The Day of Their Return df-4

by Poul Anderson

  “ … As nearly as I can make out from bewildered reports, somehow he obtained the password. You know what precautions we’ve instituted since the Hesperian incident? The key guards don’t know the passwords themselves, consciously. Those’re implanted for posthypnotic recognition and quick reforgetting. To prevent accidents, they’re nonsense syllables, or phrases taken from obscure languages used at the far side of the Empire. If Aycharaych could read them in the minds of the men—remembering also his nonhuman brain structure—then he’s more of a telepath, or knows more tricks, than is supposed to be possible.

  “Anyhow, sir, with the passwords he commandeered a flyer, talked it past an aerial picket, and is flat-out gone.

  “ … Yes, sir, naturally I’ve had the file on him checked, cross-correlated, everything we can do with what we’ve got on this wretched dustball. No hint of motivation. Could be simple piracy, I imagine, but dare we assume that?”

  “My friend,” Desai answered, while exhaustion slumped his shoulders, “I cannot conceive of one thing in the universe which we truly dare assume.”

  VIII

  “Hee-ah!” Mikkal lashed his statha into full wavelike gallop. The crag bull veered. Had it gone down the talus slope, the hunters could not have followed. Boots, or feet not evolved for this environment, would have been slashed open by the edges of the rocks. And the many cinnabar-colored needles which jutted along the canyon would have screened off a shot.

  As was, the beast swung from the rim and clattered across the mountainside. Then, from behind an outcrop striped in mineral colors, Fraina appeared on her own mount.

  The bull should have fled her too, uphill toward Ivar. Instead, it lowered its head and charged. The trident horns sheened like steel. Her statha reared in panic. The bull was almost as big as it, and stronger and faster.

  Ivar had the only gun, his rifle; the others bore javelins. “Ya-lawa!” he commanded his steed: in Haisun, “Freeze!” He swung stock to cheek and sighted. Bare rock, red dust, scattered gray-green bushes, and a single rahab tree stood sharp in the light of noontide Virgil. Shadows were purple but the sky seemed almost black above raw peaks. The air lay hot, suckingly dry, soundless except for hoof-drum and human cries.

  If I don’t hit that creature, Fraina may die, went through Ivar. But no use hittin’ him in the hump. And anywhere else is wicked to try for, at this angle and speed, and her in line of fire—The knowledge flashed by as a part of taking aim. He had no time to be afraid.

  The rifle hissed. The bullet trailed a whipcrack. The crag bull leaped, bellowed, and toppled.

  “Rolf, Rolf, Rolf!” Fraina caroled. He rode down to her with glory in him. When they dismounted, she threw arms around him, lips against his.

  For all its enthusiasm, it was a chaste kiss; yet it made him a trifle giddy. By the time he recovered, Mikkal had arrived and was examining the catch.

  “Good act, Rolf.” His smile gleamed white in the thin face. “We’ll feast tonight.”

  “We’ve earned it.” Fraina laughed. “Not that folk always get paid what’s owing them, or don’t get it swittled from them afterward.”

  “The trick is to be the swittler,” Mikkal said.

  Fraina’s gaze fell tenderly on Ivar. “Or to be smart enough to keep what you’ve been strong enough to earn,” she murmured.

  His heart knocked. She was more beautiful than she ought to be, now in this moment of his victory, and in the trunks and halter which clad her. Mikkal wore simply a loincloth and crossed shoulderbelts to support knives, pouch, canteen. Those coppery skins could stand a fair amount of exposure, and it was joy to feel warmth upon them again. Ivar struck to loose, full desert garb, blouse, trousers, sun-visored burnoose.

  That plateau known as the Dreary of Ironland was behind them. There would be no more struggle over stonefields or around crevasses of a country where nothing stirred save them and the wind, nothing lived save them alone; no more thirst when water must be rationed till food went uncooked and utensils were cleaned with sand; no more nights so cold that tents must be erected to keep the animals alive.

  As always, the passage had frayed nerves thin. Ivar appreciated the wisdom of the king in sequestering firearms. At that, a couple of knife fights had come near ending fatally. The travelers needed more than easier conditions, they needed something to cheer them. This first successful hunt on the eastern slope of the Ferric Mountains ought to help mightily.

  And, though the country here was gaunt, they were over the worst. The Waybreak Train was headed down toward the Flone Valley, to reach at last the river itself, its cool green banks and the merry little towns snuggled along it, south of Nova Roma. If now the hunters laughed overmuch and over-shrilly while they butchered the crag bull, Ivar thought it was not beneath a Firstling’s dignity to join in.

  Moreover, Fraina was with him, they were working together … Their acquaintance was not deep. Time and energy had been lacking for that. Besides, despite her dancing, she behaved shyly for a tineran girl. But for the rest of his stay in the troop—I hope I’ve honor not to seduce her and leave her cryin’ behind, when at last I go. (I begin to understand why, no matter hardships, sharpest pain may be to leave.) And Tanya, of course, mustn’t forget Tanya.

  Let me, though, enjoy Fraina’s nearness while I can. She’s so vivid. Everything is. I never knew I could feel this fully and freely, till I joined wanderers.

  He forced his attention to the task on hand. His heavy sheath knife went through hide, flesh, gristle, even the thinner bones, much more quickly and easily than did the slender blades of his comrades. He wondered why they didn’t adopt the nord model, or at least add it to their tool kit; then, watching how cunningly they worked, he decided it wouldn’t fit their style. Hm, yes, I begin to see for my self, cultures are unities, often in subtle ways.

  Finished, meat loaded on stathas, the three of them went to rest by the spring which had attracted their quarry. It made a deliciously chilly bowlful in the hollow of a rock, the shadow of a bluff. Plume trava nodded white above mossy chromabryon; spearflies darted silver bright; the stream clinked away over stones till the desert swallowed it up. The humans drank deep, then leaned luxuriously back against the cliff, Fraina between the men.

  “Ay-ah,” Mikkal sighed. “No need for hurry. I make us barely ten clicks from the Train, if we set an intercept course. Let’s relax before lunch.”

  “Good idea,” Ivar said. He and Fraina exchanged smiles.

  Mikkal reached across her. In his hand were three twists of paper enclosing brown shreds. “Smoke?” he invited.

  “What?” Ivar said. “I thought you tinerans avoided tobacco. Dries mouth, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, this’s marwan.” At the puzzled look he got, Mikkal explained: “Never heard of it? Well, I don’t suppose your breed would use the stuff. It’s a plant. You dry and smoke it. Has a similar effect to alcohol. Actually better, I’d say, though I admit the taste leaves a trifle to be desired alongside a fine whiskey.”

  “Narcotic?” Ivar was shocked.

  “Not that fierce, Rolf. Hell-near to a necessity, in fact, when you’re away from the Train, like on a hunting or scouting trip.” Mikkal grimaced. “These wilds are too inhuman. With a lot of friends around, you’re screened. But by yourself, you need to take the edge off how alone and mortal you are.”

  Never before had Ivar heard him confess to a weakness. Mikkal was normally cheerful. When his temper, too, flared in the Dreary, he had not gone for his steel but used an equally whetted tongue, as if he felt less pressure than most of his fellows to prove masculinity. Now—Well, I reckon I can sympathize. It is oppressive, this size and silence. Unendin’ memento mori. Never thought so before, out in back country, but I do now. If Fraina weren’t here to keep me glad, I might be tempted to try his drug.

  “No, thank you,” Ivar said.

  Mikkal shrugged. On the way back, his hand paused before the girl. She made a refusing gesture. He arched his brows, whether in surprise or sardonicism
, till she gave him a tiny frown and headshake. Then he grinned, tucked away the extra cigarettes, put his between his lips and snapped a lighter to it. Ivar had scarcely noticed the byplay, and gave it no thought except to rejoice that in this, also, Fraina kept her innocence. Mostly he noticed the sweet odors of her, healthy flesh and sun-warmed hair and sweat that stood in beads on her half-covered breasts.

  Mikkal drew smoke into his lungs, held it, let it out very slowly and drooped his lids. “Aaah,” he said, “and again aaah. I become able to think. Mainly about ways to treat these steaks and chops. The women’ll make stew tonight, no doubt. I’ll insist the rest of the meat be started in a proper marinade. Take the argument to the king if I must. I’m sure he’ll support me. He may be a vinegar beak, our Samlo, but all kings are, and he’s a sensible vinegar beak.”

  “He certainly doesn’t behave like average tineran,” Ivar said.

  “Kings don’t. That’s why we have them. I can’t deny we’re a flighty race, indeed I boast of it. However, that means we must have somebody who’ll tie us down to caution and foresight.”

  “I, yes, I do know about special trainin’ kings get. Must be real discipline, to last through lifetime in your society.”

  Fraina giggled. Mikkal, who had taken another drag, kicked heels and whooped. “What’d I say?” Ivar asked.

  The girl dropped her glance. He believed he saw her blush, though that was hard to tell on her complexion. “Please, Mikkal, don’t be irrev’rent,” she said.

  “Well, no more’n I have to,” her half-brother agreed. “Still, Rolf might’s well know. It’s not a secret, just a matter we don’t talk about. Not to disillusion youngsters too early, et cetera.” His eyes sparkled toward Ivar. “Only the lodge that kings belong to is supposed to know what goes on in the shrines, and in the holy caves and booths where Fairs are held. But the royal wives and concubines take part, and girls will pass on details to their friends. You think we common tinerans hold lively parties. We don’t know what liveliness is!”

  “But it’s our religion,” Fraina assured Ivar. “Not the godlings and jus and spells of everyday. This is to honor the powers of life.”

  Mikkal chuckled. “Aye-ah, officially those’re fertility rites. Well, I’ve read some anthropology, talked to a mixed bag of people, even taken thought once in a while when I’d nothing better to do. I figure the cult developed because the king has to have all-stops-out orgies fairly often, if he’s to stay the kind of sobersides we need for a leader.”

  Ivar stared before him, half in confusion, half in embarrassment. Wouldn’t it make more sense for the tinerans as a whole to be more self-controlled? Why was this extreme emotionalism seemingly built into them? Or was that merely his own prejudices speaking? Hadn’t he been becoming more and more like them, and savoring every minute of it?

  Fraina laid a hand on his arm. Her breath touched his cheek. “Mikkal has to poke fun,” she said. “I believe it’s both holy and unholy, what the king does. Holy because we must have young—too many die small, human and animal—and the powers of life are real. Unholy because, oh, he takes on himself the committing of … excesses, is that the word? On behalf of the Train, he releases our beast side, that otherwise would tear the Train apart.”

  I don’t understand, quite, Ivar thought. But, thrilled within him, she’s thoughtful, intelligent, grave, as well as sweet and blithe.

  “Yah, I should start Dulcy baby-popping,” Mikkal said. “The wet stage isn’t too ghastly a nuisance, I’m told.” When weaned, children moved into dormitory wagons. “On the other hand,” he added, “I’ve told a few whoppers myself, when I had me a mark with jingle in his pockets—”

  A shape blotted out the sun. They bounded to their feet.

  That which was descending passed the disc, and light blazed off the gold-bronze pinions of a six-meter wingspan. Air whistled and thundered. Fraina cried out. Mikkal poised his javelin. “Don’t!” Ivar shouted. “Ya-lawa! He’s Ythrian!”

  “O-o-oh, ye-e-es,” Mikkal said softly. He lowered the spear though he kept it ready. Fraina gripped Ivar’s arm and leaned hard against him.

  The being landed. Ivar had met Ythrians before, at the University and elsewhere. But his astonishment at this arrival was such that he gaped as if he were seeing one for the first time.

  Grounded, the newcomer used those tremendous wings, folded downward, for legs, claws at the bend of them spreading out to serve as feet, the long rear-directed bones lending extra support when at rest. That brought his height to some 135 centimeters, mid-breast on Ivar, farther up on the tinerans; for his mass was a good 25 kilos. Beneath a prowlike keelbone were lean yellow-skinned arms whose hands, evolved from talons, each bore three sharp-clawed fingers flanked by two thumbs, and a dewclaw on the inner wrist. Above were a strong neck and a large head proudly held. The skull bulged backward to contain the brain, for there was scant brow, the face curving down in a ridged muzzle to a mouth whose sensitive lips contrasted curiously with the carnivore fangs behind. A stiff feather-crest rose over head and neck, white edged with black like the fan-shaped tail. Otherwise, apart from feet, arms, and huge eyes which burned gold and never seemed to waver or blink, the body was covered with plumage of lustrous brown.

  He wore an apron whose pockets, loops, and straps supported what little equipment he needed. Knife, canteen, and pistol were the only conspicuous items. He could live off the country better than any human.

  Mikkal inhaled smoke, relaxed, smiled, lifted and dipped his weapon in salute. “Hay-ah, wayfarer,” he said formally, “be welcome among us in the Peace of Water, where none are enemies. We’re Mikkal of Redtop and my sister Fraina of Jubilee, from the Waybreak Train; and our companyo is Rolf Mariner, varsiteer.”

  The Anglic which replied was sufficiently fluent that one couldn’t be sure how much of the humming accent and sibilant overtones were due to Ythrian vocal organs, how much simply to this being an offplanet dialect the speaker had learned. “Thanks, greetings, and fair winds wished for you. I hight Erannath, of the Stormgate choth upon Avalon. Let me quench thirst and we can talk if you desire.”

  As awkward on the ground as he was graceful aloft, he stumped to the pool. When he bent over to drink, Ivar glimpsed the gill-like antlibranchs, three on either side of his body. They were closed now, but in flight the muscles would work them like bellows, forcing extra oxygen into the bloodstream to power the lifting of the great weight. That meant high fuel consumption too, he remembered. No wonder Erannath traveled alone, if he had no vehicle. This land couldn’t support two of him inside a practical radius of operations.

  “He’s gorgeous,” Fraina whispered to Ivar. “What did you call him?”

  “Ythrian,” the Firstling replied. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I guess I have heard, vaguely, but I’m an ignorant wanderfoot, Rolf. Will you tell me later?”

  Ha! Won’t I?

  Mikkal settled himself back in the shade where he had been. “Might I ask what brings you, stranger?”

  “Circumstances,” Erannath replied. His race tended to be curt. A large part of their own communication lay in nuances indicated by the play of marvelously controllable quills.

  Mikkal laughed. “In other words, yes, I might ask, but no, I might not get an answer. Wouldn’t you like to palaver a while anyhow? Yo, Fraina, Rolf, join the party.”

  They did. Erannath’s gaze lingered on the Firstling. “I have not hitherto observed your breed fare thus,” he said.

  “I—wanted a change—” Ivar faltered.

  “He hasn’t told exactly why, and no need for you to, either,” Mikkal declared. “But see here, Aeronaut, your remark implies you have been observing, and pretty extensively too. Unless you’re given to reckless generalization, which I don’t believe your kind is.”

  Expressions they could not read rippled across the feathers. “Yes,” the Ythrian said after a moment, “I am interested in this planet. As an Avalonian, I am naturally familiar with humans, but of a r
ather special sort. Being on Aeneas, I am taking the opportunity to become acquainted, however superficially, with a few more.”

  “U-u-uh-huh.” Mikkal lounged crosslegged, smoking, idly watching the sky, while he drawled. “Somehow I doubt they’ve heard of you in Nova Roma. The occupation authorities have planted their heaviest buttocks on space traffic, in and out. Want to show me your official permit to flit around? As skittery as the guiders of our Terran destinies are nowadays, would they give a visitor from our esteemed rival empire the freedom of a key near-the-border world? I’m only fantasizing, but it goes in the direction of you being stranded here. You came in during the revolt, let’s suppose, when that was easy to do unbeknownst, and you’re biding your time till conditions ease up enough for you to get home.”

  Ivar’s fingers clenched on his gunstock. But Erannath sat imperturbable. “Fantasize as you wish,” he said dryly, “if you grant me the same right.” Again his eyes smote the Firstling.

  “Well, our territory doesn’t come near Nova Roma,” Mikkal continued. “We’d make you welcome, if you care to roll with us as you’ve probably done already in two or three other Trains. Your songs and stories should be uncommon entertaining. And … maybe when we reach the green and start giving shows, we can work you into an act.”

  Fraina gasped. Ivar smiled at her. “Yes,” he whispered, “without that weed in him—unless he was in camp—Mikkal wouldn’t have nerve to proposition those claws and dignity, would he?” Her hair tickled his face. She squeezed his hand.

  “My thanks,” Erannath said. “I will be honored to guest you, for a few days at least. Thereafter we can discuss further.”

  He went high above them, hovering, soaring, wheeling in splendor, while they rode back across the tilted land.

  “What is he?” Fraina asked. Hoofbeats clopped beneath her voice. A breeze bore smoky orders of starkwood. They recalled the smell of the Ythrian, as if his forefathers once flew too near their sun.