He raised his gun to illustrate.
“The post could not hold off a serious assault for long,” Allenson said.
Payne replied, “But it doesn’t have to, you see, sar. The defenses are more to stop a handful of Riders from trying their luck, or to give us time to get the frames and run for it.”
Allenson privately thought that the average trader frame had no chance of outrunning Rider beasts and, from the expression on his face, Hawthorn concurred. Nevertheless, the stockade and blockhouse were not useless. They deterred thieving and so reduced the risk of an incident escalating out of control. Walls also supplied a psychological barrier between the traders and Riders.
The blockhouse was divided into a communal area for domestic activities and a series of tiny private rooms with beds. The team had got into the habit of Payne eating with Allenson and Hawthorn, leaving the porters to enjoy their meal in peace, so they had supper inside, while the porters eat al fresco. The only other occupant was a surly trader, plus assistant, with whom they barely exchanged ten words. Allenson was not unhappy to keep it that way.
* * *
The next morning the three went back to the Viceroy’s shelter. He held court, enthroned on his plastic box. The only other box had been set to one side for Allenson to observe the proceedings. Plaintiffs and defendants, escorted by fellow clansmen, came before the Viceroy to have cases judged or arbitrated. Each case started with a ceremony that involved plaintiff and defendant making a cut on their hands and allowing a drop of blood to drip into water held within a human skull. They took turns to drink.
“It’s like taking an oath, you see, sar,” Payne said in response to Allenson’s enquiry. “They are supposed to tell only truth and abide by the Viceroy’s decision on pain of spilt blood.”
Allenson found the first case interesting, in an anthropological sense, but that soon paled. Evidence went on indefinitely with much histrionics and arm waving, until the Viceroy had decided he had heard enough and pronounced a decision. Most of the cases involved rows over compensation for theft or insults.
One case involved deep and genuine passion, going by the looks exchanged. The plaintiff opened with a charge against the defendant. The Viceroy indicated he could speak by handing him a token made from bone.
“What is this about?” Allenson asked Payne, curious at the hatred displayed.
“The Rider on the right claims that the one on the left has stolen his women.” Payne replied. “It has escalated into all out clan warfare so the, ah, principals have been pushed into going before the Viceroy for a decision.
“Oh, it’s over a woman,” Hawthorn said.
The Viceroy stopped the plaintiff after some moments, signaling that the token should be given to the defendant. He seized it and launched an impassioned defense, gesturing at the plaintiff with his thumb. The plaintiff screamed in rage and a fast exchange of abuse followed. The defendant threw the token at the plaintiff.
The Viceroy stood up and yelled a single word. There was immediate silence.
“What was that about?” Allenson asked.
“The woman-stealer claimed that the woman had gone willingly with him as the other chap is impotent with a tiny, ah, organ, sar. He was boasting about his own sexual prowess in comparison,” Payne replied.
“I told you Riders weren’t so different from people,” Hawthorn said, a cynical smile playing across his lips.
The Viceroy sat and gave his decision, waving at the plaintiff with the back of his hand, as if flicking away a mosquito. The defendant smiled broadly and flashed a look of triumph at his accuser. Allenson gathered that the Viceroy had rejected the suit and found in favor of the defendant. It seemed that possession was nine-tenths of Rider law when it came to ownership.
The rejected Rider screamed with rage. Pulling a knife, he hurled himself at the Viceroy. The Rider’s trajectory took him past Hawthorn, who stuck out a leg, bringing the man down. The Viceroy kicked the plaintiff in the stomach. Other Riders grabbed the would-be assassin and forced him to his knees.
The Viceroy giggled. He seemed to be in a surprisingly good mood for a man who had just survived an assassination attempt. Presumably it was not a novel experience. He retrieved the yellow chopper from the back of the shelter. He sauntered back to where the Rider was restrained, and smiled down at him. The Rider looked up in hatred but did not struggle. If anything, he seemed resigned. The Viceroy raised the hand axe and, taking careful aim, smashed it down on the Rider’s head, splitting the skull and splattering blood and brains.
Allenson tried to look bored when the Viceroy glanced over to see how he had taken the execution. Hawthorn sighed and flicked a piece of bloodied bone off Allenson’s jacket.
“I do wish that chap would be more careful with his chopper. The nearest tailor is back in the Stream,” Hawthorn said, in his role of aide.
The Viceroy looked enquiringly at Payne who translated Hawthorn’s words, in so far as they could be translated. The Viceroy looked blankly at Hawthorn before bursting out laughing. He gestured for the corpse to be dragged away.
“Me big man, you big man,” the Viceroy said. “We talk now.”
It was possibly the strangest conversation in which Allenson had ever participated. It was conducted in three languages, only one of which he spoke. Riders dropped in to observe the proceedings and, just as readily, drifted away when bored. Allenson kept his eyes fixed on the Viceroy, despite communicating through Payne.
“I want to know whether he has reports of Terran explorers or traders operating within the region. Ask him in the appropriate manner,” Allenson said.
“Yes, sar,” Payne said, launching into a long exchange with the Viceroy.
“Well?” Allenson asked, interrupting.
“He says box people, that’s humans, sar, come and go but wants to know why you don’t know what your clans are up to,” Payne replied.
Allenson was aware that the Viceroy was observing his reactions so he made a point of maintaining a neutral expression.
“He doesn’t know that humans across the Bight are divided between two nations,” Allenson asked.
“I suppose not, sar,” Payne replied. “I could ask if you like?”
“Wait, let me think,” Allenson replied.
“Do we want to give him that information?” Hawthorn asked, his words mirroring Allenson’s own thought processes.
“No, I can think of several reasons why we might regret that,” Allenson replied, “but I can’t think of any way to get the information I need without revealing our own political situation. Very well, Payne, explain that the Terrans are an irritating, but inferior, human clan who are our enemies. Stress that the Viceroy is fortunate to have a Treaty with the stronger clan.”
Payne launched into an explanation. Hawthorn chipped in the odd remark in Kant. The Viceroy watched Allenson with shrewd eyes. He seemed to be digesting the implications that humans acknowledged no single authority, however tenuously. Allenson wondered what the shadowy Rider’s Council would make of this information, assuming the Viceroy passed it on. Would the Rider Chief see some personal advantage in keeping things to himself? Allenson pushed the thoughts aside. This was a problem for another day. Stay focussed, Allen, he told himself.
“Tell the Viceroy that we are concerned that the Terrans have plans to establish forts and colonies deep into the Hinterland, intruding on this area.”
The Viceroy cleared his nose while Payne explained, blowing each nasal passage noisily onto the ground. He waved a hand airily and replied to Payne.
“He says that there are no permanent Terran settlements in his lands,” Payne said.
“Ask him if he will guarantee to keep the Terrans out,” Allenson said. “We need to be sure that he will discourage Terran penetration by whatever means necessary.”
Payne did as he was bid. “The Viceroy agrees. He says that all humans are barred from settlement in Rider Lands.”
“I thought Fontenoy told us that Brasilia had
a Treaty with the Riders to exploit the Hinterland?” Hawthorn asked.
“He did,” Allenson replied grimly. “Clearly Brasilia’s understanding of the Treaty differs substantially from the Riders’.”
He was disturbed by this revelation. Exploitation implied settlement, at least to Brasilia. How could such a critical negotiating point be completely confused between the two principals? This did not bode well for the future. Ah, well, yet another problem for another day. Nothing would be gained from opening this particular pit of vipers. There was still the matter of establishing the degree of Terran activity.
“Ask the Viceroy whether his Riders have seen Terrans in the Hinterland,” Allenson said.
“He says—yes,” Payne replied.
“Is there any chance of pinning down where?” Allenson asked.
There was a long exchange between Payne and the Viceroy. Hawthorn and various Riders joined in. Hawthorn called up a map on his datapad and tried to show it to the Viceroy. He gazed at it in incomprehension. He turned it over, apparently fascinated by the stitching on the hand-tooled leather case.
The discussion wound down.
“Well?” Allenson asked. “Will someone enlighten me?”
“I’m sorry, sar, but I can’t,” Payne replied.
“I suspect I know the reason but tell me anyway,” Allenson said.
“The Riders know but they can’t explain it,” Payne said, struggling with his own explanation.
“I was afraid of that. We lack a sufficiently shared cultural frame of reference with Riders,” Allenson said.
Payne acquired a hunted look.
“Sar Allenson means that Riders can’t read our maps,” Hawthorn said.
“Ah,” Payne said, his face brightening.
“Well that leaves us no choice,” Allenson said, “We will have to go and look for ourselves.”
CHAPTER 14
Larissa
Allenson thought he was going mad. The talks and negotiations were interminable. The Viceroy made speeches, pleaded and cajoled, but his subjects, if that was the right word, were sulky and uncooperative.
“What is going on?” he asked Payne, patience quite exhausted. “All I want is for the Viceroy to give us a guide to the Terran post and a small escort of fifty Riders or so, as per the Treaty with Brasilia. Why is that so difficult? Is he deliberately stalling?”
“No, sar, the Viceroy is doing his best but he can’t get any volunteers.”
“Volunteers!” Allenson exploded. “Why doesn’t he just pick some volunteers and give them their marching orders. Is he in charge or not?”
“Well yes and no,” Payne replied, not entirely helpfully. “The ordinary Riders didn’t agree any treaty, you see?”
Allenson gave him a poisonous look.
Payne hurried to explain. “The Viceroy is the Rider overchief but that is more a matter of status and custom than being in charge in a human sense. He can only try to persuade.”
“But large Rider warbands do exist,” Allenson said. “All I want is fifty men.”
“Warbands are a matter of individual Riders joining a chief in expectation of loot or glory. It depends on the chief’s shrek as well.”
“Shrek?” Allenson asked.
“Reputation or gravitas,” Hawthorn said. “It doesn’t translate very well. The word implies potency or even luck. It’s an important concept to Riders.”
“I see,” Allenson said. He did not really understand but he accepted that this was an issue. He didn’t understand the Continuum either but used it all the time.
“The Viceroy has a difficult job,” Payne said. “He lacks the shrek of a great warchief since the Treaty, and escorting us is likely to provide little in the way of either glory or loot. It must seem a piddling task to most Riders, so they are not interested. Another problem is that there are only a few warriors here at the moment. Riders don’t really live at Nengue, sar. They sort of drop in when passing.”
“Drop in?” Allenson asked
Payne shrank back at Allenson’s expression. Allenson forced himself to compose his features. It was hardly Payne’s fault and nothing would be gained by frightening the man, especially just when he had just got his confidence back.
“Never mind, Master Payne, I am sure you are doing your best,” Allenson said.
“Yes, sar.”
“Fontenoy and the Assembly are in a fool’s paradise with that treaty,” Allenson said to Hawthorn. “Their assumptions about Rider society and organization bear no relation to reality.”
“Politicians making decisions in a fantasy land of optimistic expectations?” Hawthorn grinned. “Like that never happened before?”
Riders drifted away from the discussion until only three were left.
“Three men,” Allenson said. “We have an escort of three men.”
He tried to keep a poker face but the Viceroy picked up something because there was an exchange with Payne.
“The Viceroy has announced his intention of guiding us himself, sar,” Payne said. “I think he is a bit embarrassed at having so little shrek.”
“So four men,” Allenson said. “Who are the other three?”
Two are clan chiefs who owe the Viceroy a favor and I don’t know the third, the one with the gammy leg. He probably has nothing else to do and is bored.”
“Terrific,” Allenson said.
He thought quickly.
“I am not risking taking that damn baggage frame along with such a small escort,” Allenson said. “You and I will go, Hawthorn.”
“Master Payne” Allenson said, looking the man straight in the eyes. “I cannot in good conscious order you to accompany us as it is beyond our agreement, but I would ask you to come. Your skills will be useful but, more importantly, Sar Hawthorn and I will feel safer knowing we have a good man watching our backs.”
Payne straightened his back, returning Allenson’s gaze.
“Very good, sar, I will unpack a spare single seat frame. There is a fourth frame in the baggage. Would you like me to get it out and ask one of the porters to come with us?” Payne asked.
“Would any of them be of any use?” Allenson asked, in reply.
Payne considered.
“Not much.”
“Then just the three of us,” Allenson said crisply, and stood up. “Let’s go before any of our escort change their minds.”
* * *
Allenson watched the beasts with fascination. He had never been this close to a Rider in the Continuum. The Viceroy and chiefs rode their own beasts but Gammy Leg rode pillion. The beasts were surrounded by translucent orange bubbles that shimmered through the spectrum from lemon yellow to scarlet. Their crystals splayed out, maximizing the energy field around them. Power bled off continually in a spiral, leaving the wake of orange coils that he associated with Riders.
A soft chime drew Allenson’s attention back to his frame’s screen. The navigational icon was flashing. The frame had an inertial navigation system that predicted its position while traveling through the Continuum. The system could not cope with the random flows and eddies that forced the frame off track but, provided the currents were random, and they usually were, it gave an approximate position.
Allenson had instructed the navigation to continually test the Continuum topography around them with any records, no matter how sketchy. The chime indicated that it had found a match within the permitted ten percent of error—he had tried a more accurate five percent limit without success. He touched the icon, activating the report. It suggested they were intersecting the path of the ill-fated Stenson-Rowland expedition at Larissa.
He zoomed in. Larissa had rated a name, rather than just a survey number, because it was an inhabitable world close to a permanent Continuum feature marked as Three Chasms. A base at Larissa would dominate a number of chasm currents giving control over a large area. Allenson instructed the navigator to extrapolate the likely course taken by the Viceroy based on their route so far. It ended in nothingness, e
mpty space. He keyed the navigator to ripple outwards from that point to locate anything of interest. It did not take long to find a match—a world named Stikelstad.
He examined the Stenson-Rowland navigational map. There were chasms crossing both to and from Larissa to Stikelstad and then more chasms reaching out from both into unmapped zones. The Terran Post must be on Stikelstad.
Allenson thought hard, turning over the options. They should have a look at Larissa before alerting the Terrans to their presence at Stikelstad. He pedalled harder overtaking the Viceroy, who was leading, and turned the expedition towards the world.
* * *
Allenson phased in and out, jumping around Larissa in short hops to reconnoitre. There was nothing remarkable about the world. It was like a hundred others in the Hinterland, about fifty percent ocean with extensive ice caps covering the poles and reaching down onto the single continent. Rivers bled the melted water away from the ice sheets, passing over barren tundra on their way to the world-ocean. Once he saw a herd of some slow moving large animals. Equatorially, the tundra turned into thick forest.
A line of ice-capped mountains bisected the continent. Their height and steepness suggested that they were geologically new, perhaps indicating where north and south land masses had collided to make the supercontinent.
He chose the southern land mass, because it was somewhat larger, and dropped down to take a closer look. Rolling hills stood clear of the forest offering open land so he concentrated on these, but saw no signs of human colonization. He was about to give it up as a bad job when an icon lit up on his frame. It was not a beacon, but something on Larissa was using energy. The signal was small but it stood out against the uninhabited wilderness. He identified the source and landed.
Allenson jumped off his frame, and looked around. There was nothing visible but grass interspersed with a few trees. A small furry quadruped with large ears reared up on its hind legs to watch him. He pointed his datapad at it to get a reading and it bolted, fleeing into a burrow. Interesting, Allenson thought, it is scared of humans. I wonder why that is?
The rest of the expedition landed around him. Allenson ignored them and adjusted his datapad until it picked up the energy discharge. He followed the signal and, under a tree, he found a cheap entertainment unit playing a pornographic movie purporting to show a third civilization orgy. It was a well known fact that the third civilization was licentious; its fall being attributed to immorality by those who worried over such things, so the subject matter was commonplace to this type of entertainment. Allenson checked the unit over. A shadow fell across him, and he looked up to see Hawthorn.
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