Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  If Wiegl’s intent was to sustain a reputation based on boastfulness and self-interest, he had well and truly ruined it back there in the inlet.

  14

  ■ ■ ■

  The Great Hall of Minord Leeth was largely empty when Vashon and Zkerig made their triumphal entrance, leading a carefully bound Preedir ah nisa Leeh between them. At least, it was as triumphal as they could make it. Narrower than its traditional human equivalent would have been, the high, windowless corridor was also far more stark. There were none of the gaudy banners or gilded, rococo décor that would have featured in a comparable structure on Earth that dated to a similar period of social and technological development.

  Finished in plain gray stucco or plaster (architectural components were not a specialty of Vashon’s), the ceiling was sharply arched and devoid of decoration. No blazing shields or crossed swords denoting clan origin lined the walls. The sole ornamentation consisted of artful engraving in the stone of the walls themselves. This was meant to suggest rolling waves and breaking surf, an affectionate nod to Larian ancestry and evolution. The oceanic motif was repeated in the carvings that scrolled through the high-backed, low-seated chairs that were lined up against both walls.

  In contrast to the ceiling, the floor was a comparative riot of rugs and intricately woven throw pieces. It seemed to Vashon as he advanced that the skins and coats of half the creatures on Largess were represented in the crazy-quilt cushion underfoot.

  At the far end of the corridor, a solitary individual sat atop a single-step raised dais on a chair only slightly more ornate than the ones that lined the walls. Armed only with an elaborately forged ceremonial spear, a single guard stood on either side of the seated figure. Off to the left, a pair of bureaucrats sat at simple desks. They were equipped only with styluses for recording the forthcoming encounter, mechanical means of doing so having yet to be developed by their species.

  Halting at a respectful distance, human and Tralltag silently awaited a reaction from the silent individual seated on the dais. Mustering a tune resplendent with contempt, their captive was less hesitant in singspeaking her mind.

  “You are Felelagh na Broon, Hobak of the Leeth of Minord, to whose City Hall I have been brought, by these two slaves?”

  Zkerig tensed at the description, while Vashon enjoyed the Tralltag’s discomfort. Be it singspeech, terranglo, Low Thranx, or any other language, the origin of an insult did not matter to him. Only its content. Anticipating some verbal spew from their prisoner, he was not taken by surprise.

  “I am h-he, of whom whom y-you sing, as identified by m-my seat, and this location.” Awkward harmony and rough melody, as well as stuttering, immediately betrayed the Hobak’s speech impediment.

  “I cannot see your seat, as it plainly occupies, the same space as your brain, the same location as your conscience.”

  Three-fingered hands tightened around spears as the guards tensed. Startled, both recorders looked up from their work as Vashon noticed Zkerig flinch. As for himself, he waited to see what would follow. What did, did not surprise, as he had come to know the Hobak of Minord better even than his most trusted servants.

  Rising with difficulty from his low seat, na Broon leaned against the strong wooden cane that had been propped up nearby. A masterpiece of the Larian woodcarver’s art, the cane showcased more flamboyant decoration in its length than did the entire hall. For all the intricacy and skill displayed in the wooden staff, it remained wholly functional. It had to be, to support the weight of the Hobak’s upper body.

  Felelagh na Broon’s spine was crippled. Twisted not forward but sideways and to the right: a birth deformity that would have condemned a lesser individual to a life most ordinary. Leaning to his damaged side and resting his weight on the extravagant cane, with his head likewise inclined in the same direction, the Hobak limped forward until he was standing close to the captive. Though not close enough to bring himself within range of her unchained feet, Vashon noted wryly.

  In an idle moment he had once inquired of a Minord counselor why she had voted for na Broon to be Hobak.

  “He is twice as hideous,” she had replied without hesitation, “as the next ugliest of candidates—and three times as smart, as any of us. I will vote for him, yes, and I will listen, and follow his lead. He will be good for administration, and good for Minord, since being so unsightly, he will hold no false opinion of himself, and therefore will not fall prey, to temptation or corruption.”

  Na Broon looked Preedir up and down. “Beautiful eyes match beautiful fur, as wicked mouth confirms reputation. Do not worry, Preedir ah nisa Leeh, since y-you are here for political reasons only, not those of reproduction.”

  “I am thankful for that,” she replied, the dim light in the hall glinting off the curve of her gleaming black eyes, “as it would pain me to think, that something such as you, might one day reproduce.”

  For a second time the two recorders paused in their work. It was too much for Zkerig. Pulling his knife with the intention of drawing some respect along with the captive’s blood, he took a step toward her. Raising a hand, na Broon forestalled him.

  “Hold your temper, righteous as it may be, in this particular instance, regarding these particular words.” The Hobak’s proboscis quivered as he took a step nearer the prisoner. Standing straight, he would have towered over her, and over Vashon as well. But his broken, bent form permitted only his eyes to come level with hers. “We do not cut helpless, bound prisoners here, in the Great Hall of Minord, where the spirits of unseen predecessors, would frown on such action.”

  Moving with surprising speed, he raised the heavy cane and brought it around in a wide arc. The wider end, where he rested his hands, slammed into the Firstborn’s left leg just below the hip. Crying out, she fell to her knees, unable, with her wrists bound behind her, to clutch at the injured area.

  Turning away from her crumpled form, na Broon limped up the single riser, made a clumsy pivot, and resumed his seat. He had betrayed no emotion when she had insulted him and none when he had struck her. Nor did he seem in the least upset now. Only speculative.

  “W-we cut helpless, bound prisoners elsewhere,” he declared, concluding his unfinished observation, “where th-they can scream all they wish, where th-their contortions will not trouble honest citizens, where blood may flow unimpeded by pride.” Continuing to utilize the cane for balance even while he sat, he leaned toward her.

  “Y-you are here as a guest because y-your father, Hobak of Borusegahm, contemplates this expansive alliance, with th-those those who are not Larian.” Very much aware that Vashon was standing nearby, he ignored the human as he continued. “Unnatural creatures, in league with others more unnatural still, in an alliance w-we cannot imagine, and that w-we must not join.”

  In pain but defiant, she struggled to her feet. “Do you always, in this way of greeting, treat your guests, so bluntly?”

  He sat back in the chair, one hand resting on the top of the cane, his crippled upper body bent sideways. “If y-you were not a guest, I-I would have broken y-your leg, and not simply delivered, a minor admonishment, a small lesson. Y-your presence here, will give y-your father, something else to focus on, besides a blasphemous union, besides a betrayal of h-his kind. Not knowing who has taken y-you, h-he will distrust everyone, and so each Leeth, will fall under h-his suspicion.”

  “There is no betrayal,” she replied defiantly, “in seeking to improve, the lot of all Larians, the future of all Largess.” She glanced scornfully at Vashon, who paid the expression no mind. “Most offworlders seek only to help, to raise up our world and our peoples, to the levels they themselves have reached, through mutual cooperation.” She shifted her attention back to the Hobak. “Where is the harm in that, where the danger and the peril, in seeking only improvement, through joining together and with others?”

  Slamming a hand down so hard on the left arm of the chair of office that both recorders jumped slightly in their seats, na Broon rose halfway from a
sitting position. It was all he could manage.

  “Have none of y-you southerners considered,” he roared melodically, “what such a union would mean, in political terms, as well as social? Are y-you all so greedy, for the toys of the offworlders, that y-you are willing to sacrifice, to give up, to cast aside, y-y-y-your sovereignty?” His back might be twisted sideways and his singspeaking cursed with a singular speech impediment, but he had no difficulty making himself understood. Wincing from the pain that never left him, the pain he had been born with, he settled slowly back into the chair.

  “I-I will never allow Minord, or any other Leeth where I-I have influence, to surrender its independence, to some offworld whimsy. Largess is for its peoples; for Larians all, for Larians together, and against the spawn, of other worlds. I-I would rather fight a dozen Leeths combined, than give up one iota, of Minordian independence.”

  “But that’s not the goal, of the Commonwealth speakers,” she objected, “who sing only, of greatness for Largess. Of a chance to participate with other peoples, in other ways, who dwell in harmony among the stars.”

  “Y-you sing of daydreams, in the warbling of a child, with no real knowledge, of how alliances work. Always there is one that dominates, its struggling brethren, whether through arms, or taxes, or cultural supremacy. I-I do not know if this alien Commonwealth, would use one or all, to subjugate ou-our world, but this I-I do know: that I-I will not sit by, and watch it happen, and see it take place, so long as I-I-I am Hobak, of this Leeth.”

  “You are a male,” she sang softly but not kindly, “suffering from delusion, replete with symptoms, visible to anyone not under your spell. Or under your knife, which I suspect is more common, than you persuading others, through your political skills. The alliance will happen; no matter your interference, no matter what delays, despite whatever lies, you can fabricate.”

  “I-I think not,” he responded quietly in his own peculiar stuttering singspeech, “so long as y-your father, that noble leader, raises all of Borusegahm, to hunt for h-his Firstborn. And while h-he does so, I-I will sing my own position; to the heads of the other Leeths, to all peninsulas and islands, and even to the Leeth-lands, that lie across the seas.” His eyes glittered. “I-I may not convince all, of the rightness of m-my argument, but enough will be persuaded, to render this ‘union’ not viable.”

  Curling her nostril straight down, she took the tip between the teeth at the end of her snout. A gasp came from at least one of the recorders, and despite his Hobak’s caveat, a guard lowered his spear. Vashon had to smile to himself. The Firstborn of Borusegahm was truly incorrigible. The iconic slur she had just rendered was about as extreme as one Larian could flash at another.

  As ever since they had first struck a business relationship, Vashon was once again surprised by the Hobak. Felelagh na Broon’s sole response to the visual obscenity was the Larian equivalent of a laugh. Even to a human, the musical note the speech-challenged Hobak emitted was amusing.

  “Y-you are brave but not sophisticated, courageous but not wise, which is ever a constant, among the young. Guest or prisoner, well-fed or starved, free to walk about or hobbled by chains: the choice is y-yours. One day y-you will be returned home; to the safety of your Leeth, to the comfort of Borusegahm, to the insularity that nourishes y-you, but which y-you insist on rejecting in favor of a dream. Before that can happen I-I will have made, alliances of m-my own, and w-we will shut out this pernicious ‘Commonwealth,’ no matter how superior its technology!” Pushing himself back in the chair, he grimaced as he made an effort, ultimately futile, to sit straight.

  “One day y-you will understand, and come to thank m-me, as will y-your father, and every citizen of h-his Leeth, every inhabitant of Largess. Until that day comes, y-you may enjoy Minordian hospitality, or if y-you prefer, drown in personal asceticism: the choice is of no consequence to m-me. I-I have much more to worry about, than the adolescent protestations, of one who is nothing more, than a marker in a game.”

  Light shone through the webbing of his left hand as he raised it high. In response, four more guards emerged from a hidden alcove behind the leader’s seat. At his direction Preedir ah nisa Leeh was taken away, escorted out of the Great Hall to a sealed apartment that had been made ready in anticipation of her involuntary arrival. Gesturing at Vashon, na Broon beckoned him forward.

  “Y-you have done well, have done all that y-you promised, and in keeping with ou-our arrangement, the goods y-you requested shall be supplied. What will y-you do with them, once they are delivered, once they are transferred, into y-your care?”

  “Arrange a small convoy,” Vashon replied, “back to Borusegahm, back to the station, where my people can trade. I will use again, an assortment of others, of people and machines, to forward onward my ‘goods.’ ”

  “W-we must discuss one day,” the Hobak sang roughly, “the profits y-you make, from the pact between u-us. As I-I might hope, that some partial benefit might accrue, not only to Minord, but to m-myself personally.”

  “The pleasure to do so, will entirely be mine,” a gratified Vashon sang back, “as profit shared, can only benefit both—participants.” Though the human finished on a sour, unmelodic note, na Broon ignored it as he rose to put a reassuring hand on the offworlder’s shoulder.

  Standing alone and forgotten on the carpets in front of them, Zkerig could only look on and mutter to himself.

  —

  “We have failed, for we are too late, to intercept, the Preedir ah nisa Leeh and her abductors, the Firstborn and your troublemakers.”

  Wiegl waited for a reaction from the offworlder magician. Instead of turning to the Larian, Flinx continued to gaze at the cool, clear stream where they had stopped. Having settled into its familiar squatting posture, their brund relaxed nearby, contentedly munching the purple-hued flowers that grew on the trunks of the treelike growths that shielded them from the nearest cluster of single-story rock houses. The fresh water on this world, Flinx mused as he chucked a small round rock into the stream, was as clean and pure as any he had ever sipped.

  He lifted his gaze. In the distance, the tightly packed homes and businesses and industries of Minord climbed and crested a gentle hill threaded with stone-paved streets. Thick smoke rose from the chimneys of small factories and private residences. To the east of the city, a fast-flowing river powered wood-and-metal waterwheels, some of them several stories high and of impressive workmanship.

  Taking it all in, Flinx thought it would be a shame if Commonwealth membership brought commerce that in any way contaminated either the local water or the Larians themselves. He sighed, aware he was being unduly romantic as well as naïve. Industry was already here, on the cusp of advanced development. Commonwealth assistance and technology would do more to ensure that Largess’s burgeoning growth did not damage the ecology than it would to generate any such damage. There were the waterwheels—but there was also the dense, black smoke. With or without outside help, local growth could not be stopped. Better to help where it was possible than to stand back and ignore what was going to happen here.

  While Flinx had waited by the brook, Wiegl had made his way into the outskirts of Minord town. The guide had eavesdropped, and asked questions, and had not had to probe very deep in order to obtain the information he sought.

  While it could not yet be confirmed, the rumor had spread rapidly through the populace that an important member of the ruling family of distant Borusegahm had been brought to Minord, against her will. If true, it raised the possibility there could be war with the southern Leeth. Or more likely, much agitated singing back and forth.

  Why would the current political regime of Minord engage in such a provocation? the citizens wondered. Among the townsfolk there were many theories. Included among them was mention of a proposed unification of all the Leeths so that their world might qualify for associate membership in the mysterious offworlder Commonwealth. Since the only offworld outpost on Largess was located in Borusegahm, this only contribute
d to the suspicions and paranoia among those debating the rumor’s possible merits.

  Considering that the intent, as Flinx understood it, behind the kidnapping of the Firstborn of Borusegahm was to sow anger and confusion among the Leeths and thereby divert them from concentrating on achieving such a unification, the abduction was clearly already on the way to achieving that goal.

  Tired of watching the human toss rocks into the water, the just-returned Wiegl could hold his peace no longer. “Since we are unable to intercept, the Firstborn and her abductors, I assume we will now return home, the better to let diplomats and politicians, the better to let those in a position to do so, negotiate a way out of this matter.”

  Having come to a decision, Flinx turned to him. “We will do nothing of the sort, but will instead do our best, to conclude this business we have begun, in a satisfactory fashion.”

  Though the human’s singspeech had grown fluent, Wiegl was still not sure he had heard the words and the melody correctly. “Did you not understand what I just said, that the strideship has reached Minord, and has docked, and unloaded its cargo?” He gestured sharply in the direction of the city whose narrow streets he had just prowled. “To extricate the Firstborn now would require an army, not a pair of optimists, not even if one, is an offworld magician!” Lowering his arm, he straightened, his thick tail stiffening until it stood straight out behind him, parallel to the ground and quivering with exasperation.

  “To take back the Firstborn from her place in the city, to take her back by force since there are no longer any other options, could perhaps be done with a dozen of your marvelous ‘skimmer’ craft, armed with the wondrous weapons you refuse to give us.”