Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  "I've been thinking about buying some of these," he said, indicating a leather jacket.

  "I wouldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "You'd still look like an offworlder, and somebody would take offense. They'd want to test you, teach you a lesson, and you'd have a good chance of winding up dead."

  "I thought if I looked more like a citizen, I'd be less conspicuous and people would leave me alone."

  "Not at all. How long have you been here, a couple of days? You want to go out into the rest of the city, right? Go ahead, take your chances, but don't pretend to be a citizen if you're not. They'll never forgive you. If you look like you're just a tourist, you may get rolled or razzled, but they won't shoot you just for the fun of it."

  "Would you shoot a tourist in leathers just for the fun of it?"

  "If I thought you were trying to get away with something, I would. You're an outsider. You don't belong here. If you put on leathers, I'll make sure you know that—later."

  "All right, thanks. But why are you telling me this, when you could make a sale?"

  She shrugged. "No need for an innocent to get killed if he's just ignorant. Now if you've got something on your mind like trying to pass, go to another store and buy your leathers, take the consequences, and be damned. But if you just don't know any better, then back off. I don't need the profit that badly."

  "Thank you very much. Ah, you aren't wearing leathers."

  "Not this close to the port."

  "I see." He thanked her again and left the shop.

  He had been lucky. Another merchant might not have been so considerate. He felt embarrassed by his ignorance and wanted to get out of sight of the shop as quickly as he could.

  He turned the corner and saw, halfway up the block, some­thing that startled him so badly that he stopped cold and stood staring at the apparition until it disappeared almost at once into a narrow alley between two buildings. It could not have been what he thought he had seen, he was sure. It had looked like nothing so much as two people bundled into a single set of slightly garish, oversized clothes.

  He hurried to the place where the thing had disappeared. The narrow alley turned a corner just a few steps in. He started to enter, but the alley was dark. What he had seen could have been bait put out by muggers to lure the curious. He backed away from the alley mouth and looked at his map.

  He found the street he was on and the intersection he'd just passed, but the map did not show the alley. Now that he looked at it more closely, he realized that it didn't show any alleys at all, and he'd passed several.

  He needed some time to think. The nearest courtyard had a sign indicating a fast-food stand within, so he went in, bought himself some lunch, and sat down in the courtyard to eat.

  Little impressions had been accumulating during his walk. The affair of the "double person" was another element to add to his understanding:—or lack of it. There was more to this city than just the secrets of a criminal society, else why the vagueness of the map? And what was the reason for this city's existence, aside from the mines and as a so-called refuge? And what could the "double person" have been? He was beginning to become intrigued with the place on its own merits.

  But he was still too ignorant to take any chances. The offworlders, the "tourists" out on the streets, probably knew more about this place than he did—that was why they had come, for the thrills, the mystery. He had just fallen in by accident. It would probably be better if he went back to his hostel and stayed there until he could talk to the night clerk and buy that ticket to Higgins, where he could learn more and prepare for a return visit. That would be the safe thing, the wise thing to do.

  As he finished his lunch, he tried to think what his father would have done in his place. First, he would stay calm. And his father had had no false pride; he would run and hide if circumstances warranted.

  Rikard was not being threatened at the moment, but his palm was itching, and he felt his muscles all bunched up with tension nonetheless. He forced himself to relax and went back out to the street. He leaned against a wall to watch the people pass. The simulation of calm made him calm.

  Nobody took more than a passing interest in him. That gave him a chance to still his thoughts, drive out both his anxiety and his excitement. He forced himself to think of nothing for a while. Then a sign across the street, at which he happened to be staring, forced itself into his awareness.

  It was an advertisement for a tavern called the Troishla. That was the place that was supposed to be more dangerous during the day than the city streets at night.

  At first Rikard thought the Troishla was located right across the street. Curious, he crossed over to read the smaller print on the sign. It gave a different location for the Troishla, somewhere at the edge of town.

  He turned away from the sign. He felt calm now. That was the first step; now he would be more aware of what was going on around him.

  The afternoon was wearing on, the sun sliding down to­ward the city skyline. He'd seen a lot, and it would take him a while to assimilate it all. He was a long way from his hostel, far on the opposite side of the city center, and he didn't want to be caught out after dark again. Zakroyan had surely given up on him by now. It was time to go back.

  On his way he found a grocery store. They would deliver, for an extra fee much less than what he'd paid to have his supper brought to him the night before. He made up an order, gave his address, paid, and went back out into the street.

  Emeth Zakroyan stood on the other side, lounging indo­lently against the wall.

  His heart did a flip, and he cursed himself for not having checked outside before leaving the store. But he remained calm. He flipped her a salute that was jauntier than he felt. She smiled slowly and stood away from the wall.

  He turned away from her and continued back to the hostel. At first he thought she was going to cross over to him, but she just stood there, watching him. At a corner where he had to turn he looked back. She was behind him now, following half a block away. He didn't try to lose her, he didn't think he could. He walked on, neither hurrying nor delaying.

  The sun dropped below the skyline. There were fewer people on the streets. He checked his map, and estimated he'd be back at the hostel well before dark, if he didn't waste any time or get lost. Though it was dusk, he passed through a park, wondering if he was being foolhardy to do so. It was the first park he'd come to, and he was curious to see some native plant life.

  But everything growing here was imported, as far as he could tell. At least they were the same kinds of plants that were set out in every courtyard he'd entered so far. There was something off through the trees, however, which glittered and shone.

  All of a sudden people were yelling and running away from the shining thing. He could not see what it was; there was too much foliage in the way. What he could see looked transparent and very tall, about four stories if he was not mistaken, and definitely serpentine.

  He froze as a sense of unreality came over him, as it had when he'd seen the "double person." The sense was stronger this time, with an added thrill of fear. The running people were all gone now. He was alone in the park with whatever it was.

  And then it, too, was gone. With it went the sense of unreality and fear. He looked over his shoulder to see how Emeth Zakroyan was reacting. He felt some satisfaction in seeing that her face was as pale as he knew his own to be. She hadn't run either, however.

  He decided it was time to hurry home.

  3

  There were several people in the hostel courtyard when he came in. He hadn't yet met any of the other tenants, and was surprised to see so many congregating here at the benches and low tables, among the green and purple plants. He went up to the night clerk, told him about the groceries he was expecting, then turned back to the court. Zakroyan did not come in.

  There were a dozen people in the court—six offworlders, four citizens, and two others who wore off world clothes but had the manner of locals. Half were
men, half women. One man, an offworlder of middle age, about a hundred or so, was sitting at a small table to one side, drinking coffee, watching the others in the court. Rikard went up to him.

  "Hello," he said, and introduced himself.

  "Pleased to meet you." The man offered a seat. "I'm Carls Menthes. How long have you been here?"

  "Got here two nights ago. And yourself?"

  "Ten days. Fascinating place, isn't it?"

  "Very. I've got the feeling mere's a lot more here than meets the eye."

  "There is. Yes, indeed. Are you here on business or plea­sure?"

  "Business. I'm trying to trace... a relative who disap­peared some years ago."

  "Aha," Menthes said. "One of those. What is it, a matter of insurance?"

  "Exactly." It was easier to lie than to try to explain the truth.

  "I'm here for pleasure myself." Menthes went on at some length to describe the kind of pleasures he'd come for. Rikard was appalled, but made no comment.

  When he could get a word in, he asked Menthes how he got along in the city, how he survived. Menthes's answer, however, revealed him to be less aware of Kohltri's true nature than Rikard was. As soon as he could tactfully break away, Rikard did so. He needed to talk to someone who could give him useful information.

  None of the other offworlders were very helpful. Several had come to buy or sell something illegal in the rest of the Federation. Others were here to enjoy the dubious thrill of being among murderers, thieves, swindlers, and such types. None knew any more about the city than not to go out after dark and not to buy anything without opening the bag first. Rikard was disappointed.

  One of those dressed as an offworlder but acting like a local was a new citizen. Rikard did not ask how he had become one or why he was fleeing the police. The man had arrived only three days ago and was already quite at home. The other dubious person, a woman, was just a visitor, but a natural hardcase. She was of no help to him either.

  That left him with the four citizens. He approached the first one cautiously.

  "Are you staying at the hostel?" he asked.

  "You gotta be kidding," the man said, and turned away.

  Rikard shrugged off the rebuff and turned to a slender woman.

  "Could you give me some advice on how to get along here?" he asked her bluntly.

  She appraised him quickly and made the gesture of feeling cloth with her fingers. He gave her a small bill. She looked at it.

  "Never talk to strangers," she said, and turned away. There was a light ripple of laughter from the other people nearby.

  "Everybody starts out a stranger sometime," Rikard said quietly, and turned to a small man standing near.

  "Would you give me some value for my money?" he asked, holding another small bill.

  "Not likely, when your business is the same as mine."

  "Ah, what is your business?"

  "None of your business," the man snarled. He snatched the bill and stepped away, laughing. The others watching joined in heartily.

  He didn't bother talking to the last citizen. It would only cost him more money, and though he had learned something from his two encounters, another similar lesson wasn't worth it. He started to go back to his room, but the night clerk stopped him as he passed the desk.

  "Don't let them get you down, kid," he said. "But those two had good advice, even if it was expensive. Don't talk to strangers, except as strangers. You try to get friendly, they'll take your shirt. And what anybody does is none of your business, unless your business makes it so."

  "Aren't you violating both those rules?"

  "Sure, but I'm a hostel clerk, so what do you expect? Look, kid, I know you're not here for the fun of it. You've been out all day, and I hear you've been spending a lot of time at the records office. And I also hear you've got one of Solvay's watchdogs at your heels. So if you feel like talking about it, go ahead. I've got nothing better to do."

  "How much will it cost me?"

  The clerk laughed. "Nothing as long as it amuses me."

  "I'll do my best. My father disappeared thirteen and a half years ago. I'm trying to find him. I know that he came here eventually, that he lived in the city for about two-thirds of a year, and then disappeared again. I know he didn't leave the planet. He might be dead, but I don't know that. I can't learn anything more at the records office. What I'd like is to find someone who knew my father back then and who can tell me where he is now, or where he's buried."

  "And how long ago was this?"

  "The records stop eleven years ago."

  "You're not asking much, are you? Things change a lot around here in eleven years. I've been here nine, and noth­ing's like it was, even a year ago."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Oh, well, the port's still there, and Solvay is still looking down on us, and Rodik Bedik still runs the mines, but you know, that's nothing, that's like saying the rings are still in the sky or the sun still rises and sets. It doesn't matter.

  "But say, that just might be it. Now, I see a lot of people, but mostly offworlders and such low life. No offense in­tended. What you want is to talk to somebody like Rodik Bedik, who talks to everybody, including the big guys.

  "Now, if your dad was here eleven years ago and did anything to get any attention at all, Bedik would have heard about it. At least he'd know other people you could ask. Of course, it's not easy to get to Bedik. He's a busy man and not known to be overly generous. But it's an idea. He won't shoot you out of hand, that's for sure.

  "And here's another idea. There's a place out on the west side of town called the Troishla. I think I mentioned it to you once. It's a tavern, of sorts. I've been there a couple of times. There's lots of things known there."

  "You told me it was the only place more dangerous than the streets at night."

  "That's right, I did. No question about it." "So how do I go in there and come out again in one piece?" "It's a good question. I can't tell you that. If you go in dressed like you are, they'll play with you for a while and take everything but your clothes. But if you buy leathers and they catch you faking it, they'll just shoot your legs off before they blow your brains out."

  "You've been there. How do you survive?" "By being very careful. And besides, I belong here."

  "Sure. Look, I appreciate your talking to me." "Forget it. Oh, by the way, your groceries came a while ago, when you were handing out money. They're in your room."

  Rikard thanked him again and went in to fix himself supper.

  4

  He looked at his map again. He was out of the area that was given in full detail. The street he was on was shown on the map, but the major intersection he'd just passed was not.

  That morning he had asked the day clerk for the location of Rodik Bedik's offices, and for a small sum she had given him directions on how to get there. After breakfast he had gone out into the city, beyond the central section, keeping to the streets shown on the map. There were no other offworlders here.

  The buildings in this part of the city were of the same type as in the area of his hostel. They were still made of glass, steel, and porcelain, still two to five stories tall. Some of the wide doors in the blank-faced walls stood open, and in the courtyards beyond he could see more shops and, out here, what he took to be homes.

  But the character of the city as a whole was different. The buildings here were dingy, unkempt, neglected. None of them were new. And there were no more easily interpretable signs. Instead, where signs existed, they were heraldic and cryptic. They undoubtedly conveyed meaning to those who knew how to read them. To Rikard they meant nothing.

  Through those courtyard doors that were open, Rikard could see that the profusion of plants here was the same as elsewhere. It struck him as odd that a society composed almost exclusively of escaped criminals would have devel­oped such a strong habit of domestic-plant cultivation.

  There were few vehicles on the streets, and not many pedestrians either. He had seen no other offworlders
at all for the last two hours. He felt conspicuous, dressed as he was. The quiet, reserved, predatory stares of the few leather-clad people on the streets made him nervous. Nobody spoke to him, challenged his presence, or threatened him, but he could feel their animosity, their unspoken warning to take care. While they might tolerate his trespass so far, they would tolerate no more than that.

  The map, which he was beginning to actively distrust, indicated that the area of the city was quite large, but the population appeared to be disproportionately small. And it was a quiet city. Rikard had been in slum areas on other worlds, in poorer neighborhoods, in "underground" zones often enough to know that there was always an undercurrent of noise—children, drunks, whatever. But this city was dif­ferent.

  Only once had the general quietness been broken. Some­one had screamed, several people started running, then there was the sound of gunshots. But that had lasted only for a moment, and no one near him had paid the least attention. Following their example, Rikard had ignored it too, and had just walked on, more wary than before. The quiet had quickly returned. There had been no police sirens, of course.

  He looked at his map again. It showed only the major streets in this part of town, about one in every four or five. It never showed the narrower ways and alleys.

  The street he was on was one of those displayed. It was broad, had been relatively straight, and according to the map was supposed to run right out to the north edge of the city, where a cross road would take him to the circles that rep­resented the mining domes. But where the map showed the street making an angle to the right, the actual street he was on swerved left.

  He walked to the next major cross street. That was not on the map at all.

  He kept walking, staying on the street he had followed out of the central area. At every intersection he tried to locate himself on the map. Nothing corresponded.

  The city could have been changed since the map had been printed, but the streets he walked all seemed old. He felt it more likely that the map had been drawn falsely on purpose, though he could not imagine why. He could easily find his way back to the hostel again by simply turning around and following this same street back the way he had come. But whether going forward would take him to the mines, he could not tell.