Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  They were in his mind, "mind stars," in his own memory.

  He fought to visualize the stars, to see them as he had seen them countless nights where city lights didn't wash them out. Bright white sparks in an onyx sky. Hie Tathas screamed soundlessly around him. He stumbled forward, with his father clutching his shoulders with both hands. The Tathas world crumbled like melting ice. They stepped out of the machine room into the corridor on the other side.

  "Look out," Ann cried.

  Rikard turned to see several Tathas grabbing at him. He dropped a stone, swung his glass shard, and sliced through them. He could feel their unselfconscious hatred of him. They feared him as much as he feared them. He shoved his father ahead of him up the corridor while he covered their rear, cutting at the fungus Tathas until they stopped coming.

  His father was laughing.

  "We made it," Arin said. "My God, Rikky, do you know how long I've been in there?"

  "Eleven years."

  "Eleven years. Alone with only the Taarshome for company. Nothing to do but stare across the Tathas chamber and survive. Nothing to think about but that there was no way out, and how much I wanted Sigra, and how I hoped you didn't hate me." His face twisted and suddenly he was sobbing, clinging to Rikard. Rikard held him and comforted him as best he could. After a while the fit passed. Arin straightened, wiping his face with his hands.

  "I think I'm glad I came and found you," Rikard said.

  "By God, I'm glad you did. I'm so glad to see you."

  They hugged again and then started the long trek back to the surface.

  Something dripped fire in the darkness ahead of them.

  Before Rikard could bring his light up to see what it was, a bolt of flame came from the darkness. It enveloped his father, who leaped once and fell.

  "No!" Rikard screamed. He raised his light, but the flames of his burning father were between him and the assassin. He threw the crystal sword at the still-dripping fire, then drew his own gun. The assassin shot again, but the weapon was defective; the gout of flame was small and fell short. Rikard fired blindly through the flames, heard retreating footsteps, then sat down on the floor beside his father, and waited for the fire to go out.

  Part Ten

  1

  The last sparks died and went out, leaving only bones, ash, charred floor, and a pile of dialithite stones glittering in the reflected light of Rikard's torch.

  It was all over. His father had gotten what he had sought. Rikard had found his father. Revenge, vindication, justification—it all came to nothing.

  There was no sense picking the dragongems from his father's ashes. Rikard had three thousand or more in his own pack, nothing else to carry any more in, and after all, those stones were what his father had come here for.

  There was no need to bury the remains. They were suitably entombed as they were, the pile of dragongems a fitting monument. If somebody came later and found the stones, so be it.

  He felt nothing. It was as if he had never found his father at all. Somewhere in his mind he knew he was suffering from shock, but he couldn't be bothered to think of anything to do about it. He stood, retrieved his dropped torch, and started to find his way out of the cellars. He knew he would have to grieve sometime, but not now. First he had to get back to the city and find his father's killer.

  The assassin's footprints were plain in the dust of the cellar floor. They followed his own prints down and went back the same way.

  Who could have done it? he wondered, unnaturally calm. The only people who knew where he was, even approxi­mately, were Darcy, Polski, Arshaud—and Dobryn. Rikard had seen no weapon among Dobryn's belongings that could have produced fire like that. Still...

  Darcy had been too badly hurt and would have used her laser in any event. Murder wasn't like Polski, and he didn't have a motive. Arshaud had been—not exactly a friend of his father's, but had respected him. Dobryn, of the four, was the only one who knew exactly where the Tower of Fives was, how to get in, and how to find his way down. Greed was an excellent motive.

  When Rikard finally left the Tower of Fives, it was mid-afternoon. The assassin had left no trail outdoors, of course. That didn't really matter. Rikard knew where he was going. He retraced his route of just the day before.

  He stopped to sleep for a couple of hours before going down into the cellars where the Tathas had first ambushed him. Then he entered their lair boldly. Even though he no longer had his crystal sword, he did not fear these creatures, however evil and insane they might be. He held two dialithite crystals as he traversed the cellars, and had no trouble.

  He arrived back at the plaza where he'd left Dobryn just as the sun was setting the next day. He didn't know for sure that Dobryn was the assassin, but he didn't dare take any chances. He drew his gun, to give him the time-compression advantage, and warily approached the doors of the hideout.

  "I'm back," he called out. His voice sounded slowed and distorted by the time-compression effect. There was no response. He carefully crossed in front of the shuttered win­dows, watchful lest they open to allow Dobryn a shot at him. They didn't. He pushed one-half of the double door open and slipped into the foyer.

  The jeep was where he had left it. If Dobryn had been the assassin, he would have taken it and gone back to the city—unless he had gotten lost in the Belshpaer ruins somewhere.

  "Dobryn?" he called again. "It's me." There was still no answer. He crossed to the door of Dobryn's camp room and knocked loudly. There was only silence.

  He stepped back from the door, then noticed a spot of char on the floor near his feet. There had been—he remembered now—similar spots on the floor of the cellars where the assassin had stood before shooting his father. Rikard moved to the wall beside the door, pushed it open, and peered in.

  Bones and ashes were mingled with the melted plastic of the cot on which Dobryn had lain. Rikard went in cautiously, but there was no one else there. He went over to the charred remains.

  He couldn't know for sure that it was Dobryn, but the skeleton was the right size, and one of the ribs bore a scar in the right place, where Zakroyan's bullet had grazed him. Rikard took a dragongem from his pack, placed it gently among the ashes. Then he left the room, closed the door, got in the jeep, and went to sleep.

  He awoke before dawn. He drove out of the foyer and out of the ruins. He knew his way only approximately, and had no radio equipment to call for help.

  The next morning he came to the steep, irregular slope where Zakroyan had overtaken him. He worked his way to the top and took the time to cast back and forth along the summit until he found the wreck of Zakroyan's car below him. Partly, that was to help him get his bearings, and partly he wanted to make sure Zakroyan was dead. He drove his jeep down to the wreck.

  Nightly rains had washed away much of the lighter detritus around the demolished car, but he thought he could see marks of padded, clawed feet, like those of a caron. There was no sign of Zakroyan's body. That would make sense, if this was the hunting range of a pride of carons. He drove back up the slope and headed toward the city.

  2

  He parked the jeep in the courtyard of his building and went to his room. He stashed the pack of dragongems under his bed, then called the hospital to find out how Darcy was doing. They informed him that she had been released the day after he left for the Tower of Fives.

  He called over to her place, but the phone was discon­nected. He had no idea how to get hold of Polski. He drove over to Darcy's building, only to find that her whole floor was uninhabited. The damage caused by Polski's blaster fire had not yet been repaired.

  On a hunch he went to the place Darcy had found for him to hide out in. As he entered Mendel's sitting room, the man came out, shotgun in hand.

  "Hey, Rik," Mendel said. "Darcy said you might be by. She's in your old room. Go on in."

  "Thanks," Rikard said. He followed the hallway to his door and knocked. After a moment, Darcy answered it.

  "Rik, you're back," she
said, smiling and surprised. "Come on in. Did you..." She hesitated, searching his face.

  "I found him," he said, and told her briefly what had happened.

  "Oh, Rik, I'm sorry. To have come so close. What are you going to do now?"

  "I don't know, try to find the killer, but I don't know where to begin."

  "The weapon used is a good start. From what you said that sounds like a flamer instead of a blaster, and a defective one at that. They're not very common."

  "You think anybody's going to tell me anything about this? After all the trouble we had before?"

  "Rik, that was in large part because people wanted to defend your father. If they know he's been killed, they may very well want to avenge him."

  "Unless they think I did it."

  "Somebody will know the truth. You'll have to start asking around again."

  "Just ask, I suppose, who's got a defective flamer. Hell, I don't even know what one looks like."

  "You can't mistake it for anything else. It's got a regular pistol grip, a spherical frame, the pressure chamber extends back over the hand, and the barrel is a nozzle, slightly flared, with a—"

  "I've seen one," Rikard said. "Sed Blakely, the man who abandoned my father to the Tathas in the first place, he had a gun like that. He said he couldn't remember where he'd left my father. I'll bet he remembered after I left. He was crazy, I know, but that was because of his guilt. I'll bet you he's the one."

  "So then what are we waiting for? Let's go talk to him."

  They left at once, got in Rikard's jeep, and drove south through the city. They reached Blakely's hideout shortly after sunset. Rikard parked the jeep out of sight of the repaired ruin, and he and Darcy approached the makeshift door with guns drawn.

  "Braeth!" Rikard called. He felt funny using his father's name, but he didn't want Blakely to know he'd been found out. "It's me," he said. "I visited you a few days ago." There was no answer. He put his hand on the door, then smelled something foul and drew back.

  "What's the matter?" Darcy asked from behind him. Then she smelled it too. Rotting flesh.

  Rikard opened the door cautiously, not fearing a shot but anticipating the wave of stench that billowed out. Flies buzzed loudly. On Blakely's bed lay a putrefying corpse. Darcy, behind him, gagged.

  "Is that him?" she asked from behind a hand that protected her mouth and nose as she peered into the darkened chamber.

  "I don't know. Let's give it a minute to air out." He went back to the jeep and returned with his torch. There was no artificial light in Blakely's hideout. The stench of decay had abated somewhat. He went inside.

  It was Blakely. His bloated body had burst from the pres­sure of the gases of putrefaction. Insects had burrowed through the flesh, speeding the processes of decay. But that did not conceal the fact that his arms and legs had been broken in several places. Parts of his naked body looked as if they had been burned.

  "So we guessed wrong again," Rikard said, trying to keep his stomach down. "At first I thought it was Dobryn, but he'd been burned with a flamer." He flashed his light around the disheveled room, saw the crudely tanned leather clothes Blakely had worn piled in a corner. He went over and prodded them with his foot. No gun. He quickly kicked through the scattered junk. There wasn't much. The strange gun was not there.

  "Who knew Blakely was here besides you and Aben Ar-shaud?" Darcy asked from the door. She refused to look at the corpse.

  "At least one farmer, and probably several of the people we talked to. Arshaud will know for sure. Whoever it was tortured Blakely to find out where he'd left my father, and then took his gun and came down to kill us. Dzhergriem? Davinis? One of Avam Nikols's friends?"

  "Arshaud's the one to talk to in any event," Darcy said. "He was the most helpful before. But he's a dangerous man."

  "So am I."

  Rikard went into the storeroom where Blakely had kept all his skins. They were untouched. He was just about to leave when he noticed a small, handmade leather bag on top of the farthest stack. He reached over and picked it up. The dragongems were still inside. He brought the bag out of the building to where Darcy was waiting in the twilight.

  "Whoever it was," he said, showing her the gems, "they didn't know about these."

  Her eyes widened as she recognized the dialithite in the fading sky light.

  "Rikard," she said, taking one of the stones from the bag, "there's enough treasure here to make us both rich for life."

  "You want them? You can have them if you want. I have more."

  "How many?"

  "Over three thousand. My father found the treasure he was looking for. These were only to be the first installment."

  Darcy looked down at the gem in her hand, then put it back in the bag. "Are there more?"

  "About two thousand lying in my father's ashes. And I don't know how many more we left behind."

  "God. If we dumped just these here on the market right now, the price would plummet."

  "It would. And if the prime cache were discovered, it would destroy the market altogether. It's there for anybody who can find it—but I'm not going to tell."

  "I think you're right." She reached for the bag, then hes­itated. "No, not these. We made a deal, remember?"

  "I do. It still holds."

  "Even though I couldn't fulfill my end of the bargain?"

  "Even though."

  She looked at the closed door of the hovel behind Rikard. "Let's leave these here then," she said.

  "Suits me." He reentered the death chamber, put the bag back where he'd found it, and rejoined Darcy outside.

  "After you find your father's killer," she said as they got back in the jeep, "then what?"

  "I've got some other things to do." He told her about his promise to the Belshpaer and the Taarshome as they drove back to the city.

  3

  It was too late to visit Arshaud by the time they got back to the city, and Rikard was running on the ragged edge of exhaustion. He dropped Darcy off at her place, drove back to his own rooms, and fell into an instant sleep. When he woke it was midmorning, and Darcy was sitting in his room.

  "No ice water?" he asked wryly as he peered through gummy eyelids.

  "Didn't have the heart. I wasn't sure you were going to make it home last night."

  "The last few days haven't been the easiest," he admitted. He got out of bed and dressed, only marginally aware that Darcy was watching him. He was rested, but his thoughts were primarily concerned with what he was going to say to Arshaud.

  Darcy made breakfast as he dressed. They ate quickly, then went to the hardware store. They found Arshaud in his office doing paperwork.

  "Rikard," he said brightly as they entered. "Good to see you, boy." He got to his feet and shook hands warmly. "And you, too, Msr. Glemtide. But where have you been? My God, boy, but it's been a long time. I've been worried about you. Somebody heard that you'd been out looking for Sed Blakely, and apparently took offense, came by here a couple of times, wanted to know who you were, what you were up to. You can bet I talked a lot and didn't tell him anything, but apparently you've made some enemies. When you dropped out of sight, I thought they'd gotten to you. Hah, but you're just like your old man. You're too tough for them, too smart, just like he was—hey, I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk about him like that."

  "That's okay," Rikard said when he had the chance. "Who was looking for me?"

  "An old-timer named Dorong. I don't know him, but he's been around here for sixteen, seventeen years or so. Got the distinct impression he had a grudge against you, was out for revenge of some kind. But now that you know about it, I'm sure you can take care of yourself. Where have you been?"

  "Tracing down my father."

  "But—but you found your father in his hideout south of town, didn't you?"

  "No, Aben, that wasn't my father. That was Sed Blakely. I'm sorry I misled you, but I had to be careful. I found Pedar Gorshik, and he told me about the Tower of Fives. I got a guide to take me there and
found my father alive, under­ground, where he'd been trapped by the Tathas for eleven years. The dragons had kept him alive. And he had found his treasure, more than he could carry. We brought it out, and someone shot him down with a flamer. At first I thought it was my guide, then that it was Blakely, but somebody else got to Blakely and tortured him to make him tell where he'd left my father."

  "Damn, damn, I knew I should have done something about Dorong. The man's crazy, drunk most of the time. I didn't think he was any threat."

  "Is that the same Dorong," Darcy asked, "that hangs around at the Troishla?"

  "Yes, you've met him? No good sonofabitch. Hell, Rikard, what can I say? I should have fried him when he came in the first time, let alone the second. I knew he was up to no good. What I can't imagine is why."

  "I embarrassed him in front of people at the Troishla." Rikard told Arshaud of the incident. "That was why Darcy had me hide out in the first place. Dorong couldn't have known anything about my father or why he'd gone there. He just wanted me, I think. Otherwise he would have had a more effective weapon, and stayed to get the dialithite."

  "What? There was dialithite there?"

  "Yes, lots. There was dialithite at Blakely's place too, and Dorong missed that."

  "Damn! I think maybe we ought to go over to the Troishla and talk with our friend Dorong a minute."

  "Just the three of us?" Darcy asked.

  "Nothing to worry about." Arshaud's voice was grimly satisfied. "I'm part owner. Even Gareth has to listen to me."

  "That's as may be," Darcy said, "but I'd feel happier with a little more weight on our side. I'm going to call Leo."

  "If you want," Arshaud said. "The phone's out front." Darcy left. "Who's Leo?"

  "Leonid Polski taught me to shoot," Rikard told him.

  "Good enough for me." Arshaud opened a drawer in his desk and took out a laser pistol, larger and heavier than Darcy's. Rikard could see something else in the drawer as Arshaud pulled the power pack from the butt of the laser to check the charge.