To take my mind off the impending ceremony, I asked Keeshah a question I’d been wanting to ask ever since we arrived.
*Don’t you want a female sha’um, Keeshah?*
*I do not need one yet.*
Markasset was twenty-three years old, so Keeshah was twelve. Markasset had known that sha’um had lifetimes as long or longer than those of men. It was conceivable that Keeshah would undergo something akin to puberty. His use of the image “yet” indicated it.
*When will you need one?*
*I will know.*
Oh, yes, I thought, I’m sure you’ll know. To him, I said: *What will you do when you need one?*
*Return to the Valley,* he answered. *Females there.*
*Shall I come with you?*
*No.*
My stomach knotted up. I had to ask the next question.
*Will you come back from the Valley?*
*I do not know.*
With startling suddenness, Markasset’s memory gave me an entire, tense year of his life, when Thanasset had waited for the return of his sha’um. Markasset had been ten at the time. When his father’s sha’um had not returned by the end of the year, the boy had become determined to go to the Valley himself. For his own sake, yes—but partly to bring another sha’um into the household so that his father wouldn’t be so lonely.
I wondered if Thanasset had known about the boy’s generous impulse. It was almost certain that it hadn’t borne the fruit Markasset had wanted. The sight of Markasset and Keeshah together would have brought Thanasset only pain, at first, then wistful memories.
Let’s see, Thanasset was fifty-six now—why, he’s younger than I was when I left my other world. Yet with Markasset’s perspectives, I’ve been calling him an old man. Ah, youth!—which meant he had been forty-five when his sha’um had left him. The cat had been thirty-four years old.
That couldn’t have been the first time his sha’um had gone to the Valley. Markasset’s memory of that year includes such an air of expectancy—Thanasset thought the cat would be back. I wonder what happened to him? Killed by a rival for the same female, maybe? Or a love affair too potent to abandon?
A whimsical notion struck me. Markasset went to the Valley only two years later. It’s conceivable that Keeshah is the son of Thanasset’s sha’um!
It would be useless to ask Keeshah to verify that. To him, a sha’um’s identity was an impression of appearance, odor, and voice. His communication with them was purely physical, a matter of gesture or attitude combined with vocal pitch.
*Do you understand what is going to happen this afternoon?* I asked Keeshah. *Do the others understand?*
*It doesn’t matter.*
Well, I guess that told me, I thought, laughing to myself. A Rider’s only worth to a sha’um lies in his relationship to the big cat. And I think all the Riders would agree that it’s a higher honor than any rank they might confer on one another.
*Let’s get it done.*
We turned back down the hill.
Dharak greeted me at his door with a glass of faen and a question: “Have you decided what your part of the ceremony will be?”
I gaped at him. “I haven’t even thought about it,” I admitted. “Something will occur to me when it’s time.”
We had a quiet homey lunch with Shola, then Dharak offered me the use of his private bath-house. When I returned to the guest room, I found that Dharak had replaced my “civilian” clothes with a Sharith uniform.
It consisted of trousers and long-sleeved tunic, both tan and made of a tightly-woven, soft linen. All the uniforms looked like this, but few were of such fine quality fabric. With the uniform was a beautiful pair of sueded leather boots which reached to my knees. On the outer sides of the boots, holes had been cut at small intervals. Groups of thin leather strips had been threaded through the holes, interlaced and knotted with one or more other of the groups, and then allowed to drape into a pointed fringe about four inches long. The knotting, besides being decorative, served to make the boot more rigid. The interior sides, which would press into a sha’um’s flanks, were left bare and smooth.
As I was stamping into the second boot, Dharak knocked and came into the room. He beamed at me when he saw the boots on my feet.
“It’s time they were worn again,” he said.
“You’re not going to tell me that these belonged to Serkajon, are you? They’re brand new.”
“They are copies of his boots, which we kept carefully for him, wrapped in oiled cloth, until they were barely recognizable, much less wearable. Since then, one of our people has crafted a new pair, whenever signs of spoiling appeared on the old ones. These were made only last year.” He smiled slyly. “I see they fit you well.”
“Yes, they fit,” I said. “But they make me uncomfortable.”
He frowned. “I have seen how much this troubles you, my friend. If you say so, I will cancel the ceremony.”
Make yourself look the fool, and foul up all the plans you’ve made, based on my new position? I believe you would do that out of friendship, and I’m grateful. But I realized, last night, that it was too late to cancel, the day I agreed to it.
I stood up and gripped his shoulder. I tried to smile naturally. “You’ve convinced me that this is supposed to happen,” I told him. “And I guess I’m ready.”
“Not quite,” he said. He had brought a bundle with him, and now he unwrapped it. He unfolded an embroidered sash much like the blue one he was wearing, only this one was a silky white, stiffened and decorated with silver threads. “This, too, is a duplicate,” he explained as he helped me to arrange it around my waist in exactly the right way. Then he picked up Rika, which rested now in an ornamental scabbard, and held it out to me. “Your sword, Captain.”
I reached for it, hesitated, then grinned and took it from him.
Keeshah and Doran were waiting outside Dharak’s house. The Lieutenant and I mounted and rode, close together, up to the Hall. I could see that the rest of Thagorn was deserted; there weren’t even any guards on the wall. The great, heavy gates were shut and barred, a visual symbol of the security of the valley.
The Hall was a huge, square building, two stories high, but empty of a second floor. I had crossed its vastness once, walking across its marble-tiled floor. I was no less awed by its size now, as I rode into it.
Enormous double doors in the center of the south wall opened as we approached them. They closed behind us, and the men who had manipulated them went to stand with the other non-Riders, who were waiting quietly in the western quarter of the Hall.
Dharak and I rode through an aisle formed by mounted Riders. They faced toward us until we had passed by, then turned toward the great marble block in the center of the floor, which was the Hall’s speaking platform.
As we rode up to that platform and stepped down to it, I felt a familiar tightening in my chest. It was like the feeling Ricardo had experienced, whenever he had watched a Marine company doing close-order drill. The beauty of precision, the hours of training necessary, the sensation of unity—to these were added the grace and strength of the big cats and the very special pride of the Riders. Again I was swept up in that feeling of belonging.
As we turned to address the Riders, Dharak let out a small gasp of impatience. It wasn’t hard to figure what was bothering him. The four companies of Riders were arranged in sharply dressed columns, three abreast. The companies were separated by wide aisles, and their leaders were out front. That is, three of the leaders were there, visible evidence of the chain of command. The fourth leader was missing.
So Thymas didn’t want to come to the party? I thought. I really don’t mind—but Dharak does.
The Lieutenant’s face was grim, as he called the order to dismount. When the men were standing, the cats crouched down to the floor, each to his Rider’s right. Dharak began speaking.
“Great changes have come upon Gandalara,” he said. “For the first time since the fall of the Kingdom, the Ra’ira has left Raithska
r. It is in the hands of one whose amibition makes him both unworthy and dangerous to the peace we are pledged to preserve. Because of this terrible threat, the long centuries of separation between us and our leader are now at an end.”
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“This is Rikardon, the son of Thanasset of Raithskar, who is descended in direct line from our great Captain, Serkajon. I tell you, from my own knowledge, that he brings honor to the boots and the color of rank which he now wears. He carries Rika, the great sword of rakor which Serkajon carried during his lifetime.”
Dharak’s voice rose from just louder than normal, until he was shouting his last words.
“He rides!” the Lieutenant called out. “Honor Rikardon as our Captain!”
A tremendous sound surged upward from the men before me, and from the rest of the Sharith standing to the west of the platform. Stunned by the suddenness of the sound, it took me a few seconds to realize that they were shouting my name. When they repeated it twice, they quieted expectantly.
All right, smart guy, I told myself. This is where you’re supposed to wing it. Do something.
I looked out over the people and sha’um on the floor around me. I tried to see a dwindling society, desperate to maintain its heritage and traditions against pressure from the outside world and against the erosion of inaction. But the pity associated with such a vision refused to come.
I saw the Sharith. Proud of their beginnings, satisfied with their lifestyle, confident that their use would come again to the world. Sure that I was the signal and the instrument of the world’s need for what they had to offer.
I should say something about the Ra’ira, I thought. I ought to lay the groundwork for Dharak’s orders to sit still. But that—even that—seems unimportant now. Only one thing is important.
I am the Captain of the Sharith.
Every one of these men, women, and children has pledged life and service to me today. I’m not sure I deserve it, but they’ve done it. And they deserve more than a disappointing speech.
I jumped down from the dais and called Keeshah to walk on the right side of me. We went up to the leader of the third company, which was the one closest to me. It was Liden. His sha’um, Cheral, stood up as Keeshah and I approached. “This is Keeshah,” I introduced him formally. Then I offered my hand to Liden. “Thanks for your friendship, Liden. And for yours, Cheral.”
As Liden grinned and accepted the handshake, I lifted my left hand, palm upward, to the cat. He dipped his head and touched my palm lightly with his muzzle. Liden copied my gesture, and Keeshah responded in the same way.
*Smells good,* Keeshah told me. *Like friend.*
I moved around Liden and walked up to the first rank of his company. The boy on its eastern edge, along the aisle I had ridden down, stood up straighter. His sha’um stood up.
“I am Raden,” the boy said, then introduced his cat: “This is Borral.”
Again I offered my hands to the Rider and his sha’um, and Keeshah greeted the man.
“Welcome, Captain,” Raden said, as he gripped my hand. His gaze strayed to Keeshah at the touch of fur and whiskers to his left hand.
“I’m glad to be here, Raden and Borral,” I said. Keeshah and I moved on.
It took time to greet each one of nearly a hundred Riders individually. Part of me was focused on the men and their sha’um, making an effort to store the names in my memory. Another part of my consciousness was congratulating me on finding precisely the right way to confirm my place with the Sharith.
The handshake wasn’t a Gandalaran custom. I had used it out of Ricardo’s habit, and out of an instinctive desire to verify the reality of the occasion by touching someone. The open-palm gesture had originated on my first arrival in Thagorn, when I had sought a way to express my thanks to Poltar and Cheral for carrying me as extra weight. Now it was giving Keeshah an opportunity to record the identities of the Riders by sight and smell, and the sha’um were receiving the same information about me.
Those sha’um were also receiving an influx of whatever emotion the Riders felt as I spoke to them. I suspected they shared what I was feeling, and projecting to Keeshah—a singing gladness and a sense of history changing at our fingertips.
When Keeshah and I had greeted all the Riders except Dharak—and the missing Thymas—we moved through the other members of the Sharith. Because I was aware of how long everyone had been standing here, I didn’t ask names, but walked through the crowd rather quickly, greeting the people I did know, and saying hello in a general way. Keeshah followed me, the crowd moving back when necessary to let him pass, and he did greet everybody. He walked with his head bent, and skimmed his nose across the hands that were held out to him eagerly.
Finally, we returned to the center of the Hall. Dharak had stepped down from the platform, and was waiting beside Doran. His eyes were shining as he gripped my hand strongly, and lifted his left hand to Keeshah. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I turned away and mounted Keeshah, then asked him to climb up to stand on the platform. I had a high, clear view of everyone in the Hall and all of them, from the sha’um to the smallest child, were watching me.
“You have done us great honor this day,” I forced away the constriction in my throat, and tried to project my voice clearly. “Keeshah and I thank you.
“It is not yet time for the Sharith to ride out of Thagorn and back into the affairs of the world. I must leave you tomorrow—and I am sad to go—but Dharak will continue his excellent leadership in my absence. Show him the respect you would offer to me. I will return when there is need.”
I guess that’s ambiguous enough, I thought, with a twinge of guilt. And long enough. I’ll bet the little kids are really tired of all this standing.
“I will try to be worthy of the friendship of the Sharith,” I finished off, and I could hear my voice crack, revealing how deeply I had been moved by this ceremony.
Keeshah jumped down from the platform and started down the aisle of cats and men toward the double doors. Men ran around the Riders to get to the doors and open them, and I told Keeshah to go slowly, so they would have time to get there.
Behind me, Dharak shouted: “Rikardon and Keeshah!”
The cry was taken up all around me, and this time the men’s voices were accompanied by the roaring of the sha’um. Keeshah and I moved through a horrendous, glorious noise, and I was overtaken by a fierce surge of joy.
Keeshah’s feeling it, too! I reached for him, and we merged. The sha’um are saluting him, not me. He can hear it in their voices.
I am not the Captain of the Sharith.
We are.
Keeshah and I, together, rode out of the Hall into a world that was sharper and brighter than the one we had left.
8
“He has gone too far this time,” Dharak was saying. “He will pay for his insult to you. I told him, specifically, that I required his presence, in spite of his uncertain feelings about you.”
That’s mild phrasing. Thymas hates my tusks.
We were standing, with Shola, in the main avenue, facing the gates which were now open. As soon as the wall guards had returned to their posts after the ceremony, they had reported the approach of the entertainment troupe, and we had come here to greet them. The rest of the Sharith lined the avenue, leaving a broad pathway from the gate to where we waited.
“It was part of his duty. That’s exactly the way I stated it to him. It was his duty to be there to acclaim you the Captain.”
I didn’t particularly care whether Thymas accepted me or not. But I knew there was more at stake here than Dharak’s pride. The Lieutenant had based his plans for controlling an incipient rebellion on my authority, and Thymas had already, indirectly, defied that authority. It couldn’t be ignored.
“You are too angry, Dharak,” I said, using the same quiet, intense tones Dharak was using, to keep from being overheard by those nearest us. “I will judge him.”
Shola stepped between us. “
Thank you, Captain,” she said.
The Lieutenant turned to face the gate. “Perhaps Thymas won’t come back to Thagorn,” he said quietly. “Perhaps that would be best.”
“Look—the acrobats!” Shola cried, with a forced show of excitement.
The first members of the troupe were, indeed, somersaulting and flipping through the somber gates of Thagorn. They were followed by a procession which reminded me delightfully of the circus parades I had seen when Ricardo had been a child. Jugglers tossed crockery around at dizzying speeds. Men and women strutted by in incredible and intricate costumes: one made up entirely of feathers, one of tiny bronze rings, another covered with tiny glass baubles, so that there was a continuous musical tinkling as the wearer walked by. Musicians were spaced throughout, to lend rhythm and continuity to this preview performance.
The entertainers moved down the line of Sharith to the shouts and laughter and applause of their audience. They stopped directly in front of us, performed a special piece of business, then moved off to our left. The last barracks building in from the gate had been set aside for them.
Some distance behind the entertainers came the support group—vleks and carts laden with costumes, props, and travel provisions. To make things less worrisome for the vlek handlers, all the sha’um had been asked to stay on the other side of the river while the caravan remained in Thagorn.
But between the entertainers and the rest of the caravan walked a tall woman, strikingly beautiful, dressed in a black robe, and carrying a restless white bird on her right shoulder. She moved with a stately grace, seeming to ignore the cheers of greeting which rose when she came through the gate. This was Tarani, the illusionist, and she walked with her hand upon the extended arm of a man.
The man was Thymas.
The two of them approached us without speaking. I couldn’t help staring at the girl—she couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, though her height and her air of assurance gave an impression of greater age. Most Gandalarans had light-colored head fur which turned darker through the years. But Tarani’s pale, almost luminous face was crowned by head fur that was coal black. Her eyes were large and wide-set, so dark that they seemed solid enough to turn away the light before it entered. They stared back at me for a long moment before she spoke, and during that time, I began to be uncomfortable.
The Glass of Dyskornis Page 7
