Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  He reached the bar and took a stool. There was no one else near him. He tried to figure out the best strategy for this situation while he waited for the tender to serve the other customers.

  The only thing he was sure of was that he would have to behave as if he were not afraid. The scar on his right palm was itching fiercely. He forced his mind to relax, his shoulders to unhunch, his hands to unclasp. He looked around the room again. The tender had seen him and was working his way down the bar toward him.

  Rikard looked at the faces of the men and women. They were hard, grim, and frequently sad. Some were old, some young, most middle-aged. Some were laughing, but there was pain and anger behind their eyes. Rikard's father, too, had had that hard, mean look, but there had always been laughter behind his eyes. His father was not like these people at all.

  Somehow that realization eliminated his fear. He still understood the danger he was in. He was still aware of the hostility in the room. If anything, he was more perceptive than before. But he was no longer afraid. His scar stopped itching.

  The tender got to him at last, his eyes hard and nasty.

  "Croich on the rocks," Rikard said softly. His voice was calm and perfectly under control.

  "What are you, some kind of a wise guy?"

  "You don't have croich?"

  "Now, how the hell am I supposed to get croich on a godforsaken planet like this? You want croich, you go back where you came from."

  "Got anything like it?"

  "Mertha, frolem, nelsh whiskey."

  "Nelsh then, on the rocks. Do you serve lunch?"

  "Sandwiches."

  "The biggest one you make." He put a couple of bills on the bar and stared the tender in the eyes as the other took the money and moved off.

  The people who'd been watching him returned to their own interests. Nobody bothered him while he waited. He was tempted to think that maybe this place wasn't quite as dan­gerous as everybody had made it out to be.

  A moment later the tender returned with a glass of amber whiskey, a plate on which lay a huge sandwich cut in quarters, and change. Rikard had won round one. He thanked the man and left the change lying on the counter. The nelsh wasn't much like croich after all, but the sandwich was very good.

  He ate slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. When he finished eating, he downed the rest of his drink and sig­naled the tender that he wanted another. The tender brought it, took his money, and came back with the change.

  "Maybe you could tell me something," Rikard said. "I'm trying to find somebody, and I understand that this might be a good place to ask. Is that right?"

  Even as he spoke, all conversation within earshot stopped.

  The tender mopped the bar in front of Rikard without looking at him. His face was set in an expression that reflected the tension in the rest of the room. Rikard didn't have to look around to hear the silent attentiveness.

  Up till now the patrons had not deemed him worthy of more than the barest notice, but they had not forgotten him or truly accepted him. And though they had gone on about their own interests, they had heard his conversation. His last words had been spoken in silence. Now there was only the occasional sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor as some­body with his or her back to the scene turned to get a better view.

  Rikard waited a moment longer, but the tender didn't answer his question.

  "He came here about twelve years ago," Rikard went on at last. "I can trace him for two-thirds of a year, and then he disappeared." The smell of danger was thick in the air.

  "Didn't anybody tell you it was a good idea to mind your own business?" the tender asked.

  "This is my business."

  "I don't see it that way. It's the business of the man you're hunting where he is, not yours."

  "But it's my business to want to find him."

  "That's too bad."

  "Would money make things better?"

  "Look, kid, nobody tells a stranger where somebody is. You haven't got the kind of money that buys information like that."

  "How do you know?"

  "I don't see your assistants carrying it in wheelbarrows."

  Rikard couldn't help but chuckle, which possibly saved his life. His good humor broke the tension of the moment, but the contest was still on. It was just going to go into another round. His life was still in danger, but at least the tender didn't despise him.

  "You're right," Rikard said, "that kind of money I don't have. Look, I can understand not passing out a guy's address to every tourist that comes along. But not everybody who's looking for somebody is an enemy. Sometimes one friend tries to find another. What happens then?"

  "Same thing. A friend knows where his friends are. He doesn't need to ask directions."

  "Even after eleven years?"

  "If your friend didn't tell you where he is, he didn't want you to find him." . "Unless he's dead."

  "You think he's dead?"

  "No. Somebody else I talked to reacted in a strange way, which I don't think he'ddo for a corpse."

  "Then there's not much I can do," the tender said. "This guy may be a friend of yours, or he may not, but I don't know you. And I don't talk to strangers."

  It was the end of round three. Rikard took a sip of his drink. If he wanted to leave now, he'd be allowed to depart in one piece. But he had nowhere else to search after the Troishla. And he hadn't lost this contest yet.

  He drew a wet circle on the bar and looked back up at the tender, who was still watching him. "Everybody starts out as a stranger."

  "Almost everybody," the tender agreed.

  "Granted. But for those who don't already have a con­nection, there's got to be some way to become known."

  "Sure, hang around for a year or so."

  "It doesn't take that long."

  "Not always."

  "So maybe there's some way I can establish my credentials a little more quickly."

  "Credentials!" the tender repeated, and started to laugh. There were other appreciative chuckles from around the room, and an occasional comment. Rikard had lost again, but he was providing a good show. As long as he did so, he was probably safe.

  He glanced casually around at his audience. They were enjoying this contest. But most of them would be perfectly happy to teach him a lesson if he made any kind of mistake.

  Some faces were angry. Those people would jump on him now if there weren't so many other patrons present. One or two people looked bored. One or two others, including a very attractive young woman, seemed to have no hatred at all in their eyes. Rikard nodded and smiled at one of these last, then turned back to the tender. The man was waiting expectantly.

  "The man I'm looking for is my father," Rikard said.

  The tender raised an eyebrow. "And he disappeared eleven years ago?"

  "He left home almost fourteen years ago."

  "Then I'd suggest you leave well enough alone."

  The contest was over. Somebody at one of the tables muttered, "We don't want any Fed spies around here," but there were few assenting replies. As far as most of the patrons were concerned, Rikard had lost fairly.

  The tender went off to serve other customers. The noise level in the room returned to normal. The man three stools to Rikard's left suggested that he finish his drink and get out, but almost everybody else had returned to their business. Only a few people were still watching from their tables.

  Rikard took a long pull from his drink and thought that maybe the man's advice was pretty good. Then two people, a man and a woman, came up to the bar on either side of him. They stood too close to be friendly.

  "I think maybe you've been here too long," the woman, standing on his right, said. Rikard had watched her face just moments before. It still expressed hatred. And now he didn't dare leave, because it would look as if he was running from these two people.

  "All I want to do," he said, "is find out if my father is alive or dead. If he's dead, I'll visit his grave, and that will be the end of it. I
f he's alive, I want to see him just once, and that will be the end of it."

  The woman grabbed his arm. "Maybe you didn't hear—"

  "Shut up, Lesh," her friend on Rikard's left snapped. She did. "Don't mind her," the man went on. He was not at all friendly. "She gets a little impatient. But you're cool. You've been amusing so far. Go on and tell us your story." There was no humor in his expression whatsoever.

  Rikard wondered how much he should say, but now was not the time to be coy. "My father is Arin Braeth," he said. "He left my mother and me almost fourteen years ago, after his money ran out. He said then, and I believed him, that he was going to make his fortune and come back. But he never did come back.

  "I started tracking him down two years ago, and I've traced him here. Records show he stayed in the city for over two hundred days, and then the records stop. He checked out.

  There's no record of death, for whatever that's worth. I talked to Boss Bedik, and he won't tell me anything, but I think he knew my father back then. He acts as if my father is still alive. And now I'm here.

  "And that's all there is to it." He finished his drink.

  "I've heard of Arin Braeth," the man said.

  "Hell, Arbo," Lesh whined, "you've heard of everybody."

  "Shut up, Lesh." Arbo's voice was icy. "But I don't believe you're Arin Braeth's son," he said to Rikard.

  "Why not?"

  "Arin Braeth was a Gesta, and one of the best. He ransacked Valerian. He sold guns to Tropos. He helped put down the Menn Thark uprising. He traded bhang of Asmarth. A guy like that has lots of children. But none of them bear his name."

  "My mother was the one woman my father married," Rikard said. "It was his last adventure. And I can prove I'm his son. I have the identification."

  "That proves nothing," Lesh said. "Do you know how easy it is to make identification tickets? Why do you think all these tourists come here? To buy and sell stuff they can't get at home. And one of those things is IDs. Any kind you want, made up in any name you wish."

  Another man came up to the bar behind Arbo and leaned around him across the counter so he could see Rikard.

  "What do you want your old man for anyway?" he asked.

  "To find out what happened to him after he left my mother and me. My mother died because he didn't come back as he said he would. It took her three years to do it. My father should know what happened to her. And because I care about what happened to him."

  "You're screwy," the man said.

  "So what? That doesn't make me different from anybody else."

  "What I want to know," Arbo said, "is what made you think you had any business coming here in the first place."

  "To Kohltri? I—"

  "To the Troishla."

  "I was told that somebody here might know what happened to my father."

  "And didn't anybody tell you that coming here for any reason might be a bad idea?"

  "Yes, several people."

  "And you came here anyway."

  "It was my last lead. I—"

  "You're nothing but a tourist," Lesh said. "Who are you running from, hah? Nobody. You've got no business here."

  "Finding my father is my business."

  "So what if your father's dead?" the man behind Arbo asked.

  "Then I can go home."

  "Okay, he's dead."

  "Show me the grave."

  "This has gone on long enough," Arbo said. "I don't like people nosing around, asking personal questions."

  "Tell me another way to find my father," Rikard said, "and I'll be happy to take your advice."

  Arbo stepped back from the bar and put a heavy hand on Rikard's shoulder. Rikard had been waiting for this moment, but still didn't know how he was going to defend himself. But before Arbo could start anything, a drunken face pushed in between them and glared at Rikard.

  "I don't like you," its owner said, his breath heavy with stale alcohol. Arbo's hand fell from Rikard's shoulder, and the drunk pressed in closer.

  "I'm going to smash you," the drunk went on, eyes blurry, face half slack.

  "May I defend myself?" Rikard asked quietly.

  "Sure," Lesh said from behind him. "However you like."

  But Rikard was spared the trouble. The drunk was suddenly jerked away. A rather small man of middle age had him by the arm, and when the drunk saw who it was, he lost all fight.

  "Just going to smash him," the drunk said.

  "Not today," the little man told him. Arbo watched with approval.

  "But, Gareth, this tourist's been in here asking personal questions."

  "So it's not up to you to stop him," Gareth said. Several other patrons who had been closing in shuffled and backed off a pace or two.

  "But if I don't, who will?"

  "Maybe nobody. And in any event, Arbo was here first. Just back off, Dorong."

  "And if I don't?"

  "You must be even drunker than you look."

  "Come on, Gareth, what if I don't back off?"

  Gareth calmly took Dorong by the throat with one hand and squeezed until the drunk went to his knees, gasping and choking. Then Gareth hit him in the face with his other hand until the blood flowed from Dorong's mouth and nose.

  "Don't try to find out," Gareth said. He let go of Dorong, who staggered to his feet, clutching his battered face. There was a soft murmur from the other patrons. Arbo just grinned.

  Then the little man turned his attention to Rikard. "Okay, kid, you can ask your questions." He shot a silencing glance at Arbo, who was about to protest. "Just be very careful."

  "Thank you," Rikard said. He didn't trust Gareth's motives, but he couldn't back down now. "Did you know my father, when he was here eleven, twelve years ago?"

  "No, I didn't. Knew the name, of course, but I never met him."

  "He was very public for about two-thirds of a year. Boss Bedik knew him, and I'm sure other people would have too. Could you suggest somebody who might have known him, or direct me to someone else who could help?"

  "I'm afraid not." Gareth's face was bland.

  Rikard turned to Arbo. "Would you know anything to help me?" he asked.

  "Only been here seven years," Arbo said, and leaned against the bar.

  Rikard turned to Lesh, but she just stared away. He turned back to Gareth.

  "Who else can I ask, then?"

  "I don't know," Gareth said. Somebody at a table snickered. Rikard was being given the runaround. He was disappointed, but not surprised.

  "I guess," he said, "having your permission to ask questions doesn't necessarily mean anybody has to give me answers."

  "That's right," Gareth said, and went away.

  A lot of people were laughing at him now. He turned back to the bar, carefully suppressing his anger and humiliation. It was one thing to be tested, but another to be deliberately made a fool of.

  There was nothing more he could learn here. His value as entertainment was wearing off, and if he tried to push any farther, these patrons might find more fun in killing him. He touched the scar on the palm of his right hand and watched the image of concentric circles appear and disappear. For just a moment he wished he could meet Gareth outside somewhere.

  3

  Arbo and Lesh went away. Rikard stood at the bar, trying to decide what to do next. He knew he was lucky to still be in one piece, but that didn't assuage his frustration.

  He felt someone move up to him, intruding on his meditations. He turned to see the attractive young woman he'd noticed earlier. She put an empty mug on the bar, and the tender came to fill it.

  She looked up at Rikard. She was shorter than he by about thirty-five centimeters. "You're doing okay for a greenhorn." Her face was as hard and smooth as it was attractive, but there was no hatred in her eyes. She wore leathers and a gun, but she was not the same kind of person as the rest of the patrons.

  "I figure I'm lucky I'm still standing on my own feet," Rikard said, keeping his voice steadier than he felt.

  "There wer
e a couple of close moments there," she agreed. The tender came back with her beer, then moved on. "But I've got to give you credit. You handled yourself very well. That they let you stay here is proof of that. How long have you been on Kohltri?"

  "This is my fourth day. Think they'll let me out of here alive?"

  "Sure. Gareth is on your side for some reason." She sipped her beer. "You don't belong here. You did all right, but you're not one of these people."

  "Neither are you. I can see it in your eyes." She laughed. "Was that story you told true?"

  "Yes, it was. There's a lot more to it, of course."

  "And you've followed him all the way here from wher­ever?"

  "Pelgrane. Yes. It's been a long two years."

  "You must either love him a lot or hate him a lot."

  "That's obvious, isn't it? Otherwise I wouldn't be here. When I was a kid, I thought he was the greatest guy in the world. Then he went away and didn't come back. My mother did die because of that. As to how I feel about him now, I don't know. But I'm going to find him, if I live long enough."

  "And what happens when you do?"

  "That depends on whether he's alive or dead. But aside from that, there are some other things I've been thinking about doing."

  "So, finding your father is not the end-all of your career."

  "Now, that would be kind of silly, wouldn't it? Though it's been my driving force for a long time. It's something I've got to do, a kind of a threshold I have to cross."

  "Why did he come here?" She took another pull at her beer.

  "He was after money. Why else? We'd always been well off. He had a fortune left over from all his exploits before he met Mother, as I learned later. It was all invested on Pelgrane. But he wasn't a very good investor, whatever else he might have been. When I was twelve we went broke.

  "That was when he began to talk about the treasure. I don't know what it was, but he said he knew where he could lay his hands on a lot of cash, more than he'd ever had before. It seems he'd always had clues as to where it was but hadn't bothered to think about it until the money ran out. Then all the pieces came together, as it were.

  "He said he was going to go out one more time, that he might be gone for a year. But he never came back."