On buildings fronting the street, posters had been put up here and there. They bore such legends as "Frithugis, the people's choice!" or "Vote for Beonnus, friend of the downtrodden!" or "Victron—experience—integrity!" or "Ithmar, foe of the establishment!" Similar slogans had been painted on many walls.
The coach passed a man with a paintbrush and pail, interrupted while painting a slogan by two members of the civic guard. With these he was engaged in a furious argument. As Kerin craned his neck to watch, the slogan painter hurled his pail at a guardsman, drenching him with butter-yellow paint. The three ran off, the guardsmen after the painter, waving their truncheons and yelling.
As the parting rays of the setting sun touched spires and domes with ruddy gold, the vehicle halted at the principal square, flanked by the Senate House, the Magistracy, and other public buildings. In these structures, the austere plainness of classical Novarian style was adulterated by a touch of florid, fanciful Mulvani ornateness. From the square, Republic Avenue sloped gently down to the waterfront, where Kerin glimpsed a thicket of masts and yards. Across the square, a man harangued a crowd from a wooden box.
Kerin was reared on tales of Vindine corruption and public scandals. A traveling Vindine had given him the other side of the story:
"The difference, Master Kerin, lies not in you Kortolians' superior virtue but in the fact that, under our system, misdeeds are more easily brought to light. I daresay there be quite as much wrongdoing amongst the popinjays of your royal family, and amongst the hangers-on of the Royal Council, as with us. But your rulers, not having freedom of speech and publication to contend with, are in a stronger position to smother news of transgressions."
Kerin sat over a mug of ale, on the end of a bench in the common room of the inn to which Jorian had referred him. As his first task in Vindium, his brother had told him, he should find the harbor master to ascertain what ships were sailing when and whither. But, by the time Kerin had alighted in the square, the sun was out of sight behind the buildings. Sure he would find the harbor master's office closed, Kerin had gone instead to the inn.
Sounds of revelry wafted in from the street. Kerin kept repeating Jorian's advice: to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. He suppressed a small resentment that his brother possessed a more imposing façade than he. When someone cheated Jorian, all the latter had to do was loom upon the man, beard a-bristle, and quietly ask for a correction. Being smaller in all directions, Kerin did not feel he could manage that.
He tried to pick up snatches of talk among the Vindines in the room. But the few words he caught were of little import: comments on the weather and the speakers' trades, family problems, and aches and pains. Besides, his ear was not fully attuned to the Vindine dialect of Novarian.
The door banged open, and in came revelers three. They were stout, rough-looking men, led by one as big and brawny as Jorian. They carried little flags of the Republic of Vindium, showing a golden torch on an azure field; the leader had the staff of his flag stuck in the band of his hat.
"Ho, Chundo!" roared the leader. "Flagons of your best beer, to celebrate the glorious victory! And none of that horse piss you serve your ordinary customers!"
Kerin stared, for he belatedly recognized Garic, his odorous roommate on the first night of the journey. Garic stared back in similar recognition. Instead of speaking to Kerin, he shouted again for the taverner.
"Coming, coming," grumbled the proprietor. "I'm no wizard to make the stuff appear out of thin air."
"We'll take that one," said the leader, pointing to the bench on which Kerin sat. His companions slid in behind the table, so that the first to seat himself rubbed shoulders with Kerin.
The bench was not quite long enough for all four. Garic looked at those already seated; Kerin smelled the man's odor. Then the big man lowered one buttock on the end of the bench, saying loudly:
"Oh, push that skinny pup off the end! 'Tis he who so vexed me on the ride from Kortoli."
He applied his shoulder to his nearest companion and shoved, displacing the companion, who in turn forced the third of the trio up against Kerin. Seeing that he was about to be shoved off the end, Kerin rose, picking up his mug. The big man on the other end beamed triumphantly.
Kerin was furious; but his sword was in his room above, and in a rough-and-tumble with these characters he would have all the chance of a snowball in the crater of Mount Sholala. He had read fictions wherein the spindly young hero trounced the hulking bully; but he had seen enough of the world to know that such things did not really happen, unless the hero had the help of magic. Kerin's only magic was the protective cantrip laid upon him by Jorian's wizardly friend, the iatromagus Uller; and that, a mere passive defense against spells, would not hinder Garic's fists and boots.Keeping a grip on his temper, Kerin sat down at a vacant table. For a while he was suffered to drink his beer in peace, hearing the speech of the three who had ousted him. They endlessly boasted about the might and prowess of Vindium's paddle-ball team. There had been a minor riot at the game, with a couple of players whacking each other with bats, and spectators joining in until the civic guardsmen beat them away with pikestaves. Finally Garic bent a scowl upon Kerin, growling:
"Ho there, you, skinny!" When Kerin looked up, Garic continued: "Do you admit that the Vindine team is the finest, bravest, and ablest in all the Twelve Cities?"
Kerin realized that he ought to agree; but his boiling rage and imp of perversity led him defiantly to return the stare, saying: "I wouldn't know. I follow not that sport."
"Oh, too hoity-toity, eh? If you did, you'd know we Vindines could trample you Kortolian sissies into dirt! We'd grind 'em to powder, as I will now do to you!"
The fellow lurched to his feet and started towards Kerin. One of his companions said: "Garic, let's not start—"
Ignoring the advice, the big man continued his way, clenching and unclenching his fists. Kerin, badly frightened but determined to sell his life dearly, also rose. Then Garic stopped, saying:
"Ouch! Some damned bug bit me!"
He halted, batting the air with his massive arms. Kerin sighted Belinka's misty form, flitting round Garic's head. Kerin raised his voice:
"Goodman Garic! Know that your bug is my faithful familiar spirit. Wouldst force me to exert my full occult powers?"
"Huh? You a wizard?"
Kerin gave a mocking bow. "A mere pupil of Uller of Kortoli. How'd you like a little spell of impotence? Of course, I am not yet a licensed master magician, so the spell may go awry and turn us all to pollywogs or blast us off the planet." He extended both forefingers, closed his eyes, and declaimed: "Nitrae radou sunandam, noctar. . . ."
"Ho!" snorted Garic. "That's unfair! I'll take you on with fists or quarterstaves, but not with unholy spells!" When Kerin continued to incant, Garic, grumbling under his breath, returned to his table, saying: "Come on, boys; we like not Chundo's lousy beer anyway."
The three rose and hulked their way out, leaving their undrunk mugs. Weak with reaction, Kerin sat down, blessing Jorian for having coached him in lying. He murmured:
"Thankee, Belinka!"
"Hee hee!" tinkled the sprite, alighting on Kerin's shoulder. "Now you see what I can do for you. Art not sorry you treated me with such mortifying disdain?"
Before Kerin could answer, he found the taverner before him, saying: "Master Kerin, what didst to make those customers leave without paying? I'll not have you spoiling my trade!"
"If I had not, there'd have been a brawl, which would have cost you far more. I'll drink the beer they ordered."
"And pay for it, I trust?"
"Yea," sighed Kerin.
Kerin awakened with a throbbing head. He groaned and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
"I warned you!" tinkled Belinka, flitting about. "I tried to tell you four bumpers would give you grief, but you pretended not to hear, you stupid lout!"
Kerin grunted. "I couldn't hear you, after those other people came in and star
ted singing about the Vindine ball team. So let up on the preaching, will you?" He reached for his clothes.
"Oho, Master Kerin, you shall not so lightly escape! You owe me a favor for my defeat of the oafish Garic."
"Eh? What?" said Kerin, pulling on his trews.
"Aye. I demand that you buy me a dress, like unto those that dames on this plane wear."
Kerin stared. "What on earth dost need with a dress? Suffer you from cold?''
"Nay; the temperature of your plane affects me not. On mine own plane our natural forms suffice us; but here; I see that folk go not about naked, even when weather permit. So I would fain be in style with those of my sex in this world."
"But why? I like you as you are. Had you ten times your present stature, I might make lewd advances." He leered and wiggled his eyebrows.
"Ha! You, pretending to like me whom you have scorned and spurned? Anyway, on my plane we love a-wing; and how wouldst manage that? But I will not be out of fashion with those of your barbarous plane!"
"And where in the seven cold hells shall I find a dress for a winged woman a span in height?''
"Have you no folk who sell poppets to pleasure their infants? Find one and buy a poppet's gown, of suitable size."
"And if I won't?" said Kerin defiantly.
"You shall see!" The hovering spot of luminescence vanished.
"Ouch!" yelled Kerin, feeling a sudden stab on his neck, like the bite of a horsefly. He futilely slapped at the place. Another stab assaulted his forearm; another, right through his trousers into his calf.
"Stop, Belinka!" he cried. "Is this your idea of watching over me?''
"I expect recip—reciprocity!" she squeaked. "Now will you be a good fellow?"
Kerin sighed. "I'll ask the taverner if he know of any such shop; but I promise nought."
No, the harbor master said; those exotic Kuromonian ships, with their blunt ends and slatted sails, had not been seen in Yindium harbor for above a year. "They've been satisfied to haul their goods to and from Salimor," he said. "They say that piracy hath become rife betwixt here and Salimor; so I ween the yellow men reckon the game's not worth the horseshoe. Ye maun sail for Salimor and transship there."
"Who leaves next for Salimor?" asked Kerin.
The harbor master, a swarthy man whose complexion suggested Mulvanian ancestry, thumbed through a pile of papers. "Here 'tis: the Dragonet of Akkander, Captain Huvraka."
"A Mulvanian?"
"Aye. Ye'll find her about six berths north from here. Says he'll cast off—by Astis' ivory teats, lad, ye are in luck! She hoists up sail this even, if the wind be fair. At least, so saith her skipper; but ye can't always trust these Mulvanians."
Kerin thanked the harbor master and went in search of the Dragonet. He picked out the ship, a sharp-ended vessel with biack-and-crimson eyes painted on her bows, by her slanting lateen yards.
On the Dragonet's pier stood a crane, a tall skeletal structure of beams and ropes and pulley blocks. A treadwheel in the base was powered by six breechclouted convicts inside the wheel. A rigger belayed a rope around a bulky piece of cargo and slipped beneath the rope a hook suspended from the tip of the crane.
An overseer shouted; the six convicts began climbing the curving wall of the treadwheel, which had cleats to make the task easier. With noisy creaking, the burden slowly rose. The overseer shouted again. The convicts ceased their climbing; a pair of workers turned a winch. This slowly rotated the crane, swinging the load out over the deck of the Dragonet. More shouts, and the convicts backed down, letting the treadwheel turn the other way and the load descend to the deck. Other workers strained at a brake to keep the load from getting away. A pair of Captain Huvraka's brown-skinned sailors guided the load through the hatch and into the hold.
Kerin picked out Huvraka by his turban. The shipmaster was a squat, thickset, powerful man with a deep-brown skin and a bristling black beard striated with gray. Besides the turban, he wore a pair of baggy trousers gathered at ankles and slippers with turned-up toes, leaving his upper body bare; the air was balmy during a late autumnal warm spell.
Kerin started up the gangboard. Noticing him, the captain bustled over to the inboard end of the plank. "What would you?" he said in accented Novarian. "Can't you see I am loading?"
"I thought to buy my passage," said Kerin.
"Oh, in that case. . . ." Huvraka shouted to another member of his crew in Mulvani. The man addressed, in loincloth with a strip of fabric around his head, began issuing orders to the deckhands.
"Now then," said Huvraka, turning back. "Whither go you?''
"To Salimor and thence to Kuromon. The harbor master said you sail to Salimor.''
"Aye, with stops at Janareth, Halgir, and Akkander. Are you coming alone? No wife or leman?''
"Yea."
"Then your fare will be twenty-six Mulvanian crowns."
"My money is in Kortolian marks," auid Kerin. He did sums in his head and said: "That should come to about forty marks."
Huvraka looked doubtful. "That's local market rate, no doubt; but I am giving only official rate; it is the law. According to that, your fare is coming to sixty marks."
Kerin had been warned to haggle over the fare. He hated bargaining, which made him squirm with embarrassment; but he knew he would have to harden himself. He said:
"I cannot afford such a sum, Captain. Hast any other passengers? I want to know with whom I must needs share quarters."
"Nay, you are only one," said Huvraka. "You are having your cabin to yourself."
"Well, since I'm your only passenger, 'tis either I or none. Under the circumstances, methinks you could give me passage for fifteen crowns, which would bring it down to the local rate of exchange."
Captain Huvraka snorted. "Nay, never! If you are not paying going rate, be off with you!"
"Very well," said Kerin, turning away. "I must needs await the next ship."
As he started back down the plank, Captain Huvraka called: "Ho, not so fast, young man! I am abating my charges somewhat, albeit not to ridiculous figure you named. How about twenty-three crowns?"
A half-hour's chaffer got Kerin his passage for forty-six marks. Then he set out to find the maker of dolls to whom the taverner had referred him.
When he finally found the man's house, he approached its door with lagging steps, horribly embarrassed to ask for doll's clothes. When he hesitated, his hand outstretched to pull the bell rope, a sharp, stabbing pain in the buttocks made him jump.
"Go on, craven!" tinkled Belinka's voice.
He rang the bell. The dollmaker, a stout man with a fringe of gray hair around a bald scalp, admitted him. Kerin squared his shoulders, stuck out his chest, and told the proprietor:
"Sir, I need a dress for a poppet about so high." He held his fingers apart at what he thought was Belinka's stature. Squirming, he added: "For my little niece."
The man shouted over his shoulder: "Ricola! Have we a spare frock for one of the Queen Thanudas?"
"Aye, methinks so," mumbled a woman's voice. The dollmaker's wife appeared with a mouthful of pins, holding a piece of cloth on which she had been sewing. She rummaged in a pile of miscellany and held up a dollsized, turquoise-colored dress. Taking the pins out of her mouth with her free hand, she said: "Will this do, young sir?"
Kerin disliked being referred to as "young" but he was so eager to begone from the place that he paid the asking price without haggling. Back at the inn, he whistled: "Belinka!"
"Aye? Let me see!" Kerin felt the dress snatched out of his hand. It bobbed about in midair before the faintly-seen form of Belinka, who chirped:
"Oh, curse of the purple skull! How shall I get the thing on over my wings?"
"If you're an immaterial being, what's the problem?" asked Kerin.
"Not so immaterial as all that. But you would not understand."
"I wondered about the wings, also. How about cutting a pair of slits?"
"'Twill spoil the effect!" she cried. "It won't hang aright!"
"How can I help that? Must these slits go all the way to the bottom, or can you fold your wings, like fans, to get them through narrower openings?"
"Methinks gaps about so long would suffice," she said, holding her hands apart. "Here, catch!" The bluegreen garment fluttered towards Kerin. "How wilt accomplish this task? By sawing with your dagger?"
"Nay," said Kerin. "My family sent me forth well equipped." From his bag he dug out a small canvas sack containing needles, thread, and small scissors. "They insisted I be able to mend my gear."
He set to work on the gown, saying: "Turn around, Belinka, and make yourself more visible—oh, damn!"
"What's amiss?"
"I cut the slit too far on one side. I fear I'm no tailor. Canst sew a fine seam?"
"Nay," she said. "Not wearing clothes on our plane, we've never developed that skill."
Kerin sighed and addressed himself to threading the needle. After several attempts, he said: "Belinka, your hands are daintier than mine. Could you stick the end of the thread through that little hole in the needle?"
"I will try. . . . Oh, you have the end frayed out, so of a surety it won't go." She licked the end of the thread and twisted it into a point. "There you be!"
Kerin began sewing the edges of the longer cut together. "Ouch!"
"What befell?"
"Pricked myself. Methinks this be my first needle."
For a few seconds he worked away quietly. Then Belinka, rummaging in Kerin's sewing kit, held up a shiny object. "What's this, Master Kerin? It looks like a helm for one of us Second Planers, albeit too small for me.
"That's what we call a thimble. I am supposed to use it somehow in this task, but I know not how." He continued sewing.
Belinka exclaimed: "You've got it all wrong, clumsy oaf! One side of the cut matches not the other, so the fabric will gather in bunches."
Kerin spread his hands. "'Tis my best effort. If it's not good enough, the reason is you distracted me by asking about thimbles."
The Honorable Barbarian Page 2