Chieftain of Andor

by Andrew J Offutt

  Shilaat nodded with a whimsical smile. “Life is seldom easy, Cleve of Earth.”

  Cleve gazed at him. Slowly, he pronounced the Adorite word for “yes” and “all right” and “OK”. “Pai. Pai, you’re right, Shilaat. Does it burn fish skin, or llico hide?”

  “Pai. We, too, have thought of that.”

  “What about wood or rock?”

  “The rocklight burns neither,” Shilaat said.

  “Any effect at all?”

  “Not that we are aware of.”

  “Hm. Interesting stuff. It glows. It burns selectively — it attacks the kingdoms of animal and vegetable, but apparently not mineral. Of course we can’t prove it has no effect on the vegetable world, not without experimentation. And perhaps some instruments.”

  “What sort of instruments, Cleve?”

  Cleve chuckled. “Instruments we aren’t about to have access to!” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how far away they are, Shilaat. Um. Shilaat — the white fur. That long, silky stuff you’re sitting on — I sleep on it and Siraa has a breechclout made of it. What is it? Some sort of aquatic animal?”

  It was Shilaat’s turn to chuckle at ignorance. “We get it from the Oridorns,” he said.

  “But then — ”

  “They get it from the Orimars,” Shilaat said.

  Cleve grinned. “Should I ask?”

  “But you do not understand, my friend. The Oridorns are at war with Orimora. The Orimors are constantly striving to gain access to Oridorn. To warmth. The Oridorns fight them off — without that rocklight weapon of theirs they would have been exterminated long ago, and it is we who would be fighting off the Orimors.”

  Cleve nodded. “Imperialism,” he said. “At least it’s based on a sensible motive — warmth! I believe that may be unique … no, I suppose not. Anyhow, the white fur — ”

  “As I said, the Oridorns get it from the Orimors. From their bodies. The ones they kill in the Orimor invasions — the Orimors are covered with fur, Cleve, as protection against the not-warmth of their home.” Cleve had told Shilaat the word for “cold,” forgotten in Orisana for lack of necessity; Shilaat had forgotten it again.

  “Yes,” Cleve said, “but my question is — ” He stopped. “You mean that fur is … Orimor pelt?”

  “Of course.” Shilaat smiled. “Look at yourself. When man left the water and the caverns and sought to exist in the Overworld — none knows why — he found himself menaced by that great ball of fire in the ceiling — I mean, ‘sky.’ He no longer had need of swimming. So — look at yourself. Your skin darkened. Partially burned by the sun, and partially it darkened naturally, I suppose, so you could better stand that sun. You lost the webbing between your toes. I cannot explain your hair — perhaps that, too, darkened because of the sun. And your eyes — perhaps colored eyes can better withstand the light?”

  Cleve was staring at him. “You think — you’re saying life began here? Orisana is the birthplace of humans of Andor?”

  “Not necessarily Orisana.” Shilaat shrugged. “But Orisans, yes. What other explanation is there?”

  Cleve now knew why his mentioning Orisans evolving fins and pale skins to Zivaat had shocked and angered him; why Zivaat had warned him not to repeat that heresy to Shilaat! The Orisans, buried within the mountain, interpreted the world in terms of themselves!

  Naturally. There was nothing new in that. It was logical — subjectively logical. Cleve said nothing, letting his expression show no surprise or disagreement.

  “You are accepted here, Cleve. Certainly there is one among us who is willing to be your mate. Will you stay, now?”

  Cleve shook his head. “I must go, Shilaat,” he said, watching the man’s eyes. Yes, he’d thought so. Shilaat was delighted. Nothing personal, of course; Shilaat merely wanted Siraa. Stay here much longer, boy, Cleve mused, and you may get yourself assassinated!

  True enough, but he would not have guessed at the identity of the would-be assassin, or at least, would-be crippler. Not until the strange, eyeless woman from Oridorn told him.

  She found him on another of his solitary thinking-walks. He had talked with Shilaat, and with Zivaat, and they had understood, or professed to, and he was “allowed” to wander without escort, although he was certain Zivaat or someone else was watching where he went.

  She came upon him very quietly, the white-skinned, eyeless slave with hair almost transparent. He was sitting on the same rock he’d rested upon to think, that other time he’d wanted solitude, to be alone with his tumultuous mind.

  “Cleve?” Her voice was soft; her mouth remained open after she’d spoken.

  He nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

  She advanced a couple of paces to stand just before him. “I knew. Or thought I knew.”

  “And how did you come here so silently?”

  “We know where we are and where we are going, we … hear. It is what you call ‘see.’ We ‘see’ within our heads.” Her mouth moved precisely in that strangely impassive face. Her hands were still; her people did not gesture.

  “Um. I apologize — I met two Oridorns both at once, and I don’t know whether you are Gaise or Jaire.”

  “I am Jaire. We can talk?”

  “I’d love to talk with you, Jaire.”

  She stood before him in the long, shapeless shift they put on their slaves, her head facing him just as if she were watching him, with only two smooth depressions on either side of the bridge of her nose, where her eyes should be. Her arms hung straight and motionless at her sides. Her mouth, as always, was slightly open.

  “You do not plan to stay in Orisana, Cleve of Earth?”

  “No. I must either go through the caverns into the water and thus into the jungle, or up through your land.” “You must go up through Oridorna,” she said, “and quickly. Or you will die, or worse.”

  He did not ask; he could think of many fates worse than death, although the traditional one that matched the cliché had never struck him as such. Perhaps, he had tried to tell himself, it was because he was not a woman. But every psychologist who bothered to write, wrote that a woman desired to be fate-worse-than-deathed.

  “Why do you tell me this, Jaire of Oridorna?”

  A little shrug: “I would bargain. You have said that you would leave. I merely want to influence the direction. Shilaat wants you to leave — he is fond of you, but is consumed with desire for Siraa, and will kill you if you stay. Bavuraat, though, who also desires her and does not know of Shilaat’s infatuation, wants you neither to stay nor to be allowed to go. He will kill you, soon. And — it seems Siraa is determined that you will not leave her. She will do something to you, to cripple you so that you must stay. Failing that, she will kill you rather than have you leave her. It will cause her to lose face, your leaving.”

  That last sentence was not much to aid a man’s ego, but Cleve did not notice. His ego had never needed boosting, so that he seldom bragged and never bothered to demean others. His mind was struck with the content of her whole statement: so much plotting! He’d had no idea! Three people ready to kill or maim him, and he with no notion of it, other than his faint suspicion of Shilaat — whom he knew would wait, certain Cleve was indeed leaving.

  But Siraa! — and Bavuraat!

  He bent toward her. “How does a slave in the household of Shilaat of Orisana know these things, Jaire?”

  “We slaves know most of what there is to know. People talk in front of us as if we did not exist, or as if we were animals. Believe what I have told you.” Her face remained impassive.

  “That’s hard, Jaire. Because you want me to go up into Oridorna, and take you with me.”

  Had she had eyes they would have gone very wide as her mouth did, with a hissing intake of breath. Her hands clutched each other comfortingly. “How did you know?”

  He shrugged, remembering as he did that the gesture was wasted on her. Never mind; on Earth he had gestured and smiled and shrugged while talking on the telephone. It was habit, no
t demonstration.

  “I am not stupid, Jaire of Oridorna. You said that you would bargain, and that you wanted to influence the direction. Why? So that I would take you with me, naturally.”

  She said, “Yes. I can show you the way, and guarantee your safety among my people. Perhaps we can persuade Zaide to give you a rocklight projector.”

  “Who is Zaide?”

  These people neither shrugged nor nodded nor gestured as they spoke; they had never seen anyone do so, and thus spoke solely with their mouths. It was strange, disconcerting, almost eerie; a little like conversing with a zombie or a robot “Zaide is the Keeper of the Rock-light,” she said simply, and Cleve knew from her tone that Zaide’s was a revered post.

  He thought about it while she stood silently before him, clad in a long purple gown that would have been reserved for royalty, on Earth at this cultural level. Here purple was not so hard to come by; one did not have to dive for it off the coast of Tyre. He wanted to leave. One way was, apparently, as dangerous as the other. Her way was the unknown, true, but Robert Cleve had never much feared the unknown; it represented a challenge.

  Perhaps, as she said, he could obtain one of the projectors with which the Oridorns defended themselves against the Orimors. That should enable him to get past the Orimors, assuming he could clothe himself against the mountaintop cold. It mightn’t be pleasant, wearing clothing he knew was made from the pelt of men, or near-men. But if it kept him alive, he would not turn shuddering from it.

  Why not? He was going on anyhow. Why not her way?

  “How, Jaire? When?”

  “You need only follow me. I know when someone is moving, but I might walk quite close to a stationary person without knowing he was there, against a very rough wall or among rocks. I know only that something is there, not whether it is alive. Thus you would be my eyes, so that we could be sure none saw us. I know the way. We would go while they sleep, of course, so that we could leave more easily and there would be less chance of our being seen.”

  “Just like that,” Cleve said. “No violence?”

  “Of course not. There will be no need. Once we are within the passage I know of, there will be none to see us. When we are in darkness, I will be your eyes.”

  He was on the point of feeling remorse about leaving with Shilaat’s property — Jaire — when he remembered: She had corroborated the man’s intent to kill him if he did not leave, and that soon. Assuming, of course, that she could be believed. At least partially, Cleve thought.

  “All right, Jaire. Let’s make our plan, then.”

  Sinuous in the foot-length purple robe, Jaire squatted before him and began to talk quietly and earnestly.

  A few feet away, around a corner of the passage, a man with five concentric blue circles on his belly and a single blue stripe between his brows strained to hear. Bavuraat nodded, smiling.

  *

  “What will you do when I am gone, Siraa?” Cleve asked.

  The mermaid of Orisana came quickly from her back to a sitting position, propping her lithe white body up with her hands behind her.

  “You are going?”

  “You know I am leaving, Siraa. I have always said so, I have never said otherwise.”

  “When?”

  Careful, Cleve told himself. If what Jaire said is true, don’t give the pretty schemer a reason to do whatever she intends to do to keep you here!

  “Oh, I am in no hurry,” he said, thinking that a lie was quite excusable under the circumstances. “Not for a good while yet.” That was properly vague, not even a lie. How long is “a good while”?

  “I shall miss you,” she said. “I love your warmth.” She twisted, gazing intensely into his eyes. “I love you, Cleve.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You love that warmth you mention, and you love my difference, and you love receiving attention because the others know about us.”

  She tossed her head so that her long pale hair swished. “I received plenty of attention before you came,” she said, with more than a little feminine hauteur. “I am beautiful, and desirable.”

  “Yes,” he said, putting out a hand to touch her cheek. She raised hers to hold it against her face.

  “But you are wrong, Cleve. I love you. Stay here with me. Stay here and love me, warm me. And let us see if our children are warm like you.”

  “I rather doubt there’d be children,” he told her, wondering.

  “Why not? Do you think I am not a woman?” Pride again, and hauteur, her chin up. She does’'t need me to warm her, he thought.

  She needs someone of her own kind to tame her, before her uppity ways get her into trouble in a society that places little value on women! I wonder if Shilaat will tame her — or if she will enslave him?

  “I think that we might not have children because we are different,” he told her. “Has an Oridorn ever borne an Oris an child? Or an Orisan woman an Oridorn child?”

  She looked horrified. “Of course not! But that is completely different. They are inferior creatures. None would want to mate with them. You are … different, but you are just like us. It is not your fault that your toes are so strangely naked, disconnected. And I like the color in your eyes and hair and skin.”

  “Thank you,” he said, thinking it was, very literally, mighty white of her! “Uh — I asked what you’d do, though, when I am gone. You wouldn’t try to hold me, would you?”

  He saw it in her eyes, even as she clutched him and said, oh no, not if that was what he wanted, returning to that terrible world Outside. But her eyes said Yes — I shall keep you here, whether you want to remain or not! And pride spoke as much as — according to her — love. It was as he had said: She would miss the attention, and the novelty of warmth. She had probably done some bragging, put on some airs with the other women here. She would lose face when he left; they would say he had abandoned her, that Siraa could not hold the man she wanted. Cleve felt sorry for her — but not enough to stay, or to trust her. And he did not love her, although he had no desire to hurt the woman who had saved his life.

  “Shilaat desires you,” he said.

  The head tossed again; white hair swished and swirled again on her shoulders. “Shilaat eats like a Tree-man. Shilaat is growing fat and losing his hair.”

  “Oh come now, Sirra. He is ruler of Orisana. You will be first among the women of Orisana!”

  He saw that got to her, and thus he felt less remorse when he arose later, as she slept, and crept out to where he was to meet Jaire of Oridorna. He knew that he would not see Siraa of Orisana again, and he knew they would both be far better off. But he felt more a man for the experience of having known her.

  13 - The Tunnel to Oridorna

  They were almost in darkness, just rounding a turn in the narrow corridor that put them beyond the last area of luminescence in the wall, when Jaire halted. She touched the arm of the other woman, Gaise; they had appeared together, and certainly Cleve could not send Gaise back.

  “What is it?” he whispered, watching as they turned to face back the way they’d come, still as statues made of alabaster and robed in purple. Their mouths were open. Jaire replied in a whisper, without moving her alertly held head.

  “We are followed. The fact that we have not heard them proves that they come stealthily. Also slowly.”

  “Then let’s go,” he said, “and faster.”

  She went on, with Gaise close behind her and Cleve following Gaise. To them, there was no difference; to Cleve, their way led into increasing darkness. Seeing a hand-sized rock lying loose against the cavern wall, he bent. Just as he picked it up there was a loud scraping clank of metal behind them. The two Oridorn women halted, spinning about to stand as if frozen. “Seeing,” he knew; focusing their radar sense or whatever it was that enabled them to walk so surely, to set down plates without banging the table, to know how close a wall or a table or another person was.

  Behind them there was absolute silence.

  “They have stopped,�
�� Gaise whispered.

  Just as she did, the shout bellowed out behind them, echoing along the narrow tunnel in the mountain like the hollow voice of a ghost.

  “Cleve! We know you’re there, and we know you’re fleeing to Oridorna with two slaves! You were more than welcome to leave — but not as a thief! Come back, all three of you — we have swords, and you’re unarmed.”

  “Their arms are too long,” Jaire said, very intent. “Yes — they carry swords.”

  “How far,” Cleve asked, “to the shaft leading up to Oridorna?”

  “Not much farther, but — ”

  “Run,” he told them, “or go as fast as you can. I’ll be right behind you. If they overtake us, I’ll try to stop them. This tunnel is too narrow for them to come at me two abreast.” He turned back toward the unseen pursuers.

  “Bavuraat? Go back and let me be — I’ve a sword and you can come at me only one at a time. I’ve little to lose — I know of your plan to murder me!”

  He looked about for more rocks. The Oridorns were already fleeing noiselessly up the passage, nearly running. Without waiting for Bavuraat’s reply, Cleve turned and followed. A few paces farther on, he stumbled, grunting as he hurt his knee, but picking up the stone that had tripped him. The two women were making incredibly good time, considering their sightlessness, but they were far from running. Bavuraat and his men should have no trouble overtaking them. The bobbing, flickering light told Cleve they had a torch, and were following. Their feet slapped as they came; they were trotting, the fastest safe speed possible in this narrow, irregular, twisting, and rock-strewn cavern.

  He ran into Gaise.

  “This is the place,” Jaire said excitedly, panting a little. “We must climb.” The tunnel ended in an apparent cul-de-sac. But its terminal wall led upward, through a dark shaft. To Oridorna. She began to climb up the blank end of the passage, crying out to those who might be above.

  Cleve alternated watching her ascent — closely, too closely followed by Gaise — with looking back down the passage at the sound of shouts and approaching feet, accompanied by the light of the torch carried by one of the pursuers.