The Bronze of Eddarta

by Randall Garrett

  The man I found had never seen a coin exactly like it, and offered the opinion that it had been stamped to commemorate some occasion. But he shrugged and said: “Gold is gold, no matter whose face it wears.” After he had taken his commission for changing the twenty-dozak piece, I had two hundred and thirty-eight zaks, in assorted coin sizes, available for spending. It was enough, easily, to manage the rest of the trip—depending on what I decided to do with Thymas.

  He was going to have to stay behind and follow later; that much was clear. The exertion of the fight with the vineh had pushed both him and Ronar back to “square one”, in terms of their recovering stamina and spirit.

  Keeshah had to come with me, or our plan of laying some kind of trap in Eddarta before Gharlas got there would be useless. But Tarani—did she have to come with me?

  I mulled over the possible choices as I sat in the inn’s dining room, sipping faen.

  One, she could come with me, and leave Thymas to follow whenever he and Ronar could travel. Would Thymas wait until they were recovered? Or would he be just as heedlessly anxious to get going as he had been in Dyskornis, and arrive in Eddarta too weak to be any help at all? Worse than that, would he let his depression convince him that he might as well not follow at all?

  Two, Tarani could stay with Thymas, so that he and Ronar would heal faster. Ronar would travel more slowly, carrying double, but they would be able to leave sooner.

  I hate it, I thought, but the second choice makes more sense. Are there any reasons why Tarani shouldn’t stay behind with Thymas? Real reasons, that is—not jealous ones.

  There was one reason. Zefra.

  I had considered Tarani’s plan to find her mother as secondary to our need to find the Ra’ira. But if we could find Zefra, it was possible that she could help us against Gharlas.

  If Tarani asked her.

  I paid for my drink, and went upstairs to tell Tarani and Thymas what I had decided.

  They didn’t question it—Thymas would stay; Tarani would go. The only argument I got was, predictably, from Thymas.

  “You will lose time if you move me elsewhere,” he protested. “There is game here for Ronar, and I can rest here just as well as anywhere else. Pay the clerk for a few days of room and board, and go!”

  “I will not leave you here, Thymas,” I said. “You need experienced care, and a lot of rest. If you stayed here, you’d be on your guard all the time. We’ll take you to a Refreshment House; you’ll be safe with the Fa’aldu.” I spread out the map, studied it for a moment, then tapped it with my finger. “Stomestad.”

  “Too far,” Thymas snapped. “You’d lose three days, poking along at our speed.”

  “It would be straight across desert,” Tarani mused. “A rough trip.”

  “We can stand a few days of desert travel,” I said. “And Stomestad lies along the most direct route to Eddarta from here. Even if Tarani and I can’t make up the lost time, we should still be able to reach Eddarta before Gharlas gets there. We’ll go to Stomestad.”

  I was expecting desert, but not that desert. It made the Kapiral, with its stubborn, ground-hugging dry bushes, seem like paradise. Nothing grew in that wasteland. The air felt superheated, and the sand was so fine that we had to wrap our faces to keep from inhaling salty particles drifting in the air like dust motes.

  By the time I realized what we were getting into, it was the middle of our second day, and too late to turn back. We adopted the travel pattern I had learned from Zaddorn: move for three hours, rest for one, the three of us hugging the shadows of the sha’um. Healthy sha’um could have run the trip from Sulis to Stomestad in two and a half days. It took us five days and nights of miserable tramping before we arrived at the symbolic canvas barrier of Stomestad.

  It was mid-afternoon, and the sand shifted under our feet as we stood there, croaking the ritual request for shelter. Vasklar, Respected Elder of the Refreshment House, granted our request and ordered that the symbolic canvas barrier be lowered to admit us. He stared at us in shock for a moment, then hurried his people to help us.

  The Refreshment House of Stomestad was the largest I had yet seen. It was enclosed in the same way as all the others I had visited, with a head-high wall of large bricks of rock salt. The interior compound, where the extended family group of desert dwellers lived, seemed much larger than those I had seen at Yafnaar and Relenor.

  The Fa’aldu provided most travelers with sparing accommodations—mere cubicles with sleeping ledges and plain pallets. The small rooms opened directly on the enclosed courtyard where, on any given night, there might be twenty to a hundred vleks stamping and bawling. Travelers were also given water and cooked food, all in trade for some kind of goods—food products, fabric, crafted articles.

  Across the long, rectangular court were doorways which opened into the family residence area.

  I was one of the few travelers ever invited into the Fa’aldu homes—a privilege for which I often thanked Balgokh, the Elder at Yafnaar, who had been Ricardo’s first source of information in Gandalara. Balgokh didn’t know the truth about me; he believed that Markasset had awakened in the desert without his memory, and had later regained it. He had taken a fatherly pride in my possession of Serkajon’s sword, and had accepted, without question, Thanasset’s decision to implement the old custom of changing a son’s name when he has proved himself ready to carry the family’s sword.

  It was part of the obligation of the Fa’aldu, assumed during the time of the Kingdom, to assist anyone in need in the desert. But I thought that Balgokh had helped me willingly, because he had sensed something of my difference from other Gandalarans. So I had returned to Yafnaar to give him a resolution to the mystery I had started. Balgokh had appreciated that gesture so much that he had sent word to all the Refreshment Houses, asking that I be honored as a fellow Fa’aldu.

  And, as a side effect, making me into a legend.

  When we surrendered our weapons and gave our names, the whole family came out to help.

  The respect of the Stomestad Fa’aldu embarrassed me, but I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. Fa’aldu children dusted us off with stiff-bristled brushes, and gave us a little water. Then Tarani took Thymas into a cubicle to tend him, while I arranged for meat and water for the sha’um, and had a talk with Vasklar.

  Thymas’s wounds, though deeper and nastier looking than the bruises and scratches Tarani and I had suffered, had been reduced to thin scabs after the two nights he spent in Sulis under Tarani’s healing sleep, but the trek across the desert had reopened some of the worse ones. The salty grit that covered us from head to foot had crusted in the bloody scars, even though we had used some of our precious water to clean them whenever we rested. The edges of the opened wounds looked swollen and inflamed, even after they had been cleansed.

  I went into Thymas’s cubicle just as Tarani was using the last of her supply of soothing ointment on Thymas’s nastiest gash. It started beneath his right ear, and slid down his neck and across the right side of his chest. She was sitting on the sleeping ledge with her back to me, blocking sight of Thymas’s face, but I could see most of his body. She left her hands on his chest after she finished, moving them in small circles, massaging lightly. He said something too softly for me to hear it, and she laughed.

  “I need to talk to Thymas for a minute,” I said. She jumped, then stood up and left the room, turning back once to smile at the boy.

  “I guess you know that Ronar is doing pretty well,” I said, sitting down where Tarani had been. I could feel her warmth in the thin padding of the pallet, even on the surface of the huge block of rock salt beneath it. Thymas watched me warily, waiting. “Tarani’s ointment matted his fur over those really bad cuts, and kept out the dust. They’re starting to heal. I want you to stay here until you both feel fit to travel—got that?”

  The boy nodded, and winced with the pain the motion cost him.

  “Tarani will help you and Ronar sleep tonight—that should give you a good
start on getting well. Vasklar will take good care of you, and he will give you whatever provisions you need when you’re ready to go. Wait until Ronar can travel full speed, and ride directly for Eddarta.”

  “Where will you be?” he asked.

  “Tarani and Keeshah and I will leave in the morning for the Refreshment House of Iribos. Vasklar gave me the name of one of the Fa’aldu there who can tell us about Eddarta. When we have some kind of a plan, Tarani will send Lonna to you with the details. If you need to contact us, send Lonna back—she’ll be able to find Tarani, no matter where we are.”

  “All right,” he sighed, and closed his eyes. There were creases of weariness radiating from their corners.

  “One more thing, and I’ll let you get some rest,” I said.

  He opened his eyes and looked at me again. I didn’t have a clue as to what he was thinking.

  “I’m going to leave Serkajon’s sword here, where it will be safe, and where it can’t identify me. I’ll take yours in its place.”

  He didn’t say anything, and after a second or two, I stood UP.

  “See you in Eddarta,” I said, and went out into the courtyard.

  I had supper with Vasklar’s family, but Tarani had declined their invitation, pleading fatigue. The Refreshment House wasn’t crowded, so Vasklar had given each of us a separate sleeping room. As I crossed the lamp-lit courtyard, I noticed light around the edges of the tapestry hanging which served as a door to Thymas’s room.

  Tarani said she was going to eat, put Thymas to sleep, and then get some sleep, herself, I remembered. It’s late—she probably left the lamp burning by accident.

  I stepped to the door and pulled aside the curtain. Tarani was seated in the same place; I couldn’t see her face, or Thymas’s. But as I watched, too startled to move, his hand touched her arm and moved along it slowly until he was holding her shoulder. She leaned forward, and both of his arms embraced her.

  I dropped the curtain and moved away quietly.

  6

  “We’re here,” I said to Tarani, who had been struggling along stubbornly against her weariness, staring at the ground. We had left Keeshah where desert and the far end of a branch of the Tashal River merged to form a treacherous salt bog. For two days, we had walked through farmland. With every step, I had been forced to revise my impression of the size of Eddarta. A city which needed this much produce to feed its people must include a sizable collection of individuals.

  Tarani’s head lifted, and together we stared at the huge, strange city. Following the directions we had been given, we were approaching from the northwest along a well-traveled road that bordered the westernmost branch of the river. After many intersections, this road would lead us into the city—or, rather into part of the city.

  There were two Eddartas. The original, older city sprawled on the lower slopes of the River Wall and drifted out toward the fields in strings and clumps of tiny buildings. Several branches of the Tashal flowed and rushed through the city itself, and the largest streets followed along beside them. All those wide boulevards merged into a paved avenue that led uphill to the second Eddarta.

  This was a stone-walled enclosure entirely separate from what I had already begun to think of as “lower” Eddarta. Its only links to the bigger town were the steep avenue and a single branch of the Tashal which meandered along the upper city’s level, but tumbled in sparkling cataracts above and below it. The lower rapids came straight down the hill, beside the entry avenue.

  “I didn’t expect it to be so large,” Tarani said, after a moment.

  “Neither did I,” I admitted. “But remember, we already know where to find the people we want to see.”

  “Inside those walls,” Tarani said. There was no awe, or fear, just the statement. I knew she was thinking about her mother, but she said: “Do you think we have arrived before Gharlas?”

  “Unless he learned how to fly these past three days, we’re at least two days ahead of him. But just in case … do you think you can disguise us until we’re safely in Yoman’s shop? He said that guards are along the roads to check people going out, but if Gharlas sent word ahead …”

  “I can do it,” she said. “Before we approach the guards, we will need to move off the road, out of sight, for a moment. Then stay very close to me; it will be harder if we are separated.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the road turned to follow a branch of the river. Its banks were lined with tall, reedy plants, and Tarani stepped into the concealment they offered. I waited a moment, then followed her. We stepped out together.

  When I looked at Tarani, I could see the illusion she cast for herself—the pale-haired, rounded body of Rassa. I could see Tarani through it, as though the image of Rassa were only a transparent hologram, but I was sure that everyone else who looked directly at Tarani, would see only Rassa. I assumed that I would pass for Yoman.

  We had met those two people at the Refreshment House of Iribos, after explaining what we needed to the person Vasklar had named. I had been astonished to learn that our Iribos contact and Vasklar were both involved in providing an escape route for Eddartan slaves. It was strictly in violation of the nointerference rules of the Fa’aldu, but I had commended their courage.

  Yoman and Rassa weren’t slaves, but craftsmen—clothing designers, specifically. They were “free” to work for pay, as long as they turned over a high percentage of their profit to the Lord who owned the property on which their shop was located.

  It appealed strongly to Tarani that they had tired of their life in Eddarta, and decided to escape from it, much as Volitar had escaped years ago. How they had known whom to contact in Iribos was a mystery, but arrangements had been made for them to be “registered” with a caravan leaving the following day. Pylomel had informants everywhere, it seemed, who were on the lookout for unattached people who might be wanted in Eddarta. Such informants undoubtedly had been responsible for Zefra’s identification in Dyskornis.

  We had found it necessary to reveal Tarani’s skill at illusion. After our contact recovered from the shock, the two Eddartans had been brought to us. They represented an opportunity to enter Eddarta without question. Tarani and I would have a place to stay, and real identities to conceal us.

  Yoman, who was as tall as I, middle-aged, with a touch of softness around his stomach, had assured me that their short absence could be explained easily as a trip to visit an ill relative, should anyone inquire. He had given us that, and other, information in response to our questions, and he had volunteered little else.

  Rassa, his daughter, had said nothing at all. She was a physical type that Tarani could imitate easily. As tall as Tarani, she had the same smooth brow and delicate planes at cheek and jaw. It was obvious that the two women shared some genes. But where Tarani’s headfur was black and silky, Rassa’s was thick and golden. Body curves at breast and hip were more pronounced in Rassa, and she walked with an unconscious sensuality that wasn’t damaged at all by her haunting beauty.

  Yoman and Rassa had become our key to Eddarta, and we had sent Lonna to Thymas with instructions to look for us at Yoman’s tailor shop when he reached Eddarta. But I was uneasy as we walked within Tarani’s illusion. I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that the merchant had been holding something back, that he had been running from Eddarta for a reason more specific than weariness of his lifestyle.

  I didn’t want to be recognized as Rikardon. But I was halfway expecting some hassle when I was recognized as Yoman.

  That danger didn’t materialize, much to my relief. A couple of people said hello, but in the crowded streets, with folks hurrying to get home before dark, there wasn’t time to do much more than wave and smile. By the time we located Yoman’s shop, staggered through the doors and closed them behind us, I was a bundle of exposed nerves.

  “Who is it? Who is there?” The quavering voice came from a man at the top of a flight of stairs that ended just to our right. He was silhouetted against a small window which let in some lig
ht from the street lamps below. He was a small man, and looked frail. He was wearing only a pair of trousers, tied with drawstrings at waist and ankles, and I could see the outline of his ribs.

  I squeezed Tarani’s hand. “He can’t see us. Can you give me Yoman’s voice?” I whispered. She returned the pressure, and I cleared my throat loudly.

  “Who am I? Yoman, that’s who! Now who are you, in my shop this time of night?”

  “Yoman?” the voice whined. “Yoman, it is Bress, your good friend! Wait, I’ll get a lamp …”

  Bress. Yoman mentioned him—another fabric merchant.

  “Bress!” I bellowed. “I need no lamp to see what is going on here! I am gone a few days, and you move in to take over my shop!” I started up the stairs, stomping heavily. The skinny old man whimpered with fright.

  “No, I moved in here to protect your shop, Yoman! I didn’t know where you had gone—someone else might have—”

  I was near the top of the stairs, drawing Tarani up right behind me. The old man was holding a lamp base and struggling with a scissor-shaped sparker.

  “No one else needed to,” I yelled, causing the little guy to drop the bronze platform onto the hallway table. The fall jarred the glass chimney, which had been set aside, off balance; it toppled, rolled off the table, and made a nerve-jangling noise as it shattered. Bress jumped two feet into the air and completely lost his nerve.

  “Please, Yoman, I meant no harm. You went away and left no word, you know how small my shop is, we have been friends, I didn’t want them to think it was abandoned—”

  “Out!” I said. I grabbed one thin arm and propelled the man toward the stairs, turning Tarani behind me to keep her hidden. “And be thankful you still have your head. Rassa and I have traveled a long, hard way this day. Anything you moved in, you can move out tomorrow.”

  The little man dived halfway down the stairs, clutched at the railing to save himself, and stumbled the rest of the way. At the door, he paused to look up. I could barely see him.