“Where are we going?” Shyla asked, once they were out on the street.
“Remember when you and Jaqui, and your male friend saved me from those goons?” Lank asked her.
“How could I forget?” Shyla shuddered.
“Well, towards the waterfront from there is a tavern strip. I found out about it that same day, when I stopped at a music store. I was on my way to check it out, and to listen to a few tunes when those idiots surrounded me. Obviously I didn’t get there that day, so I wouldn’t mind going now.”
“We better walk a different way, though. The wall of that big old building makes a good place in which to get ambushed.”
“Good thinking. We don’t need trouble like that, that’s for sure.”
The street that they chose was one of those crammed with small, busy shops on both sides, and a lot of traffic. Not much of a chance for goons to operate anything but a pick-pocket business. And Lank’s store of local coins was safely tucked into an inside pocket of his tunic; pretty difficult even for a professional thief to abscond with, without his knowledge. Only his flute was open to thievery, and he doubted that anyone besides him really wanted it. It had not been an expensive instrument when Conny had given it to him years ago, and he had been dragging it around the galaxy for some time now.
They reached the row of drinking establishments without incident, and chose to enter one which claimed to have music playing during all the hours that it was open.
“That seems like it’s a pretty optimistic advertisement,” Lank said to Shyla. “All musicians need breaks every now and then. But they probably do have singers or players on stage most of the time, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t object to a bit of exaggeration, anyway; bars always do that, at least they have done so wherever in the galaxy I’ve travelled.”
They were, in fact, greeted by a light-hearted tune as they opened the door and entered a dim room, only half-filled with patrons at this early hour. Lank drew Shyla behind him, and chose a small table close to the stage where a rather stout, though in her way quite attractive, woman was strumming a stringed instrument and singing. A waiter came by almost immediately, and Lank ordered two glasses of a local brew which the server recommended. It didn’t really matter to him what they drank; he was there for the music more than the beer.
“So, is she good?” Shyla asked him after the singer had finished a couple of songs. “I admit I don’t know about this world’s music. Not that I knew much back home either. We didn’t have many places like this, where you could sit, sip a beer and listen to music. The taverns were for talking and arguing, not for listening to songs.”
“We did a lot of both in the bars, where I come from,” Lank laughed. “Although a lot of the time the music predominated.”
The waiter came by to check if they wanted anything, and on an impulse Lank told him to send a beer to the singer, and put it on his tab. The server looked at him curiously.
“You’re obviously not after her ass, since you have your girlfriend with you,” he said. “Is there a reason why she rates?”
“Oh, I’ve done my share of singing and playing in bars,” Lank said airily. “I know that a gift of a drink is usually appreciated. I don’t mean anything by it, of course, except to let her know that her music is just fine.”
“Soola will appreciate the sentiment,” the waiter said. “It’ll be a nice change for her from the guys who send her drinks because they want to bed her.”
Apparently Soola did appreciate it. At the end of the set she came over to their table, pulled up a chair, thanked them for the beer, and sat down for a chat. Shyla was obviously thrilled by, and curious at this; she listened keenly to every word as Lank and Soola talked music. Lank told her that he had travelled across much of a world, putting on musical performances with a group of friends.
“It was a slow trip, though; our transport was our feet, and a cart pulled by runnerbeasts, for our equipment and instruments.”
“Oh, I’ve done something like that,” Soola said with a hearty laugh. “Down on Continent Sud, where I’m from. That’s how I got my start as a performer, as one of a group of musicians who travelled around the countryside, putting on shows in little towns and villages. Only we didn’t even have runnerbeasts, we had to pull our equipment cart ourselves!”
“Musicians are a tough lot,” Lank said. “Not much can stop us from putting on our shows.”
*****
The jini number two had joined the humans and the Nature Spirits who were expediting Chrysalia’s attempt to communicate with her people. It, however, was aware of Lank all the time, and knew when he and Shyla left in the flit for the city. Some small portion of its being followed them to the waterfront bar, and kept something like the proverbial eye on them, ready to spring the jini itself into action if they needed help. Lank was not aware of this, except as an underlying certitude that he and Shyla were protected somehow; he assumed that this had to do with what Chrysalia had said about her having extended the protection that her people had given her before she left home, to the crewmembers of The Spacebird. Possibly the jini’s protection was the same thing as what Chrysalia provided; with the things of the Spirit it is often hard to know where one aspect ends and another begins. Often, when aspects have the same purpose, they do not differentiate between one another, but simply allow that portion for which the task comes more easily, to act for both.
Meanwhile, however, the jini was following, and augmenting the communication process in the river valley.
Her companions helped Chrysalia to weave an energy strand strong enough to cross the void, through the Fringes and the Wilderness space, to Crystoloria. There it searched among the receptive minds—and on Crystoloria all adult minds were receptive—until it found the one belonging to Chrysalia’s mentor, the woman who had told her that she would be available if Chrysalia needed help.
“Is something the matter, young one?” this older, wiser woman asked her.
She was aware of the energy augmentation, and pleased that the one who had been sent on this mission had found allies wherever it was that she had ended up.
“Yes,” Chrysalia communicated. “You told me about Chrush who was exiled more than three hundred years ago from our world. He had his talons ripped off before the exile; both were in punishment for his use of the power of the lace crystal for his own personal gain, and for prolonging his life at the expense of others who were younger and more vital.”
“We did. He was one of our failures I’m afraid; his story is still told as a lesson to those who would use our gifts to gain power for themselves, at the expense of those weaker, or less experienced. We thought it possible that there might have been something of him left somewhere, and perhaps some human was using it to interfere with our safeguards on the people who we allowed to export our crystal.”
“The situation turns out to be much worse than we assumed,” said Chrysalia. “I’m not quite sure how it’s possible, but Chrush is still alive, resident in the city of Salamanka on the planet Wayward. He is the lace crystal knife manufacturer with whom Zeke and Darla dealt, and he has worked out a way to alter the resonance of the crystals. He has also allied himself with at least one very immoral human, possibly more than one. And possibly with a twisted Nature Spirit, one born out of the pain and agony of people confined into underground torture chambers.”
“Still alive? That sounds impossible. He would have to be close to a half-a-millennium in age; he was unnaturally old by the time we exiled him.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true. He still calls himself Chrush, and he looks quite decrepit. But he still remembers what happened, and what was done to him.”
“You have seen him?”
“I did not know what we would find when we went to see the knife-maker, as he is known here. Seeing him was a shock, but he knew me for a Crystolorian immediately, and no doubt assumed that I was there because of him. I had to leave one of the long shards in his hands, and I saw the greed and
the pleasure in his ancient face as I relinquished it to him. I dared not fight him on the spot, since I do not know what sort of powers he might use to do battle, but I realized that he is not one to care about the well-being of those around him if he feels threatened.”
“Yes, you must be very careful around that man, and make certain that your allies know to be careful, too.”
There was a pause in the communication process, as if deep deliberation was going on, and Chrysalia was certain that that was precisely what was going on. And not just in the mind of her mentor; she had, without doubt, brought in other old, wise ones to weigh in on this matter. It was a serious matter.
“Chrush must die,” the older woman finally communicated. “He has lived far too long already. His life is a travesty of all that is natural and normal in the universe. All things must change, and he has refused to change; it sounds like essentially he is still the same Chrush that our ancestors exiled, hoping that he would find his end somewhere, in some den of inequity. But that did not happen, obviously. He must have figured out some way to keep feeding his life force in its present form, and wants to continue doing so infinitely. That cannot be allowed; life is essentially change. For life to go on we must all accept eventual death, of ourselves, and of others. Chrush has refused to accept that inevitability; we must force him to accept it. For him to have kept living this long many others, younger and more vital, must have perished before their time. That is not fair. Balance must be restored, and for that to happen Chrush must die.”
Chrysalia could sense a groan in the support network behind her.
“What?” She half-turned her attention to it.
“This puts me in an impossible position,” communicated Mikal. “I have taken an oath to protect all sentient life, and it sounds to me like this Chrush is certainly sentient, if not wise, or in any way admirable. I’m not allowed to countenance the taking of lives, of even the likes of him, while carrying out my duties.”
“Oh, we find that quite admirable,” came the tones of Chrysalia’s mentor. “We had heard that some humans take the preservation of life that seriously, but this is the first time we have been in contact with one who has actually sworn to not take lives while upholding the law. It is a pleasure, Mikal r’ma Trodden, and we will remember your name.
“But, occasionally exceptions must be made, and this is one of those times. We’re not saying that you must kill Chrush, Mikal; we would never lay that on someone like you. But someone will want to do it, and you must refrain from stopping them; that we do lay on you.”
That was bad enough. Mikal withdrew himself from the exchange, a part of him wondering how long he would have to cool his heels on Lamania, proving his innocence in the death of one five-hundred-year-old lunatic, once all this was over. The Federation Peace Officer Corps bureaucracy would automatically assume that as the Agent in charge of the operation, any death of a sentient would have happened under his jurisdiction. The assumption was sensible, he agreed; if exceptions to the rule were commonly allowed, for whatever reason, the oath he had taken would quickly lose its worth. Maryse would help him, he knew. She had faith in his judgement; if something untoward happened under his watch, she would realize that there were good reasons for it.
“I don’t like this any more than you do, Mikal,” Chrysalia said when the communication was over, and the three of them had returned to Seleni’s back garden to discuss it. “Yet, I do understand the Elders’ thinking. They feel like they—or, more precisely, their, and my, ancestors—failed when they sent Chrush away to live out the rest of his life among the humans of the galaxy, deprived of his ability to generate lace crystal. By trying to be as non-violent as they could, under the circumstances, it seems that they gave Chrush the opportunity to turn himself into a monster. And that monster got together with people of iffy predispositions, as well as a natural creature born from the negative emotions of frightened, and hating humans, creating a sink hole, the centre of which, unfortunately, is here on Wayward.”
“Right in this city of Salamanka,” Seleni added.
“Salamanka, and the people who inhabit it, deserve better than to have to live in a cess-pool not of their own making,” Chrysalia added. “That is what my mentor pointed out to me when I expressed to her the uneasiness that both you and I feel, Mikal. She also reminded me that I am not oath-bound the way you are, nor am I beholden to the life-affirming Planetary Spirits the way you are, Seleni. And I am capable of nastiness.”
She smiled, humourlessly.
“That was one of the reasons why I was chosen for this task. No-one knew what I would find, and the worry was that it might be dire, and require decisive action—you know, having to get down in the mud, and wrestle with the beasts to be found there. So sending someone like me was a necessity—I am, in fact, a descendant of Chrush, although a much better-behaved Crystolorian than he has been.”
“So that’s what I sensed in you, from the very moment you and Lank arrived,” Seleni said softly.
“Yes, and I thank you for not writing me off completely right then. Instead, you allowed me to participate in your magicks; understand that I am grateful for that. Unlike my hoary ancestor, I know what I am, and I will never allow that difficult part of myself to rule me. But I will use it as a tool, when that is necessary.”
“Kati could relate to your dilemma,” Mikal said. “What you’re talking about sounds very much like the relationship she has with her Granda node.”
Chrysalia laughed.
“You’re right. That’s probably why she is so effective,” she said. “I’ll remember that when I feel frustrated about not being a sainted being like many of my people are!”
“It’s true,” muttered Seleni with a sigh. “There are times when it is necessary to get down in the mud with the beasts, to fight them. The Planetary Spirits may not like it, I may not like it, but there it is. It has to do with the imperfection of life, and, especially, of human beings.”
“We do have to acknowledge it,” agreed Mikal thoughtfully. “But it’s better if we don’t like it.”
The Wise Woman looked very serious.
“Yes,” she said. “We must never get comfortable with it.”
*****
Shyla was rather shocked at how much fun she was having. Lank had joined Soola for a few numbers, accompanying her on his flute, which was arousing a fair amount of curiosity among the musicians who were coming into the bar, and leaving, just to return, again, later. Some of them, the waiter had explained, would be playing sets later on in the evening. Everyone was assuming that Shyla was Lank’s girlfriend, and it was quite amazing how much respect that little deception was gaining her. It might not be a bad thing to be an off-world musician’s girlfriend, she was thinking, at least not in a place where music was the entertainment. Not that she thought that there was much chance that she could actually snag Lank for herself, for real. He was quite the space-traveller from what she had gathered, listening to him and Chrysalia speak, and he apparently knew some amazing women, some of whom were smart, comely, young and single. Although the one he went on about was the Kati character, who apparently was so attractive that even Judd Gorsh had fallen for her, to the point where he had abducted her, and stashed her somewhere, probably in that weird cabin he had on Milla’s Estate. Not to mention the Federation man who had somehow escaped from the Citadel cellars; he, apparently was the man this Kati had chosen for her own. Which was hardly surprising; Shyla figured that had she been a worldly, galaxy-crossing, worker-of-miracles, as this Kati sounded to be, Mikal would have been the man she wanted by her side. Not to mention her bed—but the bed business was still pretty much a mystery to Shyla. Well, she knew well enough the supposed how, what and where, but it’s one thing to know theory, and another to have practise at it.
She had not imbibed much beer, but as one who had not had the opportunity to drink any for some time, what she did consume was making her giddy and giggly. A friend of Soola’s had stopped to chat with
her while Lank had joined Soola on the stage. Thus she did not see the old man come in, or stare at her and at Lank.
Lank had broken into a song which, he had explained in a brief patter, was a sea shanty from a world he was not familiar with, one that a friend of his had come from.
“Death is a constant companion to sailors,” he had explained. “They learn to accept it. This song is about that acceptance.”
As I roved by the dockside one evening so fair
To view the salt waters and take in the salt air
I heard an old fisherman singing a song
Oh, take me away boys me time is not long
Chorus:
Wrap me up in me oilskin and blankets
No more on the docks I'll be seen
Just tell me old shipmates, I'm taking a trip mates
And I'll see you someday on Fiddlers Green
Now Fiddler's Green is a place I've heard tell
Where the fishermen go if they don't go to hell
Where the weather is fair and the dolphins do play
And the cold coast of Greenland is far, far away
Chorus
Now when you're in dock and the long trip is through
There's pubs and there's clubs and there's lassies there too
And the girls are all pretty and the beer is all free
And there's bottles of rum growing on every tree.
Showdown on the Planet of the Slavers Page 51