The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Light seeped across the eastern sky. The shadows pooled like half-melted snow along the base of the hills. Gareth finished the watch with a sense of relief and amazement. He’d fully expected Hayat to take advantage of the absence of the captain.

  “That’s it, pal,” Jory said, yawning. “Shuttle should be back any minute now. Go get some sack time while you can.”

  After returning the weapons to Deeseter, Gareth headed back to barracks. Taz grumbled at being woken, but Viss opened his eyes and sat up. He seemed a little groggy, but his breathing was easier. Gareth threw himself down on the bunk he now thought of as his own without even taking off his boots. He slipped out the knife, holding it by his side, and closed his eyes . . .

  “Hey, kid.” Someone shook Gareth’s shoulder with annoying persistence.

  Gareth swam up to consciousness like a diver moving through warm mud. Grit burned his eyes, and something thick coated the inside of his mouth. His muscles responded sluggishly, every movement provoking some new twinge. The knife was still in his hand, a reassuring solidness. He swung his feet over the side of the bunk and glared up at Taz. They were alone in the barracks.

  “You was sleeping like a—” Taz used a term Gareth didn’t recognize. “You’ll be happy to hear Viss is once more among the upright. Not that he can tote anything heavier than his own sorry self, but it’s a start. Offen says the shuttle’s on approach. Time to earn your keep.”

  Gareth bent over to replace the knife in its boot sheath. He paused, the hilt still in his hand, unsure whether he’d heard anything outside or only felt a prickle of adrenaline, excitement laced with fear. He glanced up at Taz, who looked unalarmed.

  Gareth surged to his feet, bringing his knife up to ready. Taz turned, but too slowly, for Gareth was already moving, pushing past him, jerking open the door.

  The camp looked quiet and still. The sun was full up, and only a gossamer hint of purple lingered in the western sky. Overhead, a mote of brightness shimmered: the approaching shuttle.

  “Kid!” Taz laid a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. Gareth almost lashed out with his knife. Heart pounding, he pulled himself back. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Gareth lowered the knife. “Nerves, I guess.”

  “This place’ll do that to you. Work you so hard, you don’t know if you’re dreaming. That’s real enough.”

  Following Taz’s gaze, Gareth craned his neck to look up. The vibration in the air increased, now barely audible. They watched as the point of brightness enlarged. The shuttle engines whipped the air into miniature dust storms. As the noise of its approach increased, Gareth thought of his first sight and sound of a shuttle in flight, on his return to the base after the village had been destroyed. He remembered that same unnatural thunder, that same sense that the earth itself was being tugged from its moorings. He thought of the arrogance of men for whom such power was an everyday thing, as ordinary as an eating knife. As the shuttle neared its landing place, it occurred to Gareth that if Hayat were going to seize the base, this might be a good time, under all that racket and dust. The shuttle set down without incident, however, leaving Gareth feeling a bit foolish.

  Poulos descended. Offenbach greeted him; the two men exchanged a few words and then proceeded to the headquarters building. Gareth and Taz joined the others, sitting with their backs against the wall of the barracks but with a good view of the rest of the base, waiting to load the shuttle again.

  Before work could begin, Hayat strode up. He wore two swords, still sheathed, and was accompanied on one side by Merach and on the other by the man Ward, each of them similarly armed. Hayat halted in front of the headquarters building, clearly expecting Poulos to come out to him. He had the stance of a man accustomed to controlling the situation.

  Within a few minutes, Gareth and the others who had been lounging by the barracks had formed a rough half-circle around the Dry Towners. Neither Hayat nor his cortege paid them any visible notice, another nice touch. Hayat could hold his own in the Thendara court.

  Poulos must surely have realized what was going on, but he waited another few minutes to emerge, thus making it plain that he did not answer to the whims of the Shainsa lord. He waited by the door, gesturing for Hayat and his men to enter. As they did so, Poulos rattled off a string of orders to his own men, dispersing all of them except for Gareth. “You, with me. I’ll need you to translate.”

  Inside, Offenbach looked up from a bank of communications equipment. He nodded to Gareth. Poulos, moving with studied casualness, took his place in his own chair with the desk between him and the Dry Towners, leaving Hayat to stand like a supplicant. Hayat, to his credit, gave no sign of being perturbed in the least. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the off-worlder captain.

  “I have secured your base, as agreed.” Hayat paused for Gareth to translate, and in this way gained a measure of control over the encounter. “Now it is time for you to fulfill your part of the bargain.” He paused again, this time for dramatic effect.

  Gareth heard Hayat’s words and for the first time hesitated to turn the phrases into Terran Standard. He had already incurred the displeasure of Poulos by rushing down to the burning village. He’d worked to rebuild his credibility since then, although he understood from his own painful adolescence that such memories lingered long after the offense ceased to have any significance. The harder he tried to prevent the Dry Towners from acquiring high technology weapons, the more likely it became.

  It would be so easy to lie, to fabricate some offensively arrogant statement in place of what Hayat had actually said, something that would inflame the off-worlder’s suspicions. What Gareth really wanted to say, he had rehearsed in his mind a hundred times.

  Don’t trust anything Hayat says! It’s a devil’s bargain. He’ll take your weapons and turn them against you!

  But the opportune moment had already passed. Hayat’s scowl deepened and Merach shifted to a subtly more vigilant posture.

  Poulos glared at Gareth. “Well? What did he say?”

  Gareth translated. Poulos looked as if he were considering the matter carefully. “I don’t think our friends here have really done much to defend the base, do you? After all, once we took care of the village, I haven’t seen anything even approximating a threat. Let’s see what he says to that.”

  Hayat listened, expression impassive, as Gareth interpreted. “Ha!” he exclaimed, gesturing and grinning. “That is because we have dealt with them all! Is this not the work of skilled and dedicated warriors? And are such men as we not worthy of our promised rewards? Or is your captain a man without kihar, who says one thing with his forked tongue and intends another in his coward’s heart?”

  Gareth cleared his throat. “Lord Hayat says his men have neutralized any threat before it became apparent to you. He repeats that he is entitled to what you promised. Sir, we have no way of verifying the truth of his assertions, or his intentions, should you hand over the weapons. Is it wise to arm these men, who serve no master but their own lord in Shainsa? Is it—”

  Poulos cut him off with a gesture. Gareth’s plea had been a forlorn hope at best, but the captain had the right of it. Hayat was no fool and would surely perceive that Gareth had spoken more words than had been uttered. Even a loose translation could not be so verbose. Hayat would suspect . . .

  Fool! Fool! Son of an addlepated, spavined rabbit-horn of a fool!

  Now Poulos was rising, a bland smile on his face. Gareth had seen such smiles before, and never had any good come from those who wore them.

  “Tell the desert lord that he has made his point. I see he is a man who keeps his word, as I shall keep mine. I will have my own people carry crates of these weapons to Lord Hayat’s camp. He may select whichever ones he pleases, as many as he pleases, and test them to his own satisfaction.”

  “But—” Gareth blurted.

  “Who is giving the orders here, Ga
rrin? You or me? Say further that I regret he may not keep the crates themselves, as they are necessary to a trader’s business. Say it!”

  As Gareth repeated the speech in Dry Towns dialect, he felt Poulos glaring at him, as if daring him to deviate in any small point. Offenbach, too, was listening, and he understood a measure of the dialect. In a rush of homesickness, Gareth thought of the trust between Mikhail Lanart-Hastur and his son, between them both and Danilo Syrtis, even between Danilo and Cyrillon Sensar. They were bound not only by common purpose but by their mutual regard, by loyalty and integrity. These smugglers were not statesmen. They lived in a world of shifting opportunist alliances. Poulos had lied about the light pistols. Hayat owed no allegiance to anyone but himself and possibly his father.

  Gareth could not entirely conceal his reaction as the meeting broke up. Hayat said, “This creature disapproves. If I were you, I would strike off his right hand to teach him respect.”

  “What did he say?” Poulos asked Gareth after the Dry Towners had departed.

  “Nothing of any importance.”

  Offenbach went out to the Dry Towner camp to supervise the opening of the crates. Poulos deliberately held Gareth back at headquarters, and Gareth seized the chance to speak again.

  Poulos waved aside Gareth’s concerns. “It’s really of no importance. We carry a supply of these weapons, trade goods for such occasions as this. In case you hadn’t noticed, we know how to deal with the natives.”

  Gareth shook his head in disbelief that Poulos meant to play the same trick on Hayat as he had on Cuinn, giving him blasters that would work for a short time only. Hayat was no downtrodden village headman.

  Poulos reacted to Gareth’s expression of dismay. “Buck up, Garrin. Everything’ll work out. Look—” he pointed to the camp and the crawler already beginning its return journey. “They’re happy, we’re happy. Hell, even the Castor Sector folks are happy, and Zhu knows they’ve little enough reason. There’s nothing here dirtside worth worrying about.”

  Gareth did not at all agree, and he agreed even less when, a short time later, Hayat and a couple of his men rode for the Black Ridge trail, whooping and brandishing their blasters.

  27

  Hayat and his men returned to the base late that day. Even from a distance, Gareth could see they had ridden their horses into a lather. They bypassed their own camp, galloping straight for the center of the base. Hayat’s furious shouting rose above the sound of the excited horses.

  By the time Gareth reached the headquarters building, Poulos had come out and was waiting calmly. Deeseter stood, arms crossed over his massive chest, just behind his commander.

  “Fork-tongued one who copulates with dead oudrakhi!” Hayat wheeled his wild-eyed, panting horse. “He who uses deceit to trick an enemy has earned his victory with cunning. But he who forswears a bargain is without honor!” He hauled on the reins, drawing the sweating, prancing animal to a standstill, and aimed the blaster at the off-worlder’s torso.

  Nothing happened. No beam emerged from the barrel of the weapons. Poulos stood there, as outwardly unperturbed as before. One by one, the other Dry Towners fired their blasters, with no more effect.

  Poulos had taken a crazy chance. Either that, or these blasters, like Cuinn’s, had already been nearly exhausted.

  Hayat hurled the useless blaster to the ground. It skidded, coming to rest beside the smuggler captain’s booted toes. Poulos stooped to pick it up. He brushed the dust off and turned the weapon this way and that, as if he were examining it. He raised it, sighting along the barrel, but with the muzzle pointed directly at Hayat.

  Sweet Cassilda! Gareth thought with a rush of horror. What if the blasters had not been drained? What if Hayat and his men had only operated them improperly?

  What if Poulos now intended to give the Shainsa lordling a lesson?

  Hayat must have realized this, too. He no longer forced his horse into display but sat frozen in the saddle. Merach suffered no such paralysis; he urged his own horse forward, although such a gesture would have been of little use against a fully charged blaster.

  With a smile that did not reach his eyes, Poulos tilted the blaster to the sky. “My friend, you have every reason to be displeased. My abject apologies for the malfunction. Please accept my assurances that to the best of my knowledge, the blasters were in perfect working order when I delivered them to you. Such devices were not intended for use under primitive conditions. Rough handling and exposure to dust can misalign their settings. I will personally supervise the testing of the replacements to which you are, of course, entitled.” Poulos handed the blaster to Deeseter and sketched a bow in Hayat’s direction.

  “Ah, Garrin, there you are. Collect the other blasters. I assume you know how to handle them, in case they still have a little power.”

  “Captain, this is a dangerous game!”

  Poulos waved the objection aside. “And convey what I said, leaving out the reference to primitive conditions. It would not do to antagonize the locals needlessly.”

  Before Deeseter could stop him, Gareth placed himself directly in front of Poulos. “Yes, Hayat might be willing to listen this time. He won’t be happy, and he won’t trust your assurances. He’ll test the new ones. We both know that the same thing will happen. What then?”

  Poulos returned Gareth’s stare without the slightest waver.

  “Captain, please!” Gareth begged. “Call the deal off!”

  “There is nothing whatsoever to worry about,” Poulos said in a voice laced with the chill between the stars, a voice that reminded Gareth this was the man who had ordered the burning of Nuriya. “I believe Lord Hayat and I understand each other better than that. We have just established who has the power in this relationship, that is all. Your opinion is of no interest to either of us. Now follow your orders . . . without commentary.”

  It was no use, Gareth thought. It was never going to be of any use to reason with Poulos. The smugglers saw Darkover as an insignificant but convenient way station. If every man, woman, and child from Temora to the Wall Around the World were to disappear, they would regard the tragedy as the removal of a source of annoyance. What a fool he had been to waste his breath trying to make Poulos see sense!

  Fighting a rush of disgust for his own naïveté, Gareth turned back to Hayat and translated, summarizing the words of the off-worlder captain. Hayat demanded to know how long the testing would take and when he would receive functioning weapons. Poulos promised him, through Gareth, that the blasters would be ready the following morning. It took no laran to recognize Hayat’s lingering suspicion. His flushed face and scowling brows were proof enough.

  What was the old saying, said to date back to the years of Darkover’s founding? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? Hayat clearly had no intention of suffering a second humiliation.

  By the time the sun had set, leaving a veil of purple light across the western sky, Gareth had resolved upon a plan. He’d stayed in the off-worlder base far longer than was prudent, trapped by the hope that he could prevent the Dry Towners from acquiring blasters. The events of this past day had convinced him that Poulos had no intention of giving away fully functional weapons, so the situation had altered. Gareth had allowed himself to be caught up in that, too, when the smart thing would have been to leave the two parties to their own folly. If Poulos was so certain of his own invulnerability that he failed to recognize the threat, then he deserved whatever happened next. As for Hayat, Gareth had had his fill of Dry Towner arrogance.

  The only thing holding him here was Rahelle. If she tried to run away and was caught, Hayat would have no qualms about whipping her to within an inch of her horse boy’s life. And if Hayat discovered she was a woman . . . that fate was too horrific to contemplate. They must escape together.

  Through the gathering dusk, Gareth kept watch on the Dry Towner camp, hoping to catch Rahelle as she
took the horses to water. He was counting on the Dry Towners keeping to the rhythms of a desert camp, the tradition of sleeping by day and waiting for the coolness of twilight for more active tasks. Although he watched, he caught no sight of her.

  “Hey, kid!” Taz called out from the direction of the barracks. “You gonna eat?”

  “On my way.”

  He’d have to find another way to reach Rahelle. Not only would he not leave without her, he needed her help with the horses. If they could make off with two and scatter the rest, they might stand a chance. They could make it over the ridge on foot, but not across the Sands of the Sun.

  Time was running out. They must make their escape tonight, before Poulos handed over the next set of blasters. If he couldn’t talk to Rahelle soon, he’d have to wait until dark and then sneak into the Dry Towner camp. Meanwhile, he had to act normally.

  Taz and Viss hunkered down outside the barracks, finishing their supper. Idriel, brightest of the four moons, shone like a solitary jewel in the lingering twilight. At Gareth’s approach, Taz grinned and held out a meal package.

  “Fresh from the kitchens of—where did we pick this lot up, Viss? Vainwal?”

  The other smuggler snorted. “You dreamer! More like some dump beyond the Outer Hyades.”

  “Well, wherever it’s from, eat up, kid.”

  Gareth stood to eat, leaning against the wall and glancing surreptitiously in the direction of the horse lines. The food, once strange and tasteless, had become familiar. Although not particularly appetizing, it was filling. With a shiver of homesickness, he remembered dinners at Castle Elhalyn when he was a child. He had taken for granted the fresh seasonal vegetables, ale so dark it looked black, nut-studded breads still hot from the oven . . . Even the meals he’d eaten on the Carthon trail seemed more appetizing than this synthetic pap. He set down the meal package, still half-eaten.