Toglo zev Pamdal said, “Don’t fret, freeman vez Maprab.” Benter vez Maprab, that’s who he was, Radnal thought, shooting Toglo a grateful glance. She was still talking to the old Strongbrow: “I have a jar of waterless hair cleaner you can just comb out. It’s more than I’d need; I’ll share some with you.”
“Well, that’s kind of you,” Benter vez Maprab said, mollified. “Maybe I should have brought some myself.”
You certainly should, you old fool, instead of complaining, Radnal thought. He also noted that Toglo had figured out what she’d need before she started her trip. He approved; he would have done the same had he been tourist rather than guide. Of course, if he’d arranged to forget his own waterless hair cleaner, he could have borrowed some from her. He exhaled through his nose. Maybe he’d been too practical for his own good.
Something small and dun-colored darted under his donkey’s hooves, then bounced away toward a patch of oleander. “What was that?” several people asked as it vanished among the fallen leaves under the plants.
“It’s one of the species of jerboa that live down here,” Radnal answered. “Without more than two heartbeats’ look, I couldn’t tell you which. There are many varieties, all through the Bottomlands. They lived in arid country while the inland sea still existed, and evolved to get the moisture they need from their food. That preadapted them to succeed here, where free water is so scarce.”
“Are they dangerous?” Nocso zev Martois asked.
“Only if you’re a shrub,” Radnal said. “No, actually, that’s not quite true. Some eat insects, and one species, the bladetooth, hunts and kills its smaller relatives. It filled the small predator niche before carnivores proper established themselves in the Bottomlands. It’s scarce today, especially outside Trench Park, but it is still around, often in the hottest, driest places where no other meat-eaters can thrive.”
A little later, the tour guide pointed to a small, nondescript plant with thin, greenish-brown leaves. “Anyone tell me what that is?”
He asked that question whenever he took a group along the trail, and had only got a right answer once, just after a rain. But now Benter vez Maprab said confidently: “It’s a Bottomlands orchid, freeman vez Krobir, and a common type at that. If you’d shown us a red-veined one, that would have been worth fussing over.”
“You’re right, freeman, it is an orchid. It doesn’t look much like the ones you see in more hospitable climates, though, does it?” Radnal said, smiling at the elderly Strongbrow—if he was an orchid fancier, that probably explained why he’d come to Trench Park.
Benter only grunted and scowled in reply—evidently he’d had his heart set on seeing a rare red-veined orchid his first day at the park. Radnal resolved to search his bags at the end of the tour: carrying specimens out of the park was against the law.
A jerboa hopped up, started nibbling on an orchid leaf. Quick as a flash, something darted out from behind the plant, seized the rodent, and ran away. The tourists bombarded Radnal with questions: “Did you see that?” “What was it?” “Where’d it go?”
“That was a koprit bird,” he answered. “Fast, wasn’t it? It’s of the butcherbird family, but mostly adapted to life on the ground. It can fly, but it usually runs. Because birds excrete urea in more or less solid form, not in urine like mammals, they’ve done well in the Bottomlands.” He pointed to the lodge, which was only a few hundred cubits ahead now. “See? There’s another koprit bird on the roof, looking around to see what it can catch.”
A couple of park attendants came out of the lodge. They waved to Radnal, sized up the tourists, then helped them stable their donkeys. “Take only what you’ll need tonight into the lodge,” said one, Fer vez Canthal. “Leave the rest in your saddle bags for the trip out tomorrow. The less packing and unpacking, the better.”
Some tourists, veteran travelers, nodded at the good advice. Evillia and Lofosa exclaimed as if they’d never heard it before. Frowning at their naïveté, Radnal wanted to look away from them, but they were too pretty.
Moblay Sopsirk’s son thought so, too. As the group started from the stable to the lodge, he came up behind Evillia and slipped an arm around her waist. At the same moment, he must have tripped, for his startled cry made Radnal whirl toward them.
Moblay sprawled on the dirt floor of the stable. Evillia staggered, flailed her arms wildly, and fell down on top of him, hard. He shouted again, a shout which lost all its breath as she somehow hit him in the pit of the stomach with an elbow while getting back to her feet.
She looked down at him, the picture of concern. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You startled me.”
Moblay needed a while before he could sit, let alone stand. At last, he wheezed, “See if I ever touch you again” in a tone that implied it would be her loss.
She stuck her nose in the air. Radnal said, “We should remember we come from different countries and have different customs. Being slow and careful will keep us from embarrassing one another.”
“Why, freeman, were you embarrassed last night?” Lofosa asked. Instead of answering, Radnal started to cough. Lofosa and Evillia laughed. Despite what Fer vez Canthal had said, both of them were just toting their saddle bags into the lodge. Maybe they hadn’t a lot of brains. But their bodies, those smooth, oh so naked bodies, were something else again.
The lodge was not luxurious, but boasted mesh screens to keep out the Bottomlands bugs, electric lights, and fans which stirred the desert air even if they did not cool it. It also had a refrigerator. “No ration packs tonight,” Radnal said. The tourists cheered.
The cooking pit was outdoors: the lodge was warm enough without a fire inside. Fer vez Canthal and the other attendant, Zosel vez Glesir, filled it with chunks of charcoal, splashed light oil over them, and fired them. Then they put a disjointed lamb carcass on a grill and hung it over the pit. Every so often, one of them basted it with a sauce full of pepper and garlic. The sauce and melting fat dripped onto the coals. They sputtered and hissed and sent up little clouds of fragrant smoke. Spit streamed in Radnal’s mouth.
The refrigerator also held mead, date wine, grape wine, and ale. Some of the tourists drank boisterously. Dokhnor of Kellef surprised Radnal by taking only chilled water. “I am sworn to the Goddess,” he explained.
“Not my affair,” Radnal answered, but his sleeping suspicions woke. The Goddess was the deity the Morgaffo military aristocracy most commonly followed. Maybe a traveling artist was among her worshipers, but Radnal did not find it likely.
He did not get much time to dwell on the problem Dokhnor presented. Zosel vez Glesir called him over to do the honors on the lamb. He used a big pair of eating sticks to pick up each piece of meat and transfer it to a paper plate.
The Martoisi ate like starving cave cats. Radnal felt guilty; maybe ordinary rations weren’t enough for them. Then he looked at how abundant flesh stretched the fabric of their robes. Guilt evaporated. They weren’t wasting away.
Evillia and Lofosa had poured down several mugs of date wine. That soon caused them difficulties. Krepalgans usually ate with knife and skewer; they had trouble manipulating their disposable pairs of wooden eating sticks. After cutting her meat into bite-sized chunks, Lofosa chased them around her plate but couldn’t pick them up. Evillia managed that, but dropped them on the way to her mouth.
They both seemed cheerful drunks, and laughed at their mishaps. Even stiff-necked Dokhnor unbent far enough to try to show them how to use sticks. His lesson did not do much good, though both Highhead girls moved close enough to him to make Radnal jealous. Evillia said, “You’re so deft. Morgaffos must use them every day.”
Dokhnor tossed his head in his people’s negative. “Our usual tool has prongs, bowl, and a sharp edge, all in one. The Tarteshans say we are a quiet folk because we risk cutting our tongues whenever we open our mouths. But I have traveled in Tartesh, and learned what to do with sticks.”
“Let me try again,” Evillia said. This time, she dropped the piece of lamb on Dokhnor’s thigh. She picked it up with her fingers. After her hand lingered on the Morgaffo’s leg long enough to give Radnal another pang, she popped the gobbet into her mouth.
Moblay Sopsirk’s son began singing in his own language. Radnal did not understand most of the words, but the tune was wild and free and easy to follow. Soon the whole tour group was clapping time. More songs followed. Fer vez Canthal had a ringing baritone. Everyone in the group spoke Tarteshan, but not everyone knew Tartesh’s songs well enough to join in. As they had for Moblay, those who could not sing clapped.
When darkness fell, gnats emerged in stinging clouds. Radnal and the group retreated to the lodge, whose screens held the biters away. “Now I know why you wear so many clothes,” Moblay said. “They’re armor against insects.” The dark brown Highhead looked as if he didn’t know where to scratch first.
“Of course,” Radnal said, surprised Moblay had taken so long to see the obvious. “If you’ll hold still for a couple of heartbeats, we have a spray to take away the itch.”
Moblay sighed as Radnal sprayed painkiller onto him. “Anyone want another song?” he called.
This time, he got little response. Being under a roof inhibited some people. It reminded others of their long day; Toglo zev Pamdal was not the only tourist to wander off to a sleeping cubicle. Dokhnor of Kellef and old Benter vez Maprab had discovered a war board and were deep in a game. Moblay went over to watch. So did Radnal, who fancied himself a war player.
Dokhnor, who had the blue pieces, advanced a footsoldier over the blank central band that separated his side of the board from his opponent’s. “Across the river,” Moblay said.
“Is that what Lissonese name the gap?” Radnal said. “With us, it’s the Trench.”
“And in Morgaf, it’s the Sleeve, after the channel that separates our islands from Tartesh,” Dokhnor said. “No matter what we call it, though, the game’s the same all over the world.”
“It’s a game that calls for thought and quiet,” Benter said pointedly. After some thought, he moved a counselor (that was the name of the piece on the red side of board; its blue equivalent was an elephant) two squares diagonally.
The old Tarteshan’s pauses for concentration grew more frequent as the game went on. Dokhnor’s attack had the red governor scurrying along the vertical and horizontal lines of his fortress, and his guards along the diagonals, to evade or block the blue pieces. Finally Dokhnor brought one of his cannons in line with the other and said, “That’s the end.”
Benter glumly nodded. The cannon (the red piece of identical value was called a catapult) was hard to play well: it moved vertically and horizontally, but had to jump over one other piece every time. Thus the rear cannon, not the front, threatened the red governor. But if Benter interposed a guard or one of his chariots, that turned the forward cannon into the threat.
“Nicely played,” Benter said. He got up from the war table, headed for a cubicle.
“Care for a game, either of you?” Dokhnor asked the spectators.
Moblay Sopsirk’s son shook his head. Radnal said, “I did, till I saw you play. I don’t mind facing someone better than I am if I have some chance. Even when I lose, I learn something. But you’d just trounce me, and a little of that goes a long way.”
“As you will.” Dokhnor folded the war board, poured the disks into their bag. He replaced bag and board on their shelf. “I’m for bed, then.” He marched off to the cubicle he’d chosen.
Radnal and Moblay glanced at each other, then toward the war set. By unspoken consent, they seemed to decide that if neither of them wanted a go at Dokhnor of Kellef, playing each other would be rude. “Another night,” Radnal said.
“Fair enough.” Moblay yawned, displaying teeth that gleamed all the whiter against his brown skin. He said, “I’m about done over—no, it’s ‘done in’ in Tarteshan, isn’t it?—anyhow. See you in the morning, Radnal.”
Again the tour guide controlled his annoyance at Moblay’s failure to use the polite particle vez. At first when foreigners forgot that trick of Tarteshan grammar, he’d imagined himself deliberately insulted. Now he knew better, though he still noticed the omission.
A small light came on in Dokhnor’s cubicle: a battery-powered reading lamp. The Morgaffo wasn’t reading, though. He sat with his behind on the sleeping mat and his back against the wall. His sketch pad lay on his bent knees. Radnal heard the faint skritch-skritch of charcoal on paper.
“What’s he doing?” Fer vez Canthal whispered. A generation’s peace was not enough time to teach most Tarteshans to trust their island neighbors.
“He’s drawing,” Radnal answered, as quietly. Neither of them wanted to draw Dokhnor’s notice. The reply could have come out sounding innocent. It didn’t. Radnal went on, “His travel documents say he’s an artist.” Again, tone spoke volumes.
Zosel vez Glesir said, “If he really were a spy, Radnal vez, he’d carry a camera, not a sketch pad. Everyone carries a camera into Trench Park—he wouldn’t even get noticed.”
“True,” Radnal said. “But he doesn’t act like an artist. He acts like a member of the Morgaffo officer caste. You heard him—he’s sworn to their Goddess.”
Fer vez Canthal said something lewd about the Morgaffo Goddess. But he lowered his voice even further before he did. An officer from Morgaf who heard his deity offended might make formal challenge. Then again, in Tartesh, where dueling was illegal, he might simply commit murder. The only thing certain was that he wouldn’t ignore the insult.
“We can’t do anything to him—or even about him—unless we find out he is spying,” Zosel vez Glesir said.
“Yes,” Radnal said. “The last thing Tartesh wants is to hand Morgaf an incident.” He thought about what would happen to someone who fouled up so gloriously. Nothing good, that was sure. Then something else occurred to him. “Speaking of the Tyrant, do you know who’s in this group? Freelady Toglo zev Pamdal, that’s who.”
Zosel and Fer whistled softly. “Good thing you warned us,” Zosel said. “We’ll stay round her like cotton round cut glass.”
“I don’t think she cares for that sort of thing,” Radnal said. “Treat her well, yes, but don’t fall all over yourselves.”
Zosel nodded. Fer still had Dokhnor of Kellef on his mind. “If he is a spy, what’s he doing in Trench Park instead of somewhere important?”
“I thought of that myself,” Radnal said. “Cover, maybe. And who knows where he’s going after he leaves?”
“I know where I’m going,” Zosel said, yawning: “To bed. If you want to stay up all night fretting about spies, go ahead.”
“No, thanks,” Fer answered. “A spy would have to be crazy or on holiday to come to Trench Park. If he’s crazy, we don’t have to worry about him, and if he’s on holiday, we don’t have to worry about him then, either. So I’m going to bed, too.”
“If you think I’ll stay talking to myself, you’re both crazy,” Radnal said. All three Tarteshans got up. Dokhnor of Kellef’s reading lamp went out, plunging his cubicle into blackness. Radnal dimmed the lights in the common room.
He flopped down onto his sleeping mat with a long sigh. He would sooner have been out in the field, curled up in a sleepsack under gnat netting. This was the price he paid for doing what he wanted most of the time. He knew his own snores would soon join the tourists’.
Then two female shapes appeared in the entrance to his cubicle. By the gods, not again, he thought as his eyes opened wide, which showed how tired he was. He said, “Don’t you believe in sleep?”
Evillia laughed softly, or maybe Lofosa. “Not when there are better things to do,” Lofosa said. “We have some new ideas, too. But we can always see who else is awake.”
Radnal almost told her to go ahead, and take Evillia with her. But he heard hims
elf say “No” instead. The night before had been educational beyond his dreams, the stuff people imagined when they talked about the fringe benefits of a tour guide’s job. Until last night, he’d reckoned those stories imaginary: in his two years as a guide, he’d never cavorted with a tourist before. Now … he grinned as he felt himself rising to the occasion.
The Highhead girls came in. As they’d promised, the threesome tried some new things. He wondered how long their inventiveness could last, and if he could last as long. He was sure he’d enjoy trying.
His stamina and the girls’ ingenuity flagged together. He remembered them getting up from the mat. He thought he remembered them going out into the common room. He was sure he didn’t remember anything after that. He slept like a log from a petrified forest.
When the scream jarred him awake, his first muzzy thought was that only a few heartbeats had passed. But a glance at his pocket clock as he closed his robe told him sunrise was near. He dashed out into the common room.
Several tourists were already out there, some dressed, some not. More emerged every moment, as did the other two Trench Park staffers. Everyone kept saying, “What’s going on?” Though no one directly answered the question, no one needed to. As naked as when she’d frolicked with Radnal, Evillia stood by the table where Benter vez Maprab and Dokhnor of Kellef had played war. Dokhnor was there, too, but not standing. He lay sprawled on the floor, head twisted at an unnatural angle.
Evillia had jammed a fist in her mouth to stifle another scream. She took it out, quavered, “Is—is he dead?”
Radnal strode over to Dokhnor, grabbed his wrist, felt for a pulse. He found none, nor was the Morgaffo breathing. “He’s dead, all right,” Radnal said grimly.
We Install Page 19
