"Eric John Stark," he said. "I am called the Dark Man."
Silence. Then a letting out of held breath. "You did escape. Ged Darod has been seething with rumors. Some said you were killed . . . I saw several bodies. Others said you were concealed somewhere, or had got away, or had never been there at all. Jal Bartha and the Children of Skaith were all over the city looking at the dead—"
Stark cut him short. "We wish to see Pedrallon."
"Yes. My lady, we'll have to leave the coach and wagon here, and your escort, too."
"Not Morn."
"All right, but no more. Can you ride?"
"As well as you." She caught up a cloak, and Morn lifted her from the coach to the back of one of the beasts. "Give Stark one, too."
"How far have we to go?"
"An hour's hard ride to the east," said Llandric, sounding less than happy that his expected party of two had doubled. Probably he would have preferred to have Pedrallon's permission. If that gave him problems, Stark couldn't help it.
They came out of the grove into the open starlight of the plain; starlight dim enough to prevent them being seen at any great distance.
Even so, Llandric was nervous.
"The Farers are out," he said. "Wandsmen are leading them to the siege. Did Tregad send a force to Irnan?"
"It's on its way now."
"So is an army of Farers, with a short road through the mountains."
Several times they saw torches in the distance, tiny flecks of fire moving across the landscape. Stark hoped that Tuchvar and the hounds were safely hidden in the hollow. The lad would have to use his own judgment if things became threatening.
The country turned rougher and wilder, smooth plain giving way to tumbled hummocks and clumps of tough grass that made bad footing for the animals. Llandric urged them on, peering anxiously at the sky. By Stark's reckoning, a good hour and a bit more had elapsed by the time the rough ground ended at the edge of a vast and pallid swamp, where small dark men quick and wild as otters were waiting for them.
Each one took a beast by the bridle and led it, first along planks that were quickly taken up behind, leaving no trace of hoofprints, and then along some trail that was hidden in knee-deep water. There was a rank wet smell of stagnant shallows and the weedy things that love them. Low-growing trees roofed the riders with pale leaves, shutting out the starshine. Ghost-white trunks loomed faintly, crouching in the water with their knees up. It was pitch black, yet the small men waded on without pause, winding and twisting until Stark had lost all sense of direction.
They came out at last on a muddy island. Dismounting, they walked a short distance along a path with crowding shrubbery on either side, heavy with night-blooming blossoms. Stark saw a glint of light ahead, made out a long low structure all but invisible among taller trees.
Llandric, leading the way, tapped in a ritual sequence on some brittle material that was not wood.
There was a sudden burst of static inside, beyond thin walls, and a voice said clearly:
"They're spreading, getting higher. Half of Skeg must be burning."
A door opened, spilling light. A man looked out at them and said testily, "Come in, come in." He turned away unceremoniously, more interested in what was going on in the room than he was in them. As courteously as he could, to make up for it, Llandric handed the Lady Sanghalain over the threshold. Morn followed her, stooping his bare bullet head almost to his chest. Stark followed him.
The house was built of reeds, bundled and tied or woven to form the ribs and walls. The technique with which it was done was so sophisticated, the patterns so intricate, that Stark knew it must be the age-old art of the dark marsh-dwelling people. Other islands must dot the swamp, where their secret villages were hidden. If outsiders came unbidden, the inhabitants would simply retire, knowing that when the intruders became sufficiently bored with floundering and drowning, they would go away. Or if they preferred, they might smile and agree to lead a search party. The marsh-dwellers could lead it for weeks without bringing it to this particular island, with no one the wiser. No wonder the Wandsmen had not found the transceiver or Pedrallon.
The transceiver stood at the end of the long room, a simple, rugged workhorse with a practically inexhaustible power pack and foolproof controls. The metallic voice was speaking from it again, in accented Skaithian.
"The shop's been shut, Pedrallon. I may as well go home." A pause. "Hear that?"
In the background a roar of thunder split an unseen sky.
"There goes another one. I'm sixth in line."
There was a note of finality, as though he were about to sign off.
"Wait!" The man in the silk robe who sat cross-legged on the reed mat in front of the transceiver all but struck the thing in his urgency. "Wait, Penkawr-Che! Someone has come speak to you." He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes widened as he saw Stark. "Yes. Someone has come. Will you wait?"
"Five minutes. No more. I've told you, Pedrallon—"
"Yes, yes, you have." Pedrallon had come to his feet. He was a slender man, graceful and quick, with the amber skin of the tropics. Somehow Stark was surprised that the richest, fattest, most comfortable segment of the planet's population would have produced the rebel Pedrallon, whose own people were under no imminent threat of any kind. He became aware at once of the tremendous vitality of the man, an intensity of feeling and purpose that made his dark eyes blaze with fires that were banked only by an iron will.
Pedrallon's gaze noted Sanghalain, rested briefly on Morn, fastened on Stark.
"I expected the Lady of Iubar. I did not expect you."
Llandric said, "He was there. I had to—I thought you would want—" He forced himself to make a complete sentence. "This is the Dark Man."
"I know," said Pedrallon.
Hate showed in his face, naked and startling.
25
In a moment the look was gone, and Pedrallon was speaking with swift urgency.
"I've been in touch with Penkawr-Che for some time. I've not been able to persuade him to join in any scheme for taking people away from Skaith. Perhaps one of you will have better luck."
Stark thrust Sanghalain forward. "Speak to him." She looked uncertainly at the black box, and he pointed to the microphone. "There."
"Penkawr-Che?"
"Make it fast."
"I am Sanghalain of Iubar in the White South. I have authority to promise you half of all my country's treasure, which is in my keeping, if you will take my people—"
The hard metallic voice cut her short. "Take them where? Where would I drop them, on what world that never heard of them and doesn't want them? They would be massacred; and if the Galactic Union caught me, I'd lose my license, my ship and twenty years of my life, along with that half of your country's treasure. The GU frowns on the smuggling of people. Besides . . ." The man took a long breath. When he spoke again, it was with the clenched-teeth distinctness of exasperation. "As I have tried repeatedly to explain, one ship could accommodate only a fraction of your population. Removing any number would require several ships and several landings, and on the second one I have no doubt that the Wandsmen would be waiting for us with a reception party. Two of your five minutes are up."
Sanghalain, flushed with anger, leaned closer to the black box. "But surely you could come to some arrangement, if you wanted—"
"Your pardon, my lady," Stark said, and moved her firmly aside. "Penkawr-Che."
"Who is that?"
"Tell him, Pedrallon."
Pedrallon told him, each phrase as flat and cracking as a pistol shot.
"The off-worlder Stark, the Dark Man of the prophesy, come back from the north. He pulled down the Citadel. He pulled down Yurunna. He drove the Lords Protector into hiding at Ged Darod. He has been at Tregad with an army, Tregad has revolted and sent a force to Irnan to break the siege."
Penkawr-Che laughed. "So much, friend Pedrallon? Yet I hear no joy in your voice. Why is that, I wonder? Old loyalties still twini
ng in the heartstrings?"
"I point out to you," said Pedrallon coldly, "that the situation has changed."
"It has indeed. Skeg is going up in flames, every off-worlder in the enclave has had to run for his life, and we're told that if we ever come back to Skaith, we'll be killed on sight. So?"
"So," said Stark, "I brought Simon Ashton back from the Citadel."
"Ashton?" He could picture the man in the corn-room of the ship sitting bolt upright. "Ashton's alive?"
"He is. Take him to Pax, and the Galactic Union will hail you as a hero. Take as many leaders of Irnan and Tregad as you can manage, and be hailed as a humanitarian. As delegates, they can go to Pax with Ashton, and the bureaucrats will deal with all those problems you find so insoluble. They may even reward you. I can guarantee that the Irnanese will pay you well."
"And I," said Pedrallon. "I've already given you one fortune. I'm willing to give another."
"Now," said Penkawr-Che, "I'm interested. Where is Ashton?"
"On the way to Irnan."
"There'll be a battle there. I'll not risk my ship—"
"We'll win it."
"You can't guarantee that, Stark."
"No. But you can."
A new note in the man's voice, a poised withdrawal. "How?"
"You must have some planet-hoppers aboard."
The voice loosened somewhat. "I've got four."
"Armed?"
"Considering the places I get into, they have to be."
"That's what I thought. Do they have, or can you rig, loud-hailers?"
"Yes."
"Then all I need is four good pilots. How many passengers can you take?"
"Not above twenty this trip. My pressurized cargo space is pretty full, and cabins I have none."
"What about your colleagues? Would any of them be interested?"
"I'll ask."
The transceiver clicked and was silent.
Sanghalain had been looking at Stark. Bars of color burned on her cheekbones, and her eyes had gone all wintry, stormy gray with no sunlight. Morn loomed over her, the massive trident cradled in his hands.
"What of me, Stark? What of my people?"
He could see why she was angry with him; his action must have appeared both high-handed and ungrateful.
"Go with Ashton and the others," he said. "Plead your case at Pax. The more of you there are to ask for help, the more likely it is that the Union will grant it."
She continued to stare at him steadily. "I do not understand Pax. I do not understand the Union."
Pedrallon broke in, his voice vibrant with excitement. "There is much we cannot understand. But I propose to go, and I—"
Morn shook his head and motioned Pedrallon to silence. My way is best for Sanghalain, he said in Stark's mind. Think.
Sanghalain gave Morn a little startled glance, and then stood quietly, in an attitude of listening.
Stark thought.
He thought of Pax, the city that had swallowed up a planet: high, deep, broad, complex, teeming with its billions from all across the galaxy, frightening, beautiful, without compare.
He thought of Power, which was another name for Union. He thought of far-ranging law. He thought of freedom and peace and prosperity. He thought of ships that flashed between the suns.
As well as a man could, he thought of the Galaxy.
Infinitely swifter and more powerful than words, these thoughts passed from his mind to Sanghalain's, with Morn acting as the bridge, and he saw her expression change.
Morn said, Enough.
Sanghalain, wide-eyed, whispered, "Indeed, I did not understand."
"Ashton has some importance in that society. He will do all he can to help your people."
She nodded uncertainly and became immersed in her own thoughts.
The transceiver crackled. Penkawr-Che's voice came on again.
"No takers. Most of them have refugees aboard." Apparently Penkawr-Che did not. "Some have full cargoes or won't risk an open landing. You'll have to be satisfied with me. Where do we rendezvous?"
The arrangements were made.
"Keep them out from under, Stark, when I come down. They don't seem to understand things very well." Noises in the background told of another ship lifting off. "Really my turn now. Gods, you're missing something, though. A burning city is a lovely sight. I hope some of Gelmar's little Farers roast their arses in it."
A click, and silence.
Stark said, "How well do you know this man, Pedrallon? Can he be trusted?"
"No more than any off-worlder."
Pedrallon faced Stark squarely, and Stark realized that he was older than he had seemed at first glance, the smooth unlined skin masking maturity and power.
"No one of you has come here out of any love for Skaith. You come for your own reasons, which are selfish. And you above all have done incalculable injury to the only system of stable government my sad world possesses. You have endeavored to wrench the foundation from under an ancient building to make it topple, not for the good of Skaith, but for the good of yourself and Ashton. The good of Irnan and Tregad and Iubar is merely an accidental factor that you use for your own advantage. For this I hate you, Stark. Also, I must admit that I cannot gracefully accept the fact that men do live on other planets. I feel in my soul that we of Skaith are the only trueborn men, and all others must be less than human. But my world is ill, and like any physician I must use whatever physic is at hand to heal the patient, and so I work with you and with Penkawr-Che and his kind, who are here only to pick Skaith's bones. Be satisfied that I work with you. Do not ask for more."
He turned his back on Stark and spoke to Llandric.
"We have much to do."
Most of that "much" concerned notifying Pedrallon's network, which seemed to reach into some surprising places in spite of its thinness. Pedrallon was not disposed to give Stark any details. The Dark Man was taken to an adjoining reed house, out of earshot. Sanghalain and Morn went to another. Food was brought to Stark by one of the men, who refused to answer any of Stark's questions except to say that he was not a Wandsman. Without knowing it, he answered one question; Pedrallon was a charismatic leader who held his people as much by the force of his personality as by his clear-thinking mind. He would be valuable at Pax.
It was warm and still on the island, as Old Sun rose and made his daily journey across the sky. There was a feeling of immense peace and isolation. It was difficult for Stark to realize that he was almost at the end of his long journey, almost at the fulfillment of both his goals.
Almost.
Speculation at this point was futile. Events would bring their own solutions or lack of them. Deliberately he cleared his mind and slept, with the small sounds of the swamp in his ears, until he was called to join the others.
In the golden afternoon the dark little men led them through the watery ways, under the pale branches. They were seven when they started. Two of Pedrallon's men had already left on their separate journeys. At intervals the other two, and then Llandric, diverged and vanished among the ghostly trees, leaving troubled wakes to lap against upthrust roots. Llandric would take Sanghalain's instructions to her escort and drivers and then slip back into Ged Darod. Morn would go with Sanghalain. The bond between the sea-dwelling Ssussminh and the ruling house of Iubar was apparently both ancient and very strong.
They reached the place where they were to wait, and Pedrallon bade good-bye to his swamp-dwellers with much touching of foreheads and clasping of wrists. The little men took the beasts and melted quietly back into their private wilderness.
Morn thrust the tines of his trident into the mud, stripped off the leather garment and immersed himself in a shallow pool, lying with his eyes half covered by filmy membranes.
His voice groaned in Stark's mind like waves among hollow rocks. I long for the cold sea.
"At Pax you may have any environment you wish," Stark told him. A large part of the city was devoted to the comfort of nonhumans of all descr
iptions, some so alien that the quarters had to be sealed in with air locks and all communication done in glass-walled isolation rooms.
They settled themselves on dry ground at the edge of the pool, in a screen of rank vegetation. Beyond them was the plain, empty and peaceful in the sunlight. They were farther from Ged Darod than they had been when they entered the swamp the night before, and there was no sight of anything living.
For a long while no one spoke. Each was oppressed with his own thoughts. Pedrallon still wore his native garment, a robe of patterned silk, but he had a red Wandsman's tunic with him in a bundle, and he carried his wand of office. Sanghalain's misty draperies were somewhat limp, her face pale and drawn. She was afraid, Stark thought, and small wonder. She was taking a tremendous step into the unknown.
"You can still change your mind," he said.
She glanced at him and shook her head. "No."
The fairy lady of the Pleasure Garden was gone. A woman was left, still beautiful, vulnerably human. Stark smiled.
"I wish you well."
"Wish us all well," said Pedrallon with unexpected vehemence.
"Doubts?" said Stark. "Surely not."
"Doubts every step of the road. I live with doubts. If this could have been done in any other way . . . I said I hated you, Stark. Can you understand me when I say that I hate myself even more?"
"I think so."
"I could not make them listen! Yet it's all there for them to see. North and south, the cold closing in, driving the outlying peoples ahead of it. The land shrinking, with ever more people to be fed from what is left. They know what must come, if they persist in forbidding any part of the population to leave."
"They stay with what they know. They can bear the slaughter. They'll still rule at the end of it, as they did after the Wandering."
"We did much good then," said Pedrallon fiercely. "We were the stabilizing force. We kept sanity alive."
Stark did not dispute him.
"My own people," Pedrallon said, "also do not understand. They think Old Sun will never desert them as he has the others. They think their temples and their sacred groves and their ivory cities will stand forever, unchanged. They think the wolves will never come down on them, sharp-toothed and starving. I am angry with them. But I love them, too."
The Hounds of Skaith-Volume II of The Book of Skaith Page 16
