The Hunter Victorious (11 page)

“I have told you,” he said, breathing deeply and trying to keep control of his considerable temper. “My name is Barat Krol.
I am Madrelli, just like you.”

“You look like a Madrelli, but we do not know you,” a large female with a prominent jutting brow said belligerently. “You
do not talk like us. You talk like them.” The others began to mutter among themselves and stare at Barat Krol with suspicion.

“I am not one of them; I am one of you, a Madrelli, as you can plainly see. I come from a different world, but that does not
change who or what I am.”

“You are dumb. There is no other world!” a young Madrelli said, then hooted with laughter, only to be struck across the face
by the back of his mother’s hand. He whimpered without knowing what he had done.

“Another world?” asked the large male, clearly perplexed.

“I think there are other worlds,” an older female, her coat
streaked with gray, said slowly. “I had forgotten about that. I knew about it once.”

“There are many other worlds,” Barat Krol said quietly, hoping that their attention would hold and wondering why they were
so ignorant of themselves and the world they lived in. “There are many Madrelli as well on those other worlds.”

“What are they doing there? Why are they not here?” another male asked, curiosity shining brightly in his eyes.

“They have been sent to the other worlds, just as I was, just as all my tribe were, to do the Scandis’ work for them.”

“The Scandis should do their own work,” muttered the sullen youngster.

“I agree, they should do their own work; that is why I am here,” said Barat Krol.

“How you gonna make ’em do that?” asked the youngster. “That’s what they got us for. Do this! Do that! Makes me mad sometimes!”
The female looked aghast and lifted her hand as though to strike him again.

“Good! That’s exactly how you should feel!” said Barat Krol. The youngster sat up straight and shot a triumphant look at his
mother, who stared at Barat Krol in astonishment.

“You want us to be mad at the Scandis! Why? They take care of us. They give us a place to live and food to eat. They are our
masters. Why should we be mad at them?” Many eyes turned to Barat Krol.

“Of course they feed you and give you a place to live,” he replied with a sigh. “How could you work for them if they did not
provide you with your basic needs? But why should you work for them? Why are they your masters? No one has the right to own
another creature. You belong to yourselves and no one else.”

One of the males yawned loudly and broke wind at the same time. Many of those around him fell over on their backs laughing
and giggling, pointing at the miscreant, who grinned
proudly. Barat Krol had lost their attention; no one was even looking at him now. The youngster, the most promising among
them, was crossing his eyes and straining in an attempt to imitate his elder.

Barat Krol sighed deeply, wondering whether he should continue to try. What was wrong with these Madrelli? Was it possible
that they had not advanced as far as his own tribe? He was deeply depressed and discouraged as he watched their juvenile antics
and he wondered whether there was any point in continuing. If he were caught attempting to turn the Madrelli against the Scandis,
he knew that he could expect no mercy. But they were his people. How could he do otherwise?

Septua should not have been hard to locate. He lived on the lowest level of the inner concourse amid the crowded stalls of
the marketplace. He should not have been hard to find, for how many bald dwarves could there be in Asgard? But he was. It
was the third day that Brion had conducted his search, and to be honest, he had begun to lose hope of ever finding the cursed
little thief. But knowing how much depended on the finding of the dwarf, Brion had set forth once again, determined to bring
him in.

Brion threaded his way through the sleepy shop owners as they rolled up awnings and placed their offerings out for the perusal
of the haggling throngs who would fill the narrow corridors in the hours to come.

With nothing native to the planet, it was necessary to import everything from off world, with the single exception of produce,
fowl, and grazing animals, which could be raised in small protected holdings at great expense. How and where the merchandise
was obtained was never asked and it was taken for granted that most, if not all, of the items offered for sale had a cloudy
pedigree.

Unlike old earth, where a vendor and his family might have
specialized in one specific item such as plumbing supplies or garden tools, in Asgard to specialize was to die of starvation.
Available merchandise was constantly changing, and to survive one had to be able to adapt to change, to sell anything, whether
it was a laser pistol or a bushel of dried fruit. As no one could be expected to be an expert on so many different items,
correct information was often impossible to come by. But because a sale might hinge on such information and the ability of
the seller to convince the buyer that he did indeed know what he was speaking about, the vendors were, of necessity, skilled
prevaricators—or, in a word… liars.

When one bought something, anything, caveat emptor was true in Asgard as in no other place in the universe: Let the buyer
beware.

But if the inhabitants of Asgard wished to supplement the rigid and boring and unvaried diet of grain, powdered energy drink,
protein sticks, and stringy, tasteless, reconstituted fruits, it was necessary to buy, sell, and trade in the marketplace.
It was at all times the most crowded place in Asgard, with all segments of the populace mingled together as nowhere else.

While in the marketplace, there was a curious abeyance of the law; most rules concerning position and status were laid aside,
for the vendors enjoyed as important a position as the most mighty Thane. The vendors did not fail to exploit the situation,
often speaking rudely and insulting the would-be buyers and playing one against the other for the highest possible dollar
as they bid for the precious items, knowing that once an item was gone, there might never, ever be another. It was indeed
a seller’s market.

But while Septua was well known by all, finding him was not an easy matter, for the vendors protected their own and asking
after the dwarf earned Brion nothing but blank looks and outright lies. He was told alternately that no such person
existed, that the dwarf had died of a contagious disease, and finally that he had died. At each encounter, Brion found himself
drawn out as to his purpose in seeking the dwarf thief,, to which he replied cryptically that he had been sent by a friend
in need.

As before, despite his resolutions, Brion encountered nothing but evasive and misleading information that in the end brought
him back to the first person he had spoken to. As he-leaned against a stone parapet and sighed at the thought of returning
empty-handed yet again, he felt a sharp tug on his tunic. Looking down, he discovered a small, grimy, tousle-headed child
with four teeth missing in the front of her mouth. The gamine lisped out that she had a message from Septua, but refused to
divulge it until Brion pressed a bronze kroner into her palm. The child grinned with delight, confirming Brion’s suspicions
that she had already been paid for the task, and directed Brion to a nearby pub with instructions to wait.

Brion did as he was told, collapsing wearily into one of the high-backed booths, and ordered a cup of hot herbal tea from
a handsome young woman who was still too sleepy to exhibit any of the exuberant good nature that she would display later in
the day. Brion grimaced as he swallowed the hot brew, feeling, as always, somehow unsatisfied with its thin, pallid taste.

As he was mulling over the depressing lack of coffee, wondering how many people remembered it and mourned its loss as he did,
he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was no longer alone. Startled, he looked around and saw, much to his amazement,
the strangest person he had ever seen sitting quietly at his side and regarding him with obvious amusement.

“S’prized you, huh? Never even ‘eard me comin’!”

“Why, yes, that’s true,” Brion stammered. “Where… how…?”

“Like the wind,” said the dwarf. “Septua moves like the wind, like a shadow I am… never seen, never heard, then gone.” He
waved his short, stubby fingers through the air, then closed them in a fist in dramatic fashion.

“Yes. Well, um…” Brion struggled to keep his expression serious. Did Braldt really think that this odd little fellow could
help them? Brion doubted that he could aid them in anything as serious as this life-and-death struggle. But he had his orders
and, while he might doubt, he would do as he had been told.

“Now, ’ow does you wants me to ’elp you?” the dwarf asked. “Does you need a key fetched or a lock opened, or be it a weightier
matter? An’ ’ho be this ‘friend,’ what sent you, eh? Won’t do you no good, ‘hoever it be, if you be lookin’ for a job on the
cheap. I be the best an’ I be paid accordin’ly!”

“Braldt sent me,” said Brion, and watched as the most amazing array of emotions played across the broad face. Beams of pleasure
gave way to confusion, concern, and then fear and outright suspicion. “Braldt, eh? Don’t know no Braldt,” said the dwarf as
he began to sidle from the booth, his short legs not even reaching the floor.

And this is a master thief,
Brion thought with an inward groan.
I hope the fellow knows enough to stay out of card games!
“That’s too bad. Braldt was certain that you’d be able to handle the job,” Brion said as he stared down at his cup, making
no attempt whatsoever to stop the dwarf’s exit. “I guess he was wrong about you. He seemed to think you were the best man
for the job.”

Septua hesitated. “’E said that? What ’xactly did ’e say?” Curiosity and vanity fought with the desire to flee as the dwarf
hovered at the edge of the booth.

“Well, it’s a difficult job, with some danger involved, as well as a good deal of honor and gratitude, and, well, what
can I say? Even though some of us disagreed with him, Braldt insisted that you were the only one who could get the job done.
He wouldn’t even consider letting anyone else do it. ‘Septua’s our man,’ he said. ‘No one else will do! If Septua can’t do
it, the job can’t be done!’ “ Brion watched the dwarf out of the corner of his eye, noting that his chest swelled visibly
with pride and importance.

It was a much chastened Septua who left the inn when he and Brion parted several hours later. There was no sign of the braggadocio
that had typified his behavior when first they met. At first he had resisted the idea that the planet was dying, would soon
be naught but an icy rock in orbit around a dead sun. But Brion knew his facts and he was a persuasive young man.

Once Septua had accepted the fact that Brion was telling the truth, he had even less difficulty believing that Otir Vaeng
would flee the planet leaving the majority of his people behind to die slow and miserable deaths. Nor did he have any delusions
about being one of the chosen few; he had ruffled too many feathers to be anywhere but at the bottom of any number of lists.

His emotions had swung from disbelief to rage to depression and then to calm determination. “Braldt was right,” he said with
a stubborn tilt to his chin as he looked straight into Brion’s eyes. “I be your man. Tell me what you would ‘ave me do.”

The blue alien was known by the name Fortran, an eso
teric appellation of an obsolete language which its parents had discovered while doing research on primitive galactic cultures.
They had thought the word lovely and in a moment of daring had used it to name their eagerly awaited first offspring. It had
caused Fortran no end of difficulty during the first several hundred years of his adolescence, for originality of thought
was not a highly valued concept on his world.

Saddled with such a disconcerting name and teased for centuries, some individuals might have withdrawn, become moody or vindictive.
But Fortran had received more than just an unusual name; he had inherited his parents’ superior intelligence, as well as their
zest for life and their sense of curiosity, which led them to explore outside the stringent boundaries that governed their
world. Not that Fortran had welcomed these attributes, for it was hard for him to advance within the system, burdened with
such disabilities.

Yantrek only knew how hard he had tried to stifle the impulses which had haunted his young life, such as actually daring to
question the Grand Yerk as to the meaning of one of Yantrek’s more obscure musings. That single blurted question had earned
him a thousand days of repentence! His mentors had hoped that the unusually severe penalty would cause him to think before
he spoke in the future.

Unfortunately, that had not been the case. Mutar—lovely,
lovely Mutar—was there ever another with quite the same shade of blue? Fortran thought not. He could only hope that Mutar
and Fortran’s mentors would never learn of this latest indiscretion. Yantrek only knew how many days of penance he would have
to serve if they found out.