to Wiegl. The guide’s response was unexpected, and combined to further arouse Flinx’s suspicions.

  “Some of my things, too, appear out of place, as if curious hands, had been making mischief with them.” While concerned, Wiegl was not ready to concede that someone had been rummaging through their gear. “A moment then, while I question, while I press, the one who should know.”

  He departed the corral, then returned a few moments later with the stablemaster in tow. In any other company Flinx might have had to hide the amused expression her appearance induced. Here, where none knew its meaning, concealment was unnecessary. The older Larian was the first of her typically sleek kind Flinx had seen with a potbelly. In response to Wiegl’s stern questioning, she proved as full of denial as she was of groceries.

  “I was here the entire night,” she responded with appropriate indignation, indicating with a three-fingered gesture the small enclosed area where she slept, “and awake as necessary, as is my job, to oversee the animals and equipment left in my charge.” Black eyes flanked by wrinkles flashed in the morning sun. “None did enter this place of security, this haven of repose, this fortress of guarantee, who lacked proper identity. None did enter, in point of fact, in reality, at all.” She gestured at where their kit still rested on the ground, awaiting repacking.

  “I watched over your equipment, frequently and well, and never did I touch, a single strap o
r buckle. To otherwise imply is to—”

  Wiegl interrupted her in the middle of an angry arpeggio. “We are content with your explanation, mistress of a hundred discords, and accept that our packing, may not have been secured, may have been otherwise than perfect.”

  “As is your singing,” she muttered, “about which the less said, the better it will be, for anyone within hearing.”

  That was the end of it. Reluctant to take the stablemaster at her word but unable to prove anything otherwise, Flinx and Wiegl had no choice but to finish loading the brund. She accepted the guide’s payment with poor grace, and as they returned to their repacking she could be heard as she walked away singspeaking to herself in a low rumble, like a mezzo-soprano with a mouthful of marbles.

  When everything had been reloaded and the time came for them to depart, the stablemaster was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was still offended by Wiegl’s implications. Perhaps she was simply tired from a long night of watching out over the animals in her charge. Most likely, having been paid, she no longer had the slightest interest in the odd pair of travelers. In any event they did not see her as they departed, once more resuming their pursuit northward. Flinx could only hope that it would come to an end soon. Thanks to the brunds’ imposing but unwieldy gait, his backside hurt more than his head.

  Aware that if time and terrain favored them they might catch up to their quarry as soon as that evening, Flinx began mentally preparing himself for a possible confrontation. If his talent was functioning, he should be able without too much difficulty to detect the presence of another human, or non-Larian, living among nothing but natives. At close quarters, if it was operating optimally, he ought to be able to project sufficiently strong feelings of remorse and apology to drive the subject, if not to his or her knees, then at least into a state of dazed compliance. If he could do that much, simple ropes and bonds would be enough to ensure the return of the troublemaker to the station, there to face arrest and the subsequent judgment of Commonwealth authorities. The Church would not judge the malefactor, of course. Such things were better left to wholly secular authorities.

  As for recovering the Firstborn Preedir ah nisa Leeh from her abductors, that might present additional unforeseen difficulties. He did not imagine they would constitute anything he could not handle. He had dealt with far more serious matters involving far more dangerous or advanced species than the Larians. Padre Jonas had given him the authority to promise, threaten, or do whatever was necessary to achieve her return; peacefully if possible, otherwise if not. All off the record, of course. The one thing the achievement of that goal could not involve was the use of advanced weaponry against the natives.

  And there was always Pip, sleeping beside him within the cushioned metal tube. While she certainly could be defined as a weapon, she also was no more than a pet, a companion. She defended him of her own volition and she certainly did not qualify as high-tech.

  For someone who disliked violence, he reflected as the brund effortlessly stepped across a fast-running stream, in the course of his brief life he had been forced to witness, and to partake in, far too much of it.

  —

  While the elderly stablemaster was pleased to accept the newcomer’s money, she could not help but wonder at the appearance of yet another offworlder in Poskraine. So much smaller was it that she was not even sure if the new arrival belonged to the same species as the one who had recently departed. Subsequent singspeaking, however, plainly identified it as a “human.” The creature, who to all appearances was traveling on foot, asked only for a recommendation as to where to spend the night. Despite its much-reduced stature compared to the lately departed, it carried itself with a confidence that belied its smaller size.

  The stablemaster shrugged as she watched the human stride off in the direction of the main part of town. She did not mind the infestation of humans. Not so long as the money they brought with them was in local currency, and the questions they asked of little consequence to her business.

  She confessed to being more than a little surprised to learn, however, that this latest arrival was female, and traveling alone, without a local guide.

  —

  Zkerig was alerted to the rhynet’s arrival by the jingling of the bell in the arrival cage. There were three of the mesh containers, integrated side by side into the stern of the ship. While the other two remained empty, the one in the middle was now being jostled and knocked about by the wings and legs of the leathery, hammer-headed flying creature desperate to reach the pheromone emitter that dangled just outside its reach.

  Rising from the long, narrow halfbed where he had been lying, if not resting, Zkerig walked over to the receptacles. A glance showed that the belly pouch of the increasingly frantic just-arrived rhynet contained a message. Undetectable to all but the most sensitive Larian, the overpowering draw of the pheromone had already caused the message carrier to beat the front of its head bloody as it strove to reach it.

  Using his knife, Zkerig put it out of its hopeless, hapless misery with a single stab and twist to the elongated skull. He removed the body from the arrival cage before it had ceased twitching. Too impatient to employ the small bottle of mafier-dissolving fluid, he used the now-bloody knife to slit the belly pouch open and removed the tightly rolled scroll from within. It made for interesting reading.

  Vashon’s reaction, he reflected as he carefully rerolled the scroll, would make for interesting viewing.

  His short, muscular legs effortlessly compensating for the familiar rock and roll of the strideship, he made his way to the human’s private cabin. If it had been left to the Tralltag, the offworlder would have spent the trip on the main deck with the crew. Unfortunately, the human was in the personal employ of Minord’s Hobak and as such was entitled to certain privileges. Zkerig had to admit that the difficult mission could not have been carried out without the human’s aid.

  That didn’t mean he had to like Vashon. Only to respect him.

  The offworlder admitted him with a single curt note, not even trying to singspeak it. The casual rudeness was like a metal file scraping on Zkerig’s eardrums, and this was not the first time. Rather than take offense, he put it down to the human’s inability, like most of his kind, to speak properly. It was as if the entire species was tone-deaf. Not that the representatives of any of the other races that visited Largess were any more fluent, or harmonious.

  Vashon was seated at the small table viewing something on the device he called a “communit.” Zkerig eyed it hungrily, as he did every piece of advanced technology in the human’s possession. Unlike some of his kind, he was not so foolish as to think that by stealing such tools he could then make use of them. Even the human’s “vibraknife” required some kind of rechargeable internal power source in order to function. Anyone failing to completely understand the design and mechanism would soon find themselves saddled with a highly illegal (at least from the offworlders’ point of view) nonfunctioning device.

  Nonetheless, he could still covet such wondrous gear as the human’s two hand-weapons, one of which jangled the nerves, while the other, only recently demonstrated, obliterated them and everything in their vicinity. If only he could have enough time to study them properly, he told himself. Or find someone with the knowledge he lacked to help him. Perhaps there were other offworlders like Vashon, eager to trade illegal technology for his world’s apparently quite valuable organics. How to make contact with such an individual, though, and without alerting the Hobak’s pet alien…?

  Vashon was frowning at him. “Why are you, standing there, looking like, a paralyzed porsaeig?”

  Zkerig advanced. Would that he could have continued advancing, he thought, to pick up the human and heave him out the cabin’s single wide port, there to land heavily on the ground and be forced to walk the rest of the way back to Minord. Alas, he knew full well that such an act was a physical impossibility. Strong as he was, the offworlder was too heavy for him. The human’s bulk as well as his technology
exceeded the Tralltag’s ability to manipulate. He would have to settle for savoring the human’s reaction when he was informed of the contents of the scroll, which Zkerig now held out before him.

  “Just now, via air, via speed, through the medium of rhynet communication, arrived this message from Poskraine.”

  Vashon frowned. “I assume it has something, to do with me, or you would never have brought it, to disturb my thinking, to unsettle my alone time. What does it say, this swift-winged missive, from a town of no particular importance, that you feel the need to trouble me with it?”

  “Nothing specific but everything of import,” the Tralltag told him, “so that among the lines, we may draw our own conclusions.” He kept gesturing with the scroll as he spoke. “It is true enough that Poskraine is of no importance, and of itself means nothing, in the scheme of things. But resides there an operative, low in status but plainly skilled in foresight, who chooses to bring to our attention, a development of interesting note, of worthy speculation.” His lips curled and the end of his elongated nostril twitched upward, away from his snout.

  “It would appear that, if the author of this communication can be believed, and there is no reason to imagine him, inventing such a vision, that you have company, that in these lands you are no longer alone.”

  Larian singspeech could be damnably subtle, an impatient Vashon reflected. “In these lands I have not been alone, for some time now, since I have the minions of na Broon, for escort and company. For them I rely on companionship and safety, of which company you, my noble Zkerig, are the foremost.”

  Immune to the flattery, the Tralltag took delight in explaining further. “Traveling north in our wake, following close like hopeful parasites, are one of my kind and one of yours.” Vashon’s reaction to this information, a mix of sudden alertness and confusion, satisfied all of Zkerig’s expectations. “Yes and so, it would seem that we see, that another human toward Minord rushes, though no casual traveler I liken him to be. On two stout brund they make their way; heading north, moving fast, doubtless an uncertain reunion they hope to have, and not with me.”