Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  “I thank the Korental for this information,” he said. “I beg permission to await further word under his protection.”

  Somehow, he couldn’t imagine anyone succeeding in shooting his father out of the sky. Kent Michaels had been one of the hottest fighter men in the guard. And even if he hadn’t been able to get away from the guy, he’d have taken him down with him. How. . .? He jerked his attention to the Korental.

  The old man had inclined his head. “My clan is yours during this time of trouble,” he was saying. He looked toward Pete.

  “And you are he who would be King of the Oredanu?”

  Pete nodded. “I am.”

  “I see. Your father tells me of certain agreements made many years ago. He tells me of relationships, and of your possible adoption into another clan. These things are true?”

  Again Pete nodded. “These things are true.”

  The old man considered him for a few seconds.

  “Among the men of the hills,” he said, “the simple word of a man may be accepted. For only a clanless one would think of speaking other than the truth. But I am told the men of the low countries have no such faith. They require writings, and the speech of many witnesses. This is also true?”

  The question was obviously rhetorical. Pete smiled ruefully, but said nothing.

  The Korental allowed his lips to curl in a half smile.

  “These customs of the plainsmen are not unknown to me,” he said. “Men of my clan have gone to the low country and have dealt with the men of the cities. Even now, members of the Kor-en live in the cities. But on the clan days, they return to their home, here in the hills.” He looked down at the matting on the floor.

  “Your father mentions a clan book,” he continued. “Do you have this with you?”

  Pete looked at him, then at his father. His expression was suddenly blank.

  Jasu Waern stepped forward. “This book is in a safe place,” he said, “in Riandar.”

  Don closed his eyes for an instant. “Oh, Brother,” he told himself, “the lights just went out! I’ll bet they’re tearing that house up, stone by stone, about now.”

  The Korental nodded slowly. “How safe?”

  “Why,” Jasu was thoughtful. “Why, the hiding place is known only to me—and to my son.” He bent his head, then looked up, smiling confidently. “No, it could never be discovered by an outsider.”

  “The book must be produced,” the Korental told him. He resumed his seat on the stool and folded his hands over a short staff.

  “We of the clans would be happy to support a legitimate claimant to the throne of Oredan. We are not happy with the rule of this outlander who has forced himself into power. But we also recognize the rules and the customs of the nobles of the land, who must have proof of everything before they will act. We are not strangers to the conclave, you must remember. And we are familiar with the power of the outlander.” He looked at Don.

  “Tell me,” he said, “do you have an interest in this matter?”

  Don nodded. “I am not of the clan Waern,” he said carefully. “But my interests have become tied with theirs. Should the Waernu fail, my father’s lands would be lost. And the climate of this land would become unhealthy for me—as well as for my father, if he still lives.”

  “Yes.” The Korental regarded him. “I can understand that. We are not as uncivilized as many think us to be. We watched the broadcast of an attack upon your house.” He tilted his head.

  “Tell me,” he added. “The broadcast ended rather suddenly. The announcer mentioned technical difficulties. Can you explain this?”

  Don relaxed. The formal session was over for a while.

  “I took a shot at them,” he said, “with a Ghar rifle.”

  “Ha! They do have a weak spot, then. We’ll discuss this later.” The old man looked at Jasu Waern.

  “Let us suppose that this young man should ask to be adopted into your clan. What would your answer be?”

  Waern looked confused. “Why—But he’s been giving us—”

  The Korental chuckled. “I know. He has some of those characteristics attributed by legend to clan talu, and to them only.” He bent his head for a moment.

  “Suppose I put it this way. When the clans and tribes meet for full consideration of your request for support, you will need strong council. And the councilor who presents your cause must be a member of your clan, of course. He must speak for you, the head of the Waernu.”

  Waern looked at him. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “And here, we may find strong council.” He looked across at Don.

  “You would consider this?”

  Don paused. This, he thought, was getting serious. It had been fine at first. He had just followed instructions from an experienced agent. And there had been quite a thrill at being in the middle of things. But somehow, everything was flying apart. All at once, he was on his own.

  And now—well, clan councilors were pretty responsible individuals. They were supposed to be the experts on law and custom. They were supposed to put things together—and keep them that way. He could remember daydreams he’d had once, of helping run a country. Some of them had been pretty dramatic. But—well, it was beginning to look like real trouble. If things went wrong, a councilor could get his neck on a block for sure.

  Then he smiled inwardly. So what of it? How could he get into any more trouble? He already had the entire Enforcement Corps screaming for his blood. He’d killed off a Royal Guard projector crew, an entire Enforcement crew, and a few odd news people. They didn’t like him. But they wanted him. The only way out of this one would be straight ahead. He nodded.

  “Of course,” he said simply.

  The Korental came to his feet and grabbed his staff. Beside his stool was a battered tone tube. He swung the staff at the dented wood and a deep tone followed the sharp crack.

  He wheeled upon the man who came through the door.

  “Tell the Korensahn to come up here,” he ordered. “And have him bring five men with him. We have a clan adoption to witness.”

  Don flexed his back and hunched his shoulders a little to get the pack-board more comfortably settled. The darn things were heavy. He looked at the others, who walked along the road. Hang it, they seemed to swing along under their loads as though they were just taking a short walk before breakfast. He poked at the hard ground with his stick.

  How had he managed to haul himself into this one, anyway? Blasted thing had all seemed so logical, back there in Korelanni. He reviewed the steps.

  First, it had been essential that the safety and contents of the Book of the Waernu be determined. Without it, Pete’s claim would be so vague as to be untenable. Especially before a conclave with the regent in active opposition.

  Second, the book would have to be placed in safekeeping where it could be immediately produced upon demand. He frowned. That was a tough one. So anyway—

  Then, there had come the question. Who was going to get this book and bring it back—or protect it? Pete was too valuable and too vulnerable. He was known, and if any of the police agencies got their hands on him . . . well, that would be all. So Pete was out.

  Jasu Waern? Don grinned to himself. “Skip it,” he told himself. He poked at the ground again with the stick. It was getting hot. And he was thirsty.

  “Hope that gunk they used to monkey up my complexion doesn’t sweat out,” he told himself. “That would do it for sure.”

  He glanced up at the sky. It was getting close to midday. Ahead, he could see a few men sitting at the side of the road, leaning back against their packs. He went forward a few more paces, then selected a comfortable looking bit of moss.

  So what had happened? A little guy named Donald Michaels had been disguised as a clanless mat maker. He leaned back against the pack. And, brother, had they given him a stock of mats to sell. This clansman in Riandar would be busy for a month, just unloading all these things from his stock.

  He thought of those daydreams he had once had.
A king’s councilor, he had imagined, was a highly important, greatly respected individual. He had dreamed of himself, dressed in the ornate formal robes he’d seen in pictures of the old nobility. He’d pictured himself exchanging urbane chatter with other beautifully turned out characters, who hung on his every word. He’d seen himself striding between low-bowing lines of assorted courtiers and soldiery, pausing now and then to tap at the pavement with his jeweled staff. He’d—Hah!

  He looked at the dusty trail. He’d been striding, all right, but the field reeds didn’t look too much like bowing lines of—Yeah, and his staff didn’t have too many jewels, either. No pavement, even, and this fool pack didn’t feel much like a finely tailored robe of office. He shrugged.

  “This is no dream,” he told himself. “You let one of Stern’s people get suspicious, and you’ll find out just how real things can get.” He twisted around to get the package of food and the water bottle which dangled from the pack.

  Distastefully, he looked at the little packet of powder which was in the food package. He glanced around quickly, then dumped the powder into his mouth, quickly gulping water to wash it down.

  “Gaah!” he growled, “does it have to taste like the inside of an old shoe? Oh, well, it’ll keep me nice and dark for the next thirty hours or so.” He pulled a strip of dried meat from the package. Maybe this will help take the taste out.

  He sighed and worked his jaws on the leatherlike substance. It started to soften a little.

  Well, anyway, he knew how to get to the vault where the ancestral volumes of the Waernu were kept. And he knew just which volume to pick out. Only one small problem remained. How was he going to get into the house—and on into the little pond in the inner garden? He grinned as he thought of Pete’s remark.

  “It’ll be simple for you,” he had said enviously. “All you have to do is tell any guard you meet to stand aside and forget he ever saw you. Then you go on down to the vault. Wish I had that ability of yours.”

  “Sure,” he told himself, “hang your clothes on yonder bush—and get right into the water. It’s just a simple matter of diving down ten feet and pushing the right rock the right number of times—in the right directions. Nothing to it. And then you go through the pressure trap, and there you are. Simple!”

  And who was going to guard the pond while he was down there? Suppose he broke surface right in front of a flock of trigger-happy Enforcers? He sighed.

  “Oh, well,” he told himself. “You asked for it. Now, you’ve got it. Have fun.” He looked into the food package and selected a meal cake.

  At last, he dusted his fingers and leaned back lazily against his pack, looking into the clear sky. For a few minutes, he simply relaxed, his eyes fixed on the infinite distance, his mind a near blank.

  Other pack-laden men strode past him, intent on their destination. At last, a group swung by and the sound of their conversation brought Don out of his semitrance. Behind the group was another, who walked a little faster than the others, in an apparent effort to catch up. Don pushed himself up with the aid of his staff, drew a few deep breaths, and started pacing along behind him.

  Ahead, the group went around a curve in the path. The man ahead of Don cut over into the grass, still intent on catching up with his companions, who were not more than a few meters ahead. Don watched him casually.

  There was no use, he thought, in trying to keep up with this fellow or his companions. It was too hot. Besides, this was probably a clan group who would not welcome company—especially the company of one of no clan.

  He started to slow down to a normal pace, then his attention was caught by movement by a rock just ahead of the other. A small, greenish-brown body was vaguely outlined in the long grass nearly in the man’s path.

  Don looked more closely. The animal was heavy-bodied, with rather short forelegs. Powerful hind legs were tucked under the body, twitching a little now. The forelegs pawed slightly at the grass and the flat, wide head probed out, extending toward the approaching man.

  “Hey!” yelled Don. “Look out. Gersal!” He started forward in a half run, his staff poised for a blow.

  The other jumped sideways but the furry body grazed his leg and spun, claws and teeth working furiously. The man looked down and screamed.

  Don’s staff came down in a chopping blow and the animal bounced out onto the open path. Its paws raised little spurts of dust as it spun about and prepared for another spring.

  Again, Don’s staff swung down. The gersal flopped about for an instant in the dust of the path, then faced toward him, an angry scream coming from its throat.

  Again, it tried to get its balance for a spring, but one hind leg dragged limply. Again, the staff swung, tumbling the beast over in the dust.

  There was a flurry of paws and the gersal struggled up to its haunches, then sat up, its brilliant red eyes fixed on Don. It stretched out short forelegs in seeming supplication, then batted futilely at the punching staff end.

  Disregarding the pleading attitude of the beast, Don continued to punch at the squirming body till it was obvious that no vestige of life could remain. Then, he looked at the other man.

  The fellow had managed to get to the center of the path before he had collapsed. He half sat, half lay against his pack, breathing raggedly. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He looked at Don vaguely, making an obvious effort to focus his eyes.

  “Thanks . . . Friend,” he mumbled. “You tried—Oooh!” He closed his eyes and stiffened, his legs stretching out and his back arching.

  The men who walked ahead had been attracted by the commotion. They came back and one jerked off his pack and bent over the man in the path. He looked over at the dead animal, then glanced up at Don.

  “How many times was he bitten?”

  “I doubt if he got more than one,” Don told him.

  The other nodded and looked searchingly at the victim. Then, he reached into his clothing and removed a small packet. He opened it and pulled the protective cover off a syrette.

  “There’s a small chance, then,” he remarked. He poked the needle of the syrette into the sufferer’s forearm and squeezed the tube.

  The stricken man moved convulsively and opened one eye. His companion nodded.

  “You might make it, Delm,” he said cautiously. “Only one bite, and we got to you soon.” He nodded.

  “If you can hang on for just five minutes, you’ll walk the trail again.” He looked up at Don.

  “That was quick action,” he said. “You may have saved our clan brother.” He looked down at the torn place on the man’s leg.

  “A couple of more bites, and he’d surely be dead by now.” He got to his feet.

  “Whom do we have to thank?”

  Don looked down at the path in apparent discomfort.

  “I am Kalo,” he said, “of the mountains.”

  The other’s eyes clouded. “Oh,” he said tonelessly. He looked down at his companion, then back at the dead animal.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “we are grateful, Clanless One. Go your way in peace. We will take care of our brother.”

  Don started to turn away. “I hope he—”

  The other nodded curtly. “The gersal’s poison is strong,” he said. “But soon we shall see. May your way be safe.” He turned back to his patient.

  Don turned away and went around the curve in the path. Well, maybe the Korental had been right, he thought. So long as they kept from bothering others, the clanless ones weren’t molested. And they certainly didn’t form any associations that might be embarrassing later on. He glanced back.

  “Hope that guy lives through it,” he told himself, “but I’m glad I don’t have to put up with a three-day celebration. Haven’t got the time.”

  In the distance, he could see the walls and towers of Riandar. The walk was nearly over now. He stepped his pace up a little, then slowed down again. There was no sense in coming through the gate all hot and sweaty, he reminded himself. It would be way out of character.


  It was funny, Don thought, that he hadn’t remembered this store when the Korental had described its location. Probably it was the use of the word “shop.” This was a large department store. He’d done some shopping here at one time or another, himself. He started to go by the front, then a display in one of the windows attracted his attention. He paused.

  Someone had designed a tasteful array of furniture, set up like a nobleman’s bedroom suite. One could, without too much effort, imagine himself standing on the enclosed walkway of a palace, facing away from the inner garden. The furniture, he noted, was of excellent quality. In fact, when he started refinishing the ranch, maybe he’d come in here. He glanced at the display floor. The mats were similar in design to those in his pack.

  Suddenly, he remembered his own present status and stepped back, away from the window. Simple mat makers don’t concern themselves with examining displays that would cost more than they’d make in a lifetime. This window was strictly for people who could afford large platters of luxury. He turned away, looking for another, less elaborate entrance.

  Down the street, at the corner of the building, he found an inconspicuous door. A brass plate indicated that this was the employees’ entrance to the Blue Mountain Mercantile Company’s offices. Another plate indicated that the delivery entrance was around the corner. Don shrugged and went into the door.

  He found himself in a narrow hallway. Before him was a stairway, its lowest step blocked by a light chain. To his right, a man sat in a small cubby.

  “You’re in the wrong door,” he said expressionlessly. “Deliveries are received around the corner.”

  “I know,” Don told him. “I’m from the Kor-en. I’d like to see Korentona.”

  The man frowned fleetingly. “Tell you,” he said casually, “maybe it would be better if you made your delivery right now. Then you can come back later on.”

  Don examined him for a moment. “You mean something is—”

  “That’s right.” The man nodded. “Go around to the receiving room. Drop your pack, and come back—say in about an hour.” He glanced upward as footsteps sounded on the stairs.