by Paula Volsky
No fresh clothing. No change of linen. Not today.
Selections complete, she returned to the counter to confront the proprietor, who thrust three upright fingers forward, almost into her face. For a moment she imagined a local variant of the Feyennese Four, then realized that he was specifying a price of three hundred New-rekkoes. A wholly outrageous price, of course. She supposed she was expected to bargain, but she hadn’t the time, the inclination, or the knowledge of the language. Swallowing outrage, she laid the money out on the counter, swept her purchases into the carpetbag, and turned to go.
A high-pitched verbal fusillade halted her. She turned back to confront the shopkeeper’s wife, who was yelling, gesticulating, pointing at the carpetbag with one hand, and shaking four stiffened fingers at the ceiling with the other. This time the line between financial negotiation and deliberate insult was unclear. Luzelle curled her lip and made for the door. A geyser of unintelligible abuse sprayed behind her. A volley of tiny missiles struck her back, and there was no pain, but the surprise momentarily froze her. Little pellets were hitting the plank floor all around her, and it took her a moment to realize that the shopkeeper or his consort had flung a handful of dried white beans.
Savages. Spinning on her heel, she flashed four fingers at her tormentors and flounced from the shop, leaving the door wide open to the flies.
Idiots. Ranting fanatics. Yes, and how many more of the same between herself and the border? And after the border, farther east, deep in the stronghold of the Gifted Iyecktor, how much the worse?
For a moment she was almost glad that she spoke no Aennorvi; otherwise she would have wanted to stay and argue.
Hurrying across the square to her horse, she filled the new canteen with water from the pump beside the trough, and slung the strap over her shoulder. She fastened the carpetbag to the cantle, then loosed the reins from the rail, mounted, and turned Ballerina east. She departed the village without regret, but not without incident. As she passed the ripe garbage heap wreathed in creeping daggers that marked the end of what passed for a main street, a gang of local yellow-eyed urchins leapt forth yelling and flinging clods. The soft dirt balls broke against her skirts. Her horse snorted and shied. A nauseous stench arose, a buzzing fog darkened the air, and Luzelle felt the sting of countless fiery darts. Her face and neck prickled and burned. A cry escaped her, and she beat at the seething air with her hands. Dimly she noted the taunting yelps of the victorious youngsters. A brittle dirt ball shattered against her hair, the buzzing intensified, and the small darts stabbed her ears and the sensitive skin around her mouth. Even as her hands flew protectively to her eyes, the thought registered, clay nesters. The village children must have stockpiled scores of the delicate spheres, home to countless stinging winged arachnids, and now the intrusion of a lone female, odd and foreign, offered a welcome opportunity to launch the entire arsenal.
Ballerina plunged, and Luzelle barely kept her seat. The spectacle pleased the audience. A fairy chorus of excited juvenile laughter arose, and somebody threw a clay nest at the horse, then somebody else hurled a rock.
Little monsters. Their orthodox parents would probably be proud. She curbed the impulse to turn and yell at them; they would only take it as encouragement. Clapping her heels hard to the red mare’s sides, she galloped east, and the laughing taunts and swarming clay nesters fell away behind her.
Once safely clear of the village, she let Ballerina slow to a walk. She was breathing hard and her heart was pounding. Her eyes burned and watered. Emotion? She thought not. Lifting a hand to her face, she found that the skin stung, as if with a sunburn. The hand itself was covered with a rash of tiny red pinpricks.
The clay-nester venom was not strong enough to cause serious illness. Except in unusual cases. The rash on her face and hands would vanish within hours. Probably.
The southern sun beat down on her. Her skin stung and itched. Opening the canteen, she swallowed a little water, then splashed coolness on her face. It helped. She took the big new scarf, wrapped it around her head Aennorvi style, and that helped too, but not enough. Too bad. Nothing more to be done about it at present.
Luzelle scowled, and pushed east. She rode at a moderate pace, but her imagination raced, flashing along the curve of the Grand Ellipse to overtake and surpass every rival. The Festinette twins. The Grewzians. Anyone else who might have pulled ahead while she had been delayed in Aeshno.
Glumly she wondered if a single one of them was a fraction as uncomfortable as she.
“THE ANGLE OF THE LIGHT annoys me. Change it,” Torvid Stornzof commanded. Settling himself back among fat cushions, he added irritably, “A well-trained attendant requires no reminder. Your masters are remiss. Well, they are Zuleeki.”
His listener, evincing neither guilt nor resentment—in fact, communicating nothing at all through the big ocher cloak and hood that contained his or her identity—bowed deeply and tweaked the strings that angled the wooden slats admitting sunlight to the hired chasmistrio. A gloved hand was visible for a moment.
The light altered nicely. The objectionable heat and glare abated, and a cool shadow kissed the grandlandsman’s brow. At least these idiots could do something right, when properly instructed.
He caught a glimpse of a hairy, broad-snouted, yellow-tusked countenance and then it was gone, swallowed in the shadow of the hood, and none too soon. He did not wish to trouble his vision with excessive ugliness. There were better things to do with his eyes.
Torvid gazed down through the wooden slats and glass walls upon a vista of sheer cliffs edging ax-stroke gorges, rising above a wrathful river and its tributaries. Typical scenery of half-tamed Zuleekistan, very stirring, very picturesque, and he could appreciate its charm while holding himself aloof from its dangers.
The pagoda-roofed glass-and-steel chasmistrio hung suspended like some piece of jewelry upon the great aerial cable bridging the clouds a thousand feet above the Wzykii Cleft, and connecting the formerly great trading center of Feezie with the string of villages littering the cliff top on the far side of the white-fanged Wzyk River.
Feezie. A deplorable backwater midden. The grandlandsman’s lip curled at the recollection. No comforts, no amenities, no entertainment. A dreary, tannery-stinking blight upon the face of the world, a testimony to the inferiority of its inhabitants. If only the tale he had told his shining star of a Promontory nephew had been true—if only he had traveled straight to civilized, amusing Jumo Towne, then life would have been far more pleasant. But duty called, his obligation to the imperior commanded, and thus he found himself reluctantly rusticated.
At least he had skipped over the dusty grime of Aennorve and the primitive rigors of Bizaqh. That was one consolation. And his sojourn in goat-and-bandit-infested Zuleekistan was likely to prove brief. That was another.
Torvid exhaled an impatient cloud of cigarette smoke, and saw his attendant turn away. No refuge, no pure mountain air to be found within the glass walls of the chasmistrio, and the other knew it but presumably wished to register his—her—its objection to the atmospheric pollution. Insolent freak of nature. A crease deepened between the grandlandsman’s brows.
“You—here,” he commanded. He tapped the low inlaid table before him sharply. “My glass.” He was prepared to punish the slightest hesitation with a blow, but his companion bent at once to refill the depleted flute with Vonahrish champagne, and no disciplinary opportunity presented itself. The silent other’s hirsute face was level with his own for a moment. He caught the feral gleam of red eyes under the shadow of the hood, and the itch in his palm vanished magically.
For a time there was silence broken only by the rush of the mountain winds and the grumble of metal on metal as the chasmistrio ascended, its swaying weight dragged along the cable by the power of unseen hands upon the great winch anchored to the cliff above the Wzyk.
Torvid Stornzof sipped champagne, studied the scenery, and smoked. Presently the chasmistrio attained a region of low-lying cloud, and
ghost-grey mists obscured the world below. Grey smoke correspondingly hazed the car’s interior, visibility dwindled to nothing, and the ocher-robed menial began to gurgle. A low, hoarse, bubbling vocalization issued from under the hood. Urghurrhurgahrurrgh … The creature was simulating pulmonary distress, presumably to score some reproachful little point, but Torvid Stornzof did not number susceptibility among his failings. Calmly exhaling a warm grey fog, he commanded, “Silence.”
Uuurghhhurgurhurgh—iiYUHHK, iiYUHHK, iiYUHHK—
Ridiculous hiccups underscored the gurgles. Purple mucus dripped from the broad nostrils. The impertinence was beneath notice, and ordinarily Torvid would have ignored it. But the close confines of the chasmistrio precluded indulgence, and he found himself obliged to address the other’s failing.
“Silence,” he repeated.
Uuurghhhurgurhur—iiYUHHK, iiYARGHKKK—
This was as deliberately defiant as it was irritating, and corporal chastisement was more than warranted. Rising from the divan, Torvid took a step forward, lifted his hand, and struck the hairy face beneath the hood. The other’s head snapped aside and then thrust forward, eyes redly ablaze, yellow tusks bared an inch from his throat. Torvid drew back a step, pulled the pistol from his breast pocket, and fired without hesitation. The shot blasted, a third red eye appeared in the middle of the other’s forehead, and the creature fell dead.
Awkward. He had acted in self-defense, yet his reception at the far side of the Wzykii Cleft now waxed problematical. Torvid scowled and poured himself another glass of champagne.
A stench arose to fill the glass compartment. The dead body was venting assorted vapors. Torvid set his glass aside.
The chasmistrio inched along the cable. Eventually the mists thinned and the surrounding crags distinguished themselves. A bump, scrape, and conclusive thud announced the end of the journey. Forced to attend to himself, Torvid unlatched and opened the steel-barred door with his own hand, stepping forth from his conveyance to confront a quartet of cloaked and hooded ocher figures stationed about the winch. With them stood a flint-eyed overseer clad in the Zuleeki peasant garb of full-sleeved blouse, loose vest, and short homespun kilt.
Ignoring the ocher menials, Torvid addressed himself to the overseer.
“The Mongrel awaits me?”
“You will find him at the lightning-blasted pine below the village of Faddogalbro,” the native replied in tolerable Grewzian.
“You will guide me there.” Money changed hands.
Pungent gases wafted from the open chasmistrio. The ocher quartet snorted, whined, clicked their teeth, and shifted uneasily beneath their robes. Observing this, the overseer frowned.
“There has been a mishap.” Torvid pulled a few bills from his wallet. “To cover your loss.”
The other took the cash, counted it, shrugged, and nodded. “Come, then. This way.”
Together they set off along the narrow cliff-top path. Behind them four inhuman voices rose in mournful howls.
The hike was silent and uneventful. The Mongrel waited at the fallen pine, as promised. With their chief stood three mustachioed and hawk-nosed subordinates, their heads wrapped in the traditional streaming kerchiefs, their carbines slung across their backs. Not far away grazed four smallish, shaggy horses of the hardy local breed.
Torvid gestured imperatively, and his companion fell back. The grandlandsman went on alone, and the Mongrel advanced to meet him. Presently they halted face-to-face, and something in the famous brigand’s fearless, almost haughty demeanor prompted the grandlandsman to draw forth the platinum case, snap it open, and proffer the contents with unwonted civility.
“Smoke?” he invited simply.
Accepting a black cigarette, the Mongrel inclined his head without servility. The two men lit up and puffed in silence.
“You will accept the commission?” Torvid asked at last, in Vonahrish.
The Mongrel’s eagle eyes narrowed, and he exhaled a thoughtful grey cloud.
“I will accept it,” he replied at last.
Torvid handed over a wad of New-rekkoes, which the other pocketed without counting. Terse conversation ensued, peppered with many references to “the Travornish twin brothers,” to “the Navoyza Pass,” and to “Een Djasseen.”
The interview concluded, and the two men shook hands, almost as equals. The Mongrel and his followers remounted and rode away. Torvid Stornzof rejoined the overseer, and they made their way back along the trail to the chasmistrio, where the four unclassifiable ocher attendants awaited.
Torvid felt the hot red glare of their eyes upon him as he drew near, and caught the muted rumble of low growls, but ignored such impertinences. He entered the glass-and-steel car, whose dead tenant had been removed during his absence. The enclosed atmosphere stank of lavender cologne, presumably intended to mask less palatable odors. A fresh bottle of champagne stood in the silver cooler on the low table, but there was no attendant there to pour it out for him. Evidently he was to make the return journey alone, a state that suited him well enough, for he far preferred self-sufficiency to the vexation of sullen or clumsy service.
The Zuleeki overseer set off his signal flare, which must have been glimpsed on the far side of the Wzykii Cleft, for scant minutes later the slack in the endless lines was taken up and the car began to move along the cable, commencing its slow return to Feezie.
Torvid sipped champagne and considered. His impressions of the Mongrel had been favorable, and he believed the brigand capable of fulfilling his commission. This being so, Nephew Karsler’s path to victory lay clear before him, the Stornzof triumph was assured, and the day’s work rewarding, even though—the grandlandsman’s black brows drew together—even though his own personal intervention should have been unnecessary. Karsler should and could have concluded the affair unassisted, but for the handicap of an absurdly antiquated honorable code—product, no doubt, of a curious education—that often seemed self-defeating, even self-indulgent. For at times it was only too clear that the younger Stornzof placed certain foolish concerns above and beyond his duty to his imperior and to his own House. And if he did so, then he was unworthy of the family name he bore.
A weakling, an irresolute dreamer—and a Stornzof?
But no. The famous overcommander’s martial triumphs proved otherwise. His blood was of the best, and the crippling effect of his education an inconvenience, merely.
The champagne was execrable, Torvid decided. And he could not abide the stench of lavender. Travel by chasmistrio was fit for dogs and Zuleekis.
No matter. Another couple of hours and he would be back in Feezie, whose best inn was almost tolerable. He had already booked passage aboard the eastbound steamer Diamond Solitaire. Before tomorrow’s sun cleared the horizon, he would be at sea, heading for Jumo Towne and the blessings of civilization.
THE HILLS ROSE STEEP and jagged above the Navoyza Pass. The vegetation at such altitudes was low and hardy, the springtime wildflowers dotting the defile with fuchsia and intense purple, the broad fields of sinquerriva spreading water-color washes of pale gold along the slopes. The air was clear, pure, and cool to the verge of discomfort. The sky was ridiculously blue—an artist reproducing the shade on canvas would have been mocked by the critics—and streaked with trailing, traveling clouds. High overhead a hawk glided on stationary wing, and down closer to the ground a flying weasel launched itself at a rock sweeper foraging on the far side of the pass.
A caravan of six camels followed the ancient trail flanked by lofty cliffs. Three of the camels were cream-colored, longhaired, double-humped jehdavis, a breed prized for its strength and endurance. The first of these valuable creatures, striding at the head of the party, belonged to a grizzled Zuleeki clad in battered leathers—evidently the leader and guide. The other two were ridden by a pair of youthful foreign patrons, prettily identical in face and form, identical in every detail of dandified Vonahrish-cut costume. The remaining three camels were noticeably inferior in quality. Two of them were
ridden by flat-faced local laborers taken on as temporary servants, and the third, serving as a pack animal, carried a mountain of expensive matched leather luggage.
The clean winds sang through the Navoyza Pass, the picture-perfect clouds sailed across the improbable sky, and one of the young travelers turned to inform the other, “I think I’m going to throw up again.”
“Fight it, Tref,” Stesian Festinette advised. “Set your mind on something else.”
“I can’t. It’s the way this infernal creature sways when it moves. It’s worse than a sailboat in a hurricane.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem all that bad to me.”
“Well, you didn’t eat any of those grilled rock sweepers. Those miserable little mouse things aren’t fit for human consumption. They did not agree with me.”
“Then why did you go and pop a whole bowlful of ’em?”
“They tasted all right. How was I to know they were poisonous? Now I’m extremely ill, ready to fall right off this disgusting camel, and a fat lot of sympathy I get from you.”
“I’m sympathetic, Tref. I’m so sympathetic that I’m starting to get queasy just listening to you. You know what happens to me when you get sick—”
“Well, that works both ways!”
“So would you please stop dwelling on it? Just try to concentrate on something else, something cheerful. Think of—oh, think of the time we spiked the punch bowl at the headmaster’s retirement party with that Strellian emetic—”
“You’re not helping, Stes!”
“Sorry. All right, then think about—well, think about fame. Think about prestige. Think about blazing, radiant, unspeakable glory. Think about winning the Grand Ellipse. I tell you, Tref, it’ll be our best stunt yet—the three-legged cow was nothing compared to this! And we are going to win, don’t you know. We’ve drawn so far ahead of the pack, there’s no one can catch us now!”