Haydn of Mars (14 page)

I heard him recede, and I called out, “All right!
 
I'll be right down!”

“Very well!” his fading voice answered, and then I heard his boots on the stairs.

I reached for my bedouin robe automatically, and then spied the neatly folded pile of city clothes on the room's single chair and pulled them on instead, groaning as I did so.
 
What little sleep I had attained had been bad.
 
The bed was too soft and the room too dank.
 
And now I had to wear these horrible clothes again, and forego the comfort of my robes...

I nonetheless made myself presentable, and five minutes later entered the tap room.

It was empty – but not quite.
 
In the darkest corner behind the end of the bar was a table.
 
The single occupant, in dark clothing and a cap, had his back to me and the room.

Pavin appeared at my elbow and urged me on.

“He's paid his bill and is about to leave!”

“Bring me some breakfast – and it had better be eatable,” I ordered.

He was studying my new clothing, about to make comment, but I ignored him and walked to the table, crossing to the opposite side and pulling a chair out.

I sat.

The stranger raised his eyes from his steaming cup.
 
I could smell strong coffee.

For a moment I thought he wore a mask, but saw with a start that it was a trick of the bad light – his face was smooth, nearly devoid of fur, the eyes deep blue and piercing.
 
He was no doubt a member of the L'aag clan, known for these features.

“I hear you are a person of interest,” he said.
 
His voice was low, gravelly, tinged with irony.

“It depends on who is interested.”

He gave a low snort and waved a paw – again nearly devoid of fur.
 
“Is there anyone in this town except the F'rar who isn't aware of you?”

“Did Pavin contact you?” I asked.

“Not exactly.
 
Let's just say that we become interested when any spice trader enters either of the twin cities.”

“You wish to talk?”

He leaned his head closer to mine.
 
His eyes were nearly blazing and his lips pulled back in a smirk.

“I wish to know, first of all, how someone like you ends up with Hermes the fat cook's wares.”

The eyes didn't blink, and the grin widened.

“So...”

“Yes,” he said, leaning back.
 
He sipped his coffee without taking his eyes from me.
 
“I was told you arrived in bedouin robes.
 
Were you his...apprentice?”

“Something like that.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said.
 
“When Hermes was executed by the F'rar, we feared his particular talents were lost to us.
 
But perhaps not...”

I realized that he was trying to hide his jubilation.

“Then we will deal,” I said.

“Oh, certainly.”
 
He barked a command to Pavin, who appeared instantly.

“The lady is checking out of your piss hole,” he said without taking his eyes from me.
 
“Gather her things.”

“Of course!”

“And Pavin,” the stranger said, “I will inventory her horse very carefully.
 
If anything is missing I will do twice to you what she would have.”

“Yes!
 
Yes!” the innkeeper said, scuttling off.

“He would have been subtle, but things would have been stolen.”

“I caught him at it yesterday.”

He laughed, and pushed his chair back and rose.
 
He was easily the tallest feline I had ever seen.

“We must go by back ways,” he said, which did not surprise me.

When we had left the confines of Shklovskii, by a wayward route I could never repeat even if I could remember it, there was time for more talk.
 
But my companion, curiously, had become almost uncommunicative.
 
At first he grunted at my questions, and then ignored them.
 
We were on what looked to be a little used road, roughly paralleling a main thoroughfare a good half kilo to our left.
 
I could see knots of travelers passing both ways there, and the occasional flash of a red shirt, which explained our slow progress through this trail of muck and gullies.
 
In the distance, growing ever taller, was the silhouette of another town with the same basic outlines as the one we had abandoned.

“Answer me something,” my riding companion said, long after I had given up any hope of discourse.

“Yes?”

“Would you hesitate to kill Frane, the leader of the F'rar, if she stood before you now?”

Without thought I said, “No.”

He nodded.
 
“And tell me this.
 
Would you hesitate to do the same to the so-called Queen in whose name the rebels fight?”

I went cold.
 
“But she is dead.”

He raised an eyebrow.
 
“Is she?
 
It is rumored that your late companion was charged with killing her, and did not do the job.
 
The F'rar produced a body, but I happen to know it was not who they said it was.
 
The real body was never found.
 
In any case, the rebels still fight in her name, even though the F'rar claim she is in the afterlife.”

“I know nothing of this.”

His eyebrow was raised again.
 
“Is that so?
 
Do you mean to tell me you traveled with Hermes, and yet knew nothing of his charge?”

“Hermes was a traitor to his people.
 
My people.”

“Ah.”
 
He reined his horse around to face me.
 
We had stopped in a stretch of woods, thin white hinto trees whose pale pink leaves waved lazily in the faint breath of wind.
 
I had already reached for my blade and held it in my right paw, against my side.
 
My companion bore no weapon that I could discern, but I had no reason to believe his intentions were good.

“Perhaps the time for talking has passed,” I said, fingering the blade nervously.

He looked surprised.
 
“Oh?
 
I had gathered it has just started.
 
I just want to know where we stand.”

“We stand nowhere.
 
I will take my spices and leave.”

He gave a graveled laugh.
 
“That is the only thing I cannot let you do.
 
We will trade mounts, if it comes to that, and you will ride off unmolested.
 
But your spices, especially the more...exotic ones, must go with me.”

“You mean the chemicals?”

He raised an eyebrow.
 
“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“I am called Newton.”

The name meant nothing to me, and he seemed surprised that I did not know who he was.

“You do not know of Newton of Sagan?”

“I'm afraid not.”

His entire manner seemed to relax.
 
His smile softened.
 
“That is a good thing.
 
Then perhaps you are who you say you are.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“How did you come by these spices, then?”

“Hermes laid a trap for my people, with the F'rar, in Meridiani Pass.
 
I got away and hunted him.
 
Then I stole his mount.”

“You didn't kill him yourself?”

“I had my chance.
 
But I knew the F'rar would do it for me.”

“By the way, what are you called?
 
The registry at Pavin's foul hole called you ‘Ransom.'”

“That will do.”

He nudged his horse around and rode on, pacing me.
 
He was silent again.
 
We broke out of the little copse of trees and into a wilder expanse of sand and mire, with few bushes between ourselves and the main road.
 
He didn't seem concerned.

Suddenly he drew up short and reined his horse to the right.
 
I followed, though I could see no reason.
 
The ground looked the same – broken and marshy.

“You didn't see the quicksand?” he asked me.

I shook my head.

“Well, we've now determined that you've never been this far north before.”

“True.”

Again he was silent, and I watched the city of Sagan rise before me.
 
The road to our left drifted off that way toward a distant gate.
 
Our own progress led us wide of the town, flanking it.

From here the city looked exactly like its twin: dark, decrepit, with low buildings and a half-guarded wall.

We soon came to a break in the wall surrounded by debris.
 
My companion ignored it and we rode on.

“It's not much farther,” he explained, without so much as turning to look at me.

We passed more rubble on the outskirts of the city, some of it curious.
 
I saw a field of huge rusted tubes, and another of strange, abandoned machinery – boxes and gargantuan spools of cables and a veritable mountain of delicate looking glass cylinders of various colors, collecting dust under the gloomy sky.

“One of our storage areas,” Newton said cryptically.
 
“What is the phrase?
 
Best hid in plain sight.”

I could not imagine what use anyone would have for this field of junk.

So abruptly that I almost ran my horse into his, Newton turned into a hole in the wall.
 
Not a hole so much as a cut, with a low ceiling of crumbling brick that caused me to lower my head almost to my saddle.
 
The wall was thick, nearly two meters, and as I passed through I heard Newton chuckle in front of me.

“Don't fear – those bricks over your head were assembled to look dangerous.
 
They're as solid as the rest of the wall.
 
F'rar and others unfriendly to us don't like to poke their noses into openings like that.”

I came out the other side and found my host waiting for me.
 
We were in a tunnel little wider than the wall opening.
 
It would be impossible to get two horses abreast here, and a raiding party would have to enter one man at a time.

As we went on at a slow canter, Newton called back, pointing overhead: “You will notice the slits at the top of the wall.
 
Unwelcome visitors would be met with a nasty surprise.”

There were openings that looked like darkened windows along the corridor, and I asked Newton about them.

“We are being watched,” he said simply.

After a quarter of an hour, the narrow tunnel suddenly ended.
 
I saw that a long, narrow pit extended in front of Newton's horse.
 
He waited patiently, and now I heard a rumble which became insistent.

A platform rose into place, and the pit disappeared, leaving a smooth metal floor which conveyed us to a door.

“Beyond this door you become a member in standing of the Science Guild.
 
Hermes was such.
 
You will not have full rights, but you will know enough about us that you would be a danger to us.
 
If you agree to enter, you also agree that there is only one way to leave the Guild.”

“Feet first?” I quipped.

Newton smiled.
 
“I will use that phrase in the future.
 
I was going to say by old age.
 
Soler will enjoy your wit.”

He studied me closely.
 
“Do you agree?”

I nodded.
 
“I agree.”

“Very well.”

Without Newton's insistence, the door opened with a clang, and we were led into a cavernous room filled with more noise than I had ever heard in my life.

That I was welcomed with grand ceremony would be an understatement.
 
Or, at least, my horse was.
 
A gaggle of faces and many hands reached for us with excited voices as we entered the room, calling the horse by name (which I did not know), Standard, stroking his muzzle, feeding him oats, and stripping him bare of every package, parcel and bundle.
 
Only my private effects in the saddle bag remained.
 
In a matter of minutes I stood feeling naked, my mount showing himself to be the ugly pack horse he was, now contentedly munching on a bag of grain which had been secured to his muzzle.
 
The packages were carried off with triumphant cries of “Ooooh” and “Ahhh!” but one figure stayed behind to study me.