The Glass of Dyskornis

by Randall Garrett

  It might have been because I was thinking of Illia—and, by association, Raithskar and Worfit—right then. Whatever the reason, when I heard the soft creak of leather behind me, I reacted instantly. If I had been as entranced by Tarani’s performance as the rest of the audience, I would have missed hearing it.

  And I would have died.

  It was a near thing, anyway. As I toppled my chair into the open space between tables on my right, I saw the faint glint of lamplight on a dagger blade that plunged through the air, just where my heart would have been. I could barely see the man who held the dagger—he was bending over in reaction to his unresisted downward swing—and another man behind him. The huge bulk of the other man told me that I had seen him before. The vlek handler, in Tarani’s caravan.

  At the sound of the chair falling, the humming had stopped. Just as I rolled back on my shoulders and aimed a double-leg kick at the nearer, smaller man, the lights went out.

  My feet connected with the side of the man’s head, and I heard him fall. I rolled to the right, trying to put the table between myself and the big guy, but he was too fast. A huge hand grabbed my foot. I felt myself dragged across the floor like a rag doll, then another huge hand touched my face.

  “Dharak! Assassins!” I yelled. I brought my arms up to deflect an expected blow. I kicked out with my feet, with little effect. Instead of hitting me, that hand closed on my throat, and the big man leaned on my neck.

  A different darkness, full of spinning lights, began to close in on me. With an odd detachment, I wondered whether my larynx would collapse, or my neck crack, before I passed out from lack of air.

  *Not close enough to help!* Keeshah’s wail of frustration reached me, steadied the wheeling blackness. *Don’t die,* he pleaded.

  The pressure on my neck vanished suddenly, and I gulped in a painful, delicious draft of air. I opened my eyes to faint light. Some of the lamps had guttered back to life, not quite extinguished by whatever Tarani must have thrown at them….

  *Keeshah, I’m all right. Find Tarant.*

  In the flickering light, Dharak had seen me struggling, and had thrown himself at the man-mountain. They had rolled together, and now it was Dharak who was pinned, his arms entangled with his attacker’s. Over the milling confusion around us, I heard the sound of bone snapping, and a yell of pain. From outside, a scream of rage sounded from a sha’um—Doran.

  “Father!” Thymas was yelling, as he ran around the far end of the table.

  “There’s another man, Thymas!” I croaked, my throat still aching. “He had a dagger. Get it!”

  Thymas checked his forward rush, grabbed up one of the lamps, and dashed back around the table. I staggered up and got the big man around the neck, then lifted with all my strength. The man grunted and released Dharak, only to reach backward and grab my right leg. He pulled me off balance and we fell, the big man knocking my breath away as he landed on top of me.

  Thymas ran up with the dagger. He glanced at his father, lying still on the floor, then turned toward us with the most savage expression I have ever seen on the face of a Gandalaran.

  The knife blade sank into the man’s side. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood ran out of the wounds, soaking my clothes as the man quit struggling.

  I pushed myself out from under the corpse, fighting back a wave of nausea. “You didn’t have to kill him!” I panted, then stopped short. Thymas still held the dagger, and he was ready to use it again … on me.

  “He’s a piece of filth!” the boy shouted in a strained voice. “And so are you. My father may be dead because he was trying to save your fleabitten life. And if he is,” Thymas threatened, waving the dagger, “if Dharak is dead …” His voice choked off.

  “I’m far from dead,” said a weak voice. Behind Thymas, Dharak straightened out a leg. The boy whirled, and dropped to his knees beside his father. Blood still dripped from the dagger.

  My knees went weak with relief, and I moved to lean on the table. Thank God! I prayed, sincerely. Thank God Dharak didn’t die for my sake. How did Worfit know where I would be? How could he arrange for this so quickly?

  In Thagorn, surrounded by sha’um and soldiers … I quit looking over my shoulder. Mistake. Worfit must have more connections than Zaddorn does. I’ll have to settle with him, one way or another, when I get back to Raithskar.

  But first, I want to be sure that nobody—but nobody—tries this and gets away with it.

  “Bareff,” I called, coming to my feet.

  The banquet hall had been full of confusion for a while, with the sudden darkness and the sounds of a nearly invisible fight. It hadn’t helped anything that Doran had squeezed through the human-sized door, and trampled a few people in the darkness, trying to get to Dharak. But now Dharak was calming the sha’um, stroking the cat’s jaw with his right hand, while he talked to Thymas to allay his son’s concern.

  Old Snaggletooth had taken things in hand, and was creating some order out of the mess. He was beginning to get the dead lamps relighted when he heard my call. He came running.

  “I heard you yelling,” Bareff said, “but with the darkness …” In one quick glance, he took in the huge corpse, my bloody tunic, Dharak lying prone, Thymas and Doran beside him. “Great Zanek!” was all he said.

  “The Lieutenant is alive,” I assured him. “There’s a man on the other side of the table. If he’s alive, have him guarded. Round up the troupe and find out what they know about all this … and where Tarani is.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again, nodded, and moved around the table. I went over to Dharak, but before I could speak to him, I heard the thud of a falling body, and Bareff yelled.

  The man I had kicked was leaping over the table, which had miraculously remained upright through all the scuffling. I whirled to face the assassin, but he went past me to the edge of the stage, and caught up one of the lamps. He brought the faceted glass chimney down on the edge of the stage, knocking out the thick candle and breaking the glass down to a jagged shard.

  He didn’t try to kill me with it.

  He drove it into his own stomach, and ripped it sideways.

  Bareff had followed him over the table, and we stood side by side, watching the man die. “My fault,” Bareff said gloomily. “I got too close … how could anybody do that to himself?”

  Ritual suicide? I wondered. The Japanese samurai used to do that routinely, if they failed at something, or were dishonored. But the Japanese believed there was another life on their earth waiting for them after death. The Gandalarans believe they’ll live forever in the All-Mind. Same thing? Somehow, I wouldn’t think so.

  Get hold of yourself, “Captain.” This is no time to be studying comparative religion. Two men are dead, and Dharak injured, because of you.

  “Bring Tarani,” I told Bareff. Something he heard in my voice sent him sprinting for the door, shouting names and orders.

  *Keeshah,* I called. *Have you seen her?*

  *Hmmm?* came a lazy, contented thought.

  For a few seconds, I stood there and swore at myself.

  He’s seen her, all right, I thought bitterly. Why didn’t I think to warn him about her? But she’s been in Thagorn before, and has probably practiced on sha’um before, too. Keeshah might not have been able to resist, anyway.

  The thought made me feel a strange sadness. I suppose I had come to rely so completely on Keeshah that finding him vulnerable was a shock. But there was something else. I was vaguely disappointed in Tarani, too. She was so beautiful, so skilled …

  And so treacherous. Something else in her like Gharlas. Maybe it’s that power they both have. Political power was a corruptive influence in Ricardo’s world, and that was only indirect influence. How much more potent direct mind control must be!

  But she won’t get away with this.

  *Keeshah, where are you?*

  *Outside the gate,* he answered, becoming more alert.

  I groaned inwardly. *Come inside.*

  Dharak had convi
nced Doran to go back outside the building, and Shola had taken charge of Dharak. She was working over his left arm, holding it gently, and wrapping it with a length of cloth. Lamps had been brought and arranged close to Dharak’s head to give her more light, and Thymas had stood up to give her room. I knelt down at Dharak’s right side, ignoring a look of hatred from Thymas. The Lieutenant was pale, but he smiled at me.

  “Told you I was getting old,” he said. “Bones brittle. What happened?”

  I hesitated.

  Shola spoke, without looking up. “The arm is broken in two places, Captain,” she said. Her voice was carefully neutral. “Otherwise, he is well. I, too, want to know what happened.”

  He means: what happened to the assassins? She means: why was Dharak hurt, trying to protect me?

  I answered Shola first. “There is a man in Raithskar—a dangerous man—who wants me dead. I thought I had left him behind. I never thought he would dare send anyone into the stronghold of the Sharith.” I put my hand on Dharak’s good shoulder. “My carelessness has cost you much, my friend,” I said softly. “Forgive me.”

  He made a sound of impatience. “The assassins?”

  “Two are dead. The one who hurt you was killed by your son. The other took his own life. I will be leaving shortly to go after the third one.”

  “You know who this third is?” he asked.

  “Tarani.”

  “You’re lying!” accused Thymas, who had edged closer to us.

  Bareff’s voice cut off whatever else Thymas would have said.

  “Where’s Rikardon?”

  I called to him, and he ran up into the lamplight.

  “Tarani is gone, Captain. We found the gates open, and eight members of the troupe wandering near it in a daze. They can’t remember how they got there, and I don’t think they’re faking it. It looks like she forced them to open the gate for her.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have thought this of her.”

  “It isn’t true!” Thymas said.

  Had I felt a flash of sympathy for Thymas, earlier? It vanished now in a wave of annoyance.

  “Thymas, she brought these killers here in her caravan, for the one occasion when all the Riders would be unarmed. She put out the lights when all the trouble started. Now she has run away.”

  “These were vlek-handlers,” he insisted stubbornly. “She hires new ones every trip. And for the lights—perhaps she did realize what was happening, and was trying to give you a better chance.”

  I resisted the impulse to laugh in his face. “Then why didn’t she stick around for a while?”

  “Because …” If I hadn’t been so irritated, I might have admired his loyalty, as he groped for a plausible reason. “Because she knew we would think—I mean, you would think—that she knew those men were assassins. She’s afraid.”

  “She needs to be,” I said grimly, and turned back to the Lieutenant. “Dharak, I’m going.”

  “No,” Thymas said. This time, he wasn’t challenging me, but appealing to his father. “I am the one who must go. She won’t be afraid of me. I can persuade her to return and explain everything.”

  “Of course she won’t be afraid of you,” I said. “She can probably make you believe that vleks climb trees.”

  “She never uses her power on me without my consent,” he said angrily. “It is a matter of honor between us.”

  Just in time, I remembered how Thymas felt about Tarani, and I cut back the scornful reply I was ready to make. Instead, I said: “That may be true, Thymas. But she can’t use her power against me. It doesn’t work.”

  Complete silence greeted that announcement. I was touched again with the warmth I had felt in the Hall. Nobody doubted the truth of what I said. They were surprised, but if I had said it, was true.

  “So I am the only logical one to go,” I continued, “and the more time I waste here, the farther away she is getting.”

  “Go, then!” Thymas shouted. “And so will I. We will see who finds her first.”

  “Thymas!” Dharak said, in a ringing tone of command. His son turned to him quickly, out of long habit. Without looking at me, Dharak said: “Captain, have I your permission to rule on this request?”

  That was a request? I wondered. Aloud, and with some uneasiness, I gave him permission.

  Shola helped Dharak to sit up, and then to stand. His face twisted with pain, but he was steady on his feet. She had finished binding his arm—not stiff and straight, as I would have done it, but with separate bindings on forearm and upper arm, and a sling supporting the bent arm.

  “Thymas, in the presence of these Riders, offer your allegiance to our Captain.” Dharak’s voice rang out, releasing all the suppressed rage of a disappointed father. Shola flinched back from him, and it was a tossup who was more startled, Thymas or me.

  “This isn’t necessary right now,” I said to Dharak.

  “You gave me permission to handle this, Captain,” he said coldly. “Now stay out of it.”

  I shut up. Your son’s not the only tricky one in your family, I thought.

  “I will never call this man ‘Captain’!” came Thymas’s predictable answer.

  “Do you want to go after Tarani?” the Lieutenant asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I agree that she may be more willing to return if you are present,” Dharak said. “So you may go with Rikardon and assist him. You will make public, here and now, your acceptance of him as Captain. And you will make another promise, personally to me as your father, that you will respect him properly, and obey him in all things.”

  Wow. “I prefer to travel alone.” I said. They both ignored me.

  “I refuse!” the boy said icily.

  “Then you have two choices,” Dharak said, his voice rolling out like an inexorable force. “Go … and never return to Thagorn.” The watching people gasped. Shola lifted a hand to her mouth, bit into her clenched fist. “Or stay … give up the red sash, and ride with the cubs for the rest of your life.” Another sound of amazement, then a waiting silence.

  In the circle of the lamps, I could see Thymas’s hands trembling. His face was ashen. I thought of all I had learned about him—his devotion to the traditions of the Sharith, his conviction that he would lead them one day. I thought, too, of what my coming had meant to him. As Captain, I had taken away the very thing he had aimed for all his life.

  “Father—” Thymas began. Dharak interrupted, lashing the boy with his words.

  “I remind you that these are official orders, backed by authority delegated to me, in front of witnesses, by the man whom everyone else has accepted as Captain. You have been given three paths to follow. Choose!”

  Thymas looked at me, and his hand clenched around the handle of the dagger he still held. Then, with a truly extraordinary display of self control, Thymas shrugged back his shoulders and made his face blank of all expression.

  “Only one way may be ridden with honor,” he said levelly, his gaze still fixed on me. “The son of Dharak can choose no other. You have the promise you asked for, Father.

  “I am ready to leave immediately, Captain.”

  10

  Bareff’s investigation turned up the remains of an early dinner in Tarani’s quarters. The Sharith girl who had served it was brought in, and she confirmed that whatever could be carried easily was gone from the tray. Nothing else had been touched.

  One of the women dancers was asked to examine the dressing room. Scared and confused, she identified several articles of clothing that were missing, among them a pair of heavy walking boots.

  “So she didn’t just run off in a panic, wearing nothing but that impractical gown,” I said to Bareff and Thymas, after the dancer had left the room. Thymas was glaring at me, daring me to gloat over being right. Whatever he had promised to Dharak, he couldn’t hide his hatred of me. I tried to hide the fact that it bothered me.

  “What about weapons?”

  “All visible weapons were turned in when the troupe came throu
gh the gate,” Bareff answered. “But if the assassin smuggled one in, Tarani could have done it, too. The dancer might not have known about it.

  “She has that bird with her, too,” Bareff continued. “It will warn her of being followed. I don’t think you’ll have much luck finding her in the dark, even while the moon is up. She’ll head either for Omergol or the Refreshment House at Relenor. We’ll notify our friends in Omergol to watch for her—but the Fa’aldu at Relenor won’t be any help.”

  “Then we’ll search the trail to Relenor first,” I decided. “She can’t get very far in the dark, even with the bird to guide her. Thymas, we’ll leave at dawn. Don’t wear your uniform, and pack food and water for a seven-day, just in case.”

  As we rode through the gates the next morning, I was glad we hadn’t rushed off the night before. I had bathed away the big man’s blood, and slept for several hours. Thymas was stone-faced and formal in the presence of Dharak, but he looked rested. I hoped the night had brought him nearer to accepting the truth about Tarani.

  He might be a pain in the kazoo, I thought, but he’s young, and he’s had a series of shocks these past few weeks. That was a nasty trick of Dharak’s, forcing Thymas to accept me in order to protect Tarani. But if Thymas could pull himself together last night the way he did, he ought to be able to handle everything, given enough time.

  We followed the road south that day, traveling slowly and watching the sky for sign of the bird. By nightfall, we were certain we had come farther than Tarani could have traveled since the end of the show. We moved away from the road, found an area free of brambles, ate a cold meal in silence, and stretched out to sleep. In the morning, we would ride back to Thagorn, and follow the caravan trail north toward Omergol.

  Thymas seemed to fall asleep instantly. I stared up at the silver clouds for a while, remembering the fire dance.

  It’s obvious why her illusions don’t work on me, I thought. She is trained to affect Gandalaran minds. I have the brain of a native, but the mind, the cognitive faculty, of an alien. Perception—analysis of stimuli—is not as automatic for me. I require a second, conscious interpretation of data before the data is entirely assimilated.