by Grass(Lit)
"She's as bad as Father could do before we pulled him off her. She won't die, if that's what you mean. Not if I can get her away from here. Her, and me."
"Take her. then."
"Father told the servants not to obey me. He didn't tell them not to obey you."
"I'll tell old Murfon. After Father's gone to bon Laupmon's, Murfon will take you. I'll tell him to pick you up from the village. Don't let anyone see you."
"Shall I take her, too?" Amy gestured toward the sprawled girl on the disordered bed.
Shevlok staggered to his feet and went to look down at the sleeping figure. He sobbed once, a sound that held more anger than grief. "You might as well. If you leave her here, I'll kill her,"
14
Rigo asked Sebastian Mechanic to accompany him to the bon Laupmons' place. He asked Persun Pollut and Asmir to come along as well, spending a few futile moments wishing the men were bigger, wishing they had weapons, wishing they were not commoners but bons so they would be taken seriously. Well, what use to wish? They were commoners and there were no weapons on Grass, none he had seen. None except the harpoons of the hunters, and the ungainly length of those instruments made them useless for protection. He felt very much alone and was foolishly ashamed of himself for feeling so.
He dressed with meticulous care, hating the froggy spread of the trousers, the effete look of the long pointed toes on his boots. Finally he took his hat and gloves from his villager-turned-valet and examined himself in the glass. At least from the waist up he looked like a proper gentleman. As though that made any difference. As though anything would make any difference!
He would not apologize for taking Persun and Sebastian and Asmir along, it was certainly not improper to take servants to the Hunt. Others did. When a bon Haunser returned from a bon Damfels Hunt and went into the bon Damfels' guest quarters, it was his own servants who had prepared a room for him, his own servants who had kept the bath hot and laid out fresh clothing. When Rigo had ridden for the first time, he hadn't known. No one had told him. He and Stella had had to return all the way to Opal Hill before they could bathe.
When he had ridden the second time he had brought a man along but there had been no question of bathing. Stella had vanished, and that is all he had been able to think of. Now, for the first time, he wondered what would have happened if Stella hadn't vanished. He, Rigo, had taken a man along. He had forgotten to provide anyone for Stella. It was an uncomfortable thought, and he pushed it aside.
"Rigo?" A soft voice from the door.
He turned his self-hatred on her. "Eugenie! What are you doing here?" Ridiculously, for a moment he had thought it was Marjorie.
"I thought you might need some help. With Marjorie gone-"
"I have a valet, Eugenie." Behind him the man prudently left the room. "Marjorie doesn't dress me."
She fluttered her hands and changed the subject. "Have you had any news about Stella?"
"I haven't heard anything about any of them. And you don't belong here in my bedroom. You know that."
"I know." A tear crept down her cheek. "I don't feel like I belong anyplace."
"Go to Commons," he told her. "Take a room at the Port Hotel. Amuse yourself. For God's sake, Eugenie, I don't have time for you now."
She caught her breath. Her face went white and she turned away. Something in that turn, the curve of the neck. Like Marjorie. Now he had insulted them both! God. what kind of man was he?
Full of angry self-loathing, he went out to the gravel court where the aircar waited, then stood about impatiently while Sebastian arranged for the other car to take Eugenie to Commons if she wanted to go. Women. Damned women. With no other driver available, Asmir would have to stay to take Eugenie into town.
"Grass can be very boring for women," Persun Pollut remarked.
"My mother has often mentioned that." Persun stood with his hands linked behind him, his long, lugubrious face turned toward the garden.
"From what you have said, your mother keeps very busy," Rigo commented, his voice still full of edgy hostility.
"Oh, I don't mean life is boring in Commons, Your Excellency. I mean out here. Out here can be death for women. From boredom. From the Hunt. From so many things...."
Rigo did not want to think about women. He did not understand women, obviously. He was no good with women. Marjorie. No good with her. Who would have expected her to take the initiative this way, go running off to involve Green Brothers, dragging Tony and Father Sandoval along. She had never been like that. On Terra she'd contented herself with being mother or horsewoman. There'd been that little charitable thing that took too much of her time, Lady Bountiful carrying cast-off clothing to the illegals. But then, what had she had to do with herself otherwise? She wasn't like Eugenie, to spend half a day at the loveliness shops. Or like Espinoza's wife, that time, getting hauled in by the population police because she'd been mixed up in illicit abortions to save some ignorant little cunts from getting executed. Poor 'Spino hadn't been able to face his friends. No, whatever Marjorie had done on Terra, she'd kept it insignificant, she hadn't encroached on Rigo's responsibilities....
There was some kind of mental trap there. He avoided it by returning to his earlier thoughts about weapons. Why were there no weapons on Grass? Surely the order officers at Commons must have some kind of tanglefoots or freeze batons. Such items were ubiquitous wherever there were ports and taverns and the need to knock down unruly men. Why didn't the people at the estancias have them? Characteristically, preferring actual ignorance to the appearance of it, he did not ask Persun, who could have told him.
He got into the car at Sebastian's summons. They flew in silence. The bon Laupmon estancia was about an hour distant, farther east than the bon Damfels' place. Rigo was considering how he might approach Obermun Lancel bon Laupmon. What he might say to Eric bon Haunser, or Obermun Jerril bon Haunser. Both of them had been helpful and diplomatic when the Yrariers had arrived upon Grass. Still, they were hunters, and hunters did not seem to act logically. There was no point in talking to Gerold bon Laupmon, Lancel's brother. According to Persun, the man's comprehension was exceedingly limited. Lancel was a widower. There was a son. Taronce, related somehow to the bon Damfels, but Rigo had not met him. Perhaps there had been other children. Perhaps they had vanished, and bon Laupmon had ignored that fact, just as Stavenger had. As he continued to do.
Rigo ground his teeth. There had been a time on Terra when children had been sacrificed. To Moloch. To Poseidon. Even to God. There had been dangerous rites on Terra long ago. Maenads had run wild upon mountaintops, tearing youths apart with their teeth. Secret societies had demanded blood and silence. And yet, he could not recall a time in Terran history that men had lost their children and pretended not to notice. Never. Now, nowhere else. Only here, on Grass.
He shuddered, then drew in a deep breath, confused. Why was he going to this Hunt? Was he really going to ride? Again? Knowing what he knew now?
Why was he going?
To demand help in finding Stella, of course.
From whom? He went over the roll of all the bons he had met, listing them by families, ticking them off, going back to see if he had forgotten any.
"Pollut," he said at last in a shamed voice. "Will any of them help me find my daughter?"
Persun Pollut gave him a long look. Around the eyes His Excellency looked rather like an old bit of carving, badly abused, chipped, and abraded. For a moment Persun considered equivocation, then discarded the idea. He owed it to Lady Westriding to tell the truth.
"No," he said finally. "None of them will."
"Marjorie warned me," Rigo said in a whisper.
Despite the whisper, Persun heard him. "Many of us tried to warn you, sir. Lady Westriding has a clear eye. She was not taken in by these Hippae."
"You believe it's true that they do things to people's minds...."
With some effort Persun kept any taint of sneer from his voice as he asked, "Has the ambassador any other explanati
on?"
"Landing!" said Sebastian. "There's a considerable crowd on the court, sir. Almost as though they were waiting for us."
Rigo looked down with a sense of forboding. Many pale faces looked up. And there were already Hippae down there! It was indeed as though they had been waiting He thought of telling Sebastian to go back, return home But that would seem such arrant cowardice! Death before dishonor, he sneered at himself. Of course. "Set it down," he said.
When he opened the car door, Obermun Jerril bon Haunser was poised outside, his face empty of any emotion.
"Your Excellency," he said. "I have the honor of conveying to you the challenge of Obermun Stavenger bon Damfels. He wishes me to say that the whore, your wife, has taken away his son, Sylvan. And that you will answer for it or be trampled to death." He gestured backward, toward the wall of the estancia, where a dozen Hippae stood, shifting from foot to foot, clashing the barbs on their necks despite the empty-faced men and women on their backs.
Rigo felt molten iron rise into his face. That Jerril bon Haunser had said no more than he, Rigo, had implied toward Marjorie only redoubled his fury. "How dare you?" he snarled "How dares any of you?" He raised his voice to a shout. "A mother goes to look for her daughter, and you call her a whore? It is your wives who have made themselves whores. Your wives and your daughters! Who have whored themselves to them!" He thrust a rigid finger at the rank of Hippae along the wall. "Your wives and daughters have spread their legs for lovers who are not even human!"
There was no quiver of movement among the mounted men. Obermun bon Haunser's face did not change. He might as well have been deaf and blind. He seemed not to have heard Rigo's contemptuous insult. He bowed, twisted his lips into a vacant smile, and gestured toward an approaching Hippae. "Your mount," he said.
Rigo felt Persun seize his arm. "Let us leave, Your Excellency. We can!"
Rigo shook off Persun's hand. "I will not run," he snarled through a red curtain of rage. "Not from them, not from any of them."
"Then for God's sake take this," and Persun thrust something into Rigo's jacket pocket from behind. "A laser knife, Your Excellency. One of my carving tools. The Lady Marjorie wilt not forgive me if I let you die."
Rigo heard him at some level, though his anger would not let him respond. He dropped out of the car and stood waiting for the Hippae. It grinned at him, showing its teeth, eyes gleaming. There was no mistaking the impudence, the malice, the arrogance in those eyes. With a surge of panic Rigo realized that Stavenger bon Damfels had not issued the challenge. The challenge had come from the Hippae! It was they who had arranged and directed this confrontation, they who had choreographed this movement of men and beasts, Jerril bon Haunser did only their will, not his own.
Rigo cast a quick glance upward, toward the estancia. There were people gathered on the terraces, watching, mouths open in astonishment or wonder or fear. So this was not a familiar sight. How had the beasts managed it? How had they winkled their riders out of the estancia? How had they assembled these hunters?
There was no time to consider hows or whys. The Hippae before him thrust out a mottled blue leg, muscled like a monument. Rigo fumbled for his rein ring, found it in his pocket, tossed it clumsily over the bottom barb, and felt it tighten as he leapt upward. His toes found the stirrup holes. He braced himself just in time as the beast reared high. He was staring at the sky, suspended only by the tightened reins and his toes, leg and back muscles locked rigid to hold him in place. The Hippae walked on its hind legs, stalking, laughing an almost human laughter, seeming to move as easily in that position as it did on four legs. After what seemed an eternity, it dropped forward once more.
Another beast loomed beside him, a great green Hippae, lining up beside the blue as for a parade. Stavenger sat upon the green, face forward and empty as a hatched egg, only the shell which had once housed him remaining. The green Hippae clashed its barbs and Stavenger shouted. There were no words, only meaningless rage. His mouth opened. His face reddened. He howled. Then his mouth closed and he sat there once more, unmoved.
The blue beast clashed its barbs and Rigo felt himself shouting. He bit down on the shout, closed it off, swallowed it. Fury rose up in him and forced the Hippae out of his mind. The beasts danced, side by side, like a pair in a quadrille. They galloped, trotted, changed legs, did it once again. The horseman in Rigo grew even more wrathful. They had learned this from Don Quixote and El Dia Octavo. This was mockery. This was humiliation. He twisted his left hand tightly in both reins to free his right hand, then felt in his pocket for the laser knife. A simple, ordinary tool, one that Persun used to carve bits of wood and grass stem, one he had probably used on the panels in Marjorie's study. A simple tool.
And yet... it could be a weapon. He stared at the neck barbs clashing before him. They looked like horn. Or like teeth. If they were indeed like teeth or horn, the beast might not feel it if they were cut. The knife had a blade of variable power and length. At higher power the blade could take off these barbs at flesh level. As the Hippae danced, Rigo reached one hand forward, thumbed the knife on, and touched the top of the second barb. The knife cut a notch into it, like a heated blade into wax. The Hippae didn't react. Rigo cast a quick look around. No one had seen him. No one was looking. This prancing dance was not for the benefit of the zombies along the wall, not for Jerril or Eric or even Stavenger. This was for the Hippae themselves. They were the only ones enjoying it, and they were so arrogantly intent upon displaying their power that they had not bothered to keep watch upon the riders. Rigo cut away the sharp edges of the first barb, narrowing it to make a place he could grip, then slipped the knife back into his pocket and waited to see what would happen next.
Next was a challenge. Bellowing at one another. Turning their backs on one another and using both front and rear feet to kick clods at one another. Clods? Something black and powdery that they took some trouble to find. Black dust powdered down upon him. Then the Hippae faced one another again and rose on their back hooves. Clashing barbs, hissing through teeth they separated, dancing backward until a considerable distance had opened between them. A hundred yards. Two hundred. Rigo risked a look at the assembly on the walls, at the mounted men. Nothing. No cries, no excitement. Only this deadly calm. He gritted his teeth and hung on. At last, the green beast lowered his head and charged. Rigo's mount did the same.
The opposing mount was coming up on his right, neck arched down and turned so that the barbs jutted wickedly outward. Rigo's mount had taken the same position. They were like two warhorses, thundering toward one another. Neither of the beasts could see where he was going. Each threatened the other. Stavenger sat like a dummy, unseeing. At the last possible moment, Rigo jerked the toe of his right boot out of the stirrup hole and stood on his left toe, right leg high and bent back, holding himself high by locking his left hand tightly around the blunted barb.
The barbs of Stavenger's beast meshed with those of Rigo's mount, passed through and raked the place where Rigo's booted leg had been, missing the blue Hippae skin by the thickness of a finger. Still holding himself high, Rigo could see Stavenger's right boot in tatters. Blood blew from the man's leg, long ragged lines trailing into the dust. The animals had no intention of hurting one another. The barbs were aimed at their rider's legs.
Rigo settled upon the creature's shoulders, and as they moved apart he took out the knife and cut the four barbs immediately in front of him, striking them to make them fall to one side. Though there were longer barbs on the neck, the amputation made him safe from being skewered, at least. The Hippae had turned and were readying themselves for another charge. They had to aim themselves like missiles; once their heads were down, they could not see where they were going. Some instinct or long practice let them know precisely where their opponent was, however. They passed this time on the left, the barbs meshing like gears, screaming as they plunged past one another, and once again Rigo moved his leg and balanced high on the opposite side of his mount, glued there by
equal parts rage and fear.
This time Stavenger's left boot was in tatters, his left leg streaming blood. There was still no expression in his face. The Hippae would keep it up even if Stavenger fell, even if he died. The Hippae would keep it up until Rigo was dead. There was no point in trying to kill Stavenger. It would be like killing a flea on the neck of an attacking dog. No. To stop the battle, the Hippae themselves would have to be stopped.
The next charge was to the right again. Rigo wound the reins around his left arm, grasped the smoothed barb in his left hand, withdrew his right leg, threw himself across his mount as the other went by, and struck at its rear legs with the knife extended to its full length. The blade hummed and sliced, through the flesh as it had through wood.
The green beast screamed, tried to walk on a leg half cut through, and crashed to the ground. Rigo's mount pranced and howled and lashed back at him with barbs that were no longer there. Rigo reached low along one side and cut a back leg from beneath it, rolling away as the beast fell.
