“If Volitar is in Dyskornis, we’ll go there tomorrow,” I decided. “If he isn’t, we’ll assume that Gharlas—for whatever reason—rescued him from Molik’s men in order to take him to Eddarta. We’ll head in that direction.
“Either way, Tarani, we’ll find Volitar and ask him what the Kingdom has been going on.”
19
In the morning, Lonna was back. Tarani spent a few minutes in silent communication with the bird, then turned grimly to Thymas and me.
“Volitar is at his workshop in Dyskornis,” she announced. “Gharlas is there, too. Lonna’s images … Gharlas wants some information from my uncle.”
He’s torturing the old man, I translated. Can’t he use his power to find out whatever he wants to know?
We walked to the gateway with Nerral, accepted the return of our weapons, and said goodbye. Ronar and Keeshah were waiting for us, not too close together. Ronar was edgy and threatening, Keeshah quietly suspicious.
Tarani said our sha’um reveal how we feel about her. They certainly speak for the way Thymas and I feel about each other, too.
“Keeshah looks so thin,” Tarani said. “Should I not ride in the net again?”
“Let me ask him, first.” I did, and he assured me that he was feeling strong and fit.
*Not much exercise in the city,* he explained. *Running feels good. Even with two.*
“He says he’s fine,” I told Tarani.
I didn’t mention that I didn’t want to trust her to the cargo net. I wasn’t sure I could count on close cooperation between the sha’um today. Thymas was quiet. I couldn’t read his mood.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Molik may not have been much help regarding Gharlas or Volitar, but that tidbit about Worfit’s reward for me was invaluable. I hadn’t wanted Molik’s death, but I had to admit that I was breathing easier because of it. If he had decided to break his word, one message to Dyskornis would have had every rogue in the city waiting for us; we’d have had to fight our way to Volitar’s workshop.
That kind of reception was still a possibility. There was a lot of traffic on the trail between Dyskornis and Inid, and almost every caravan carried a cage or two of maufa. In the interest of not being recognized, we traveled across country, at some distance from the trail.
Coming down the steep slope from the Zantro Pass toward Inid, we had been treated with a view of a desert more vast than the Kapiral, but the point of the Korchi triangle had blocked our view northward. As we rode toward Dyskornis, the countryside changed dramatically.
Most of the morning was spent in that desert, which crawled right up to the barren foothills of the Korchi. There wasn’t much to see—salty emptiness off to our right, and the mountains to our left. I fell to wondering about the map I had seen at Relenor.
That map showed the Great Wall ‘way north of us, I thought. But the Korchis are so high that their tops are masked in cloud. From out in the desert, wouldn’t these steeply climbing foothills look just like a wall? The mountains south of the Kapiral desert—they must be the same range that form the south wall of the Chizan passage, and they could all be part of the Korchi—were like this, too. They got so tall, so suddenly, that they’d look like a wall from a distance.
It’s a wonder I didn’t head in the wrong direction when I woke up in the desert. But I seem to remember only one wall … I’ll bet that was Markasset’s inner awareness taking care of me.
Gandalaran maps are just for reference about distance and direction. They show how to get from here to there. The cartographers must merely draw that line to represent the Great Wall, and trust to the All-Mind to help anybody relying on a map to be able to distinguish a mountain range from the wall.
The desert, which seemed even hotter than the Kapiral, ended at last by changing into a Gandalaran version of the American southwest. Short, woody bushes dotted the landscape at first, then were joined by small plants, some of them flowering, which resembled some of the friendlier cacti of Ricardo’s world.
All we need now are a prairie dog and a coyote, I thought. Here we are, the cowboy riding his trusty steed to rescue the little lady’s poor old uncle from the villain. Beside him is his trusty sidekick …
Oh, no, I thought, chuckling to myself. The day I hear any variation of “kemo sabe” from Thymas, I’ll eat my baldric.
But—hold on there, maybe I’ve got the characters reversed. Maybe I ought to practice saying: “Oh, Cisco!”
With that pale head fur of his, we could even call Thymas the white hat and Gharlas the black hat …
Get hold of yourself, Rikardon.
We made a brief stop for lunch. After the desert, which had seemed oppressively hot and close after the high country we had just crossed, a drink of water was most welcome for all of us. We were soon on our way again, and in no more than two hours, the edge of the “sage” country, as I had come to call it, blended into the first forest I had seen, outside of the Valley of the Sha’um.
The trees weren’t the giants that grew in Keeshah’s native territory, but they were tall enough for us to ride beneath them. They seemed to be a greener variety of the sage scrub, and their open branches cast a lacy shade that we all appreciated—until the sun set. Then it was so dark that even the sha’um, with their better night vision, had to slow considerably. I called a halt.
“There ought to be something in this forest the sha’um can eat,” I said, sliding down off Keeshah’s back and reaching up to catch Tarani’s shadowy form. “We’ll walk awhile, and let them hunt. Can Lonna guide us?” I asked Tarani.
The answer came from the bird herself, who called to us from a tree branch a few yards ahead. We left Ronar and Keeshah to their own devices, and began to walk through the darkness, hands linked to prevent one of us getting separated.
I led the way, my free arm out in front of me to brush aside low branches, and Thymas brought up the rear. Tarani’s hand held tightly to mine. There were sounds all around us—birds and insects and small animals—and sometimes it was hard to tell which call was Lonna’s. If I started moving in the wrong direction, Lonna would come diving through the branches to scold me.
No one had suggested that we just camp until morning. Each of us had special reasons for wanting to get to Dyskornis as fast as possible. Tarani feared for her uncle’s life. Thymas was anxious to get to Gharlas and, no doubt, to be free of his association with me. I—well, I wanted answers.
I felt as though my decision to leave Raithskar had bought me a ticket on a roller coaster ride through an endless maze. And the fellow who had pulled the starting lever was Gharlas.
We had walked for about five hours, and the strain was telling on all of us, when we stepped out into brightness. We were in a field of the bush-trees, all of them small enough to step over.
“It is a yearling lot,” Tarani explained. “The glassmakers have set aside much of the forest around the city as fuel for their furnaces. They harvest only the full-grown lots, and replant them as they are used.”
“How long does it take a lot to reach full growth?” I asked, starting out across the field.
“Less than ten years,” she answered, following. We had released our holds on one another when we had come into the light. Thymas trudged along behind Tarani, lost in thought and paying little attention to us.
I thought about the European glassmakers. In his study of languages, Ricardo had become familiar with bits and pieces of history, and he had always been impressed with the skill, knowledge and physical endurance of the glassblowers.
I seem to recall that some glassworks had to move because they used up all the fuel in one area. I guess the Gandalaran glassmakers have had time to learn that lesson. Then, too, I doubt that they have the same methods, or the same need for high production. Most of the table service I’ve seen here is ceramic.
I tried to remember where I had seen glass used. Barut is always served in those tiny glasses. It’s always kept in glass decanters, too, come to think of it. Pr
obably eats through anything else.
I’ve drunk faen from glasses, and out of earthenware mugs, depending on the surroundings.
A lot of Raithskar’s buildings—including Markasset’s house—had glass windows. But they were all lattice style, as I recall, small glass shapes mounted in frames of thin wood strips. The frames were fastened together to make the large windows.
Let’s see—oh, the lamps, with their faceted chimneys. Glass beads as jewelry and as decoration on clothes, including Tarani’s costume. And, unless we’re going down another blind alley, at least one imitation gemstone.
But all these things are fairly small—though the decanters and lamp chimneys probably take an enormous amount of skill. In Ricardo’s world, a glassblower used a long iron tube. That would hardly be practical here, with iron so scarce.
To pass the time, I asked Tarani about her uncle’s work. She said, at first, that she didn’t know much about it, but memories surfaced as we talked. Putting her information together with my earthly memories of the glassmaking process gave me an understanding of Volitar’s profession.
The glass furnace of Gandalara were double-walled cylinders made of ceramic bricks. They were built first, on level ground cut away from hillsides, then buildings were erected around them. The down-slope side of each workshop was supported by fill rock, mortared together with rock salt. A corridor was left open in this foundation that was just wider than the diameter of the furnace, so that the hillside could be hollowed out for the fire bowl.
This was a replaceable unit made of sun-hardened clay, fitted to the bottom of the furnace and supported by the repacked soil. If it cracked, it could be cooled and removed, and a new one put in. Tarani said that they usually lasted through at least one work season, and it had become the practice to replace them every year.
The glassmakers spent part of each year accumulating the supplies they needed, another part producing the raw glass pieces, and the rest of the time applying artistic finishing details.
“Don’t they split up that work?” I asked, “with one person gathering material, another doing the basic article, and yet another doing the finishing?”
“Sometimes, but not often,” Tarani said. “The finished piece depends upon the beginning materials. Every glassmaker is trained in all phases of the work before he is allowed to sell his creations.”
“Creations” is the right word, too, I thought. The glass recipe is a touchy thing; the glass can be too brittle, the color can go haywire. If one man starts with silica sand and winds up with a lamp chimney, that is creation indeed.
Sand is no problem in Gandalara; there are at least two entire deserts of it. But what else goes into glass? Something to help the sand melt. They probably retrieve the ashes from the fire-bowl for part of that. And they’d need lime—limestone caves, chalk deposits. I seem to have the impression that the “Great Pleth” was on the other side of the Korchi Mountains, but I might be wrong. Probably it would have left a layer of lime in old seashells—
If Gandalara has or had shellfish. Quit thinking in earth terms.
“It must have taken Volitar a long time to learn his craft,” I commented. We had crossed almost all of the yearling lot, and were approaching a taller section of the trees.
“Less time than most,” she said, “but he worked hard to learn. Old Kardin used to joke about Volitar trying to squeeze every ounce of knowledge from him before he died.”
“Kardin?”
“The glassmaker who trained Volitar. He died when I was ten years old. I remember him saying that Volitar had learned more, and faster, than any glassmaker’s son. Its very rare, you know,” she said proudly, “for anyone not connected with a glass family to be awarded an apprenticeship. And it’s almost unknown for a full-grown man to be accepted for training.”
“You mean, Volitar hasn’t always been, or wanted to be, a glassmaker?”
“No. He came to Dyskornis when I was born, to care for me. He has never spoken of his life before then. It was always his way to say that I … was … his life.” Suddenly she was choking up. I put my arm around her shoulders to guide her to the edge of the taller trees.
“Thymas,” I called softly. He was ten paces or so behind us, veering off to the right. He looked over at the sound of my voice, then came toward us when I motioned to him.
“We’ve got to get some rest, or we’ll be useless to Volitar. Make Tarani comfortable, and stay with her. I’m going to ride ahead a little way to see what’s coming. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Thymas put his arm around Tarani as I removed mine, and she turned to his embrace. I walked away, calling Keeshah, who popped out of the half-grown forest ahead of us. I mounted and rode away, glancing back to see them still where I had left them.
She’s had that bottled up inside her ever since Molik first told her Volitar was in danger, I thought. And she is bone-tired. We all are. She needs the kind of comfort a stranger can’t give. Thymas, please do it right. Just be there for her now.
I had intended to do exactly what I had told Thymas—ride ahead far enough to give Tarani the time she needed to break down and pull herself together again. But I found, on moving out of that next lot of trees, that I had reached Dyskornis.
More or less.
The city, surrounded by the traditional wall, sat atop a hill about half a mile away. Coming toward me down the slope of that hill was another small town, a hundred buildings or so sprawled out with no particular design. It was brightly lit and humming with activity; the trees had screened us from the noise of it. Some distance from the buildings themselves, there was a huge corral that was three-quarters full of vleks.
This must be the transient section of Dyskornis, I decided. Look how dark and somber the actual city is by comparison. Probably the city fathers are trying to exclude the rowdy element from the city. I wonder how many city fathers are out here, whooping it up?
I wouldn’t mind a glass of faen right now, myself. It would give Tarani and Thymas a little more time. I might learn something about Gharlas or Volitar or …
Quit kidding yourself. You want a glass of faen.
*Wait here, Keeshah,* I ordered, as I dismounted.
*Don’t go,* the sha’um urged me, causing me to turn around and stare into his gray-flecked eyes.
*Don’t tell me you can see the future,* I teased him. *What will happen if I go?*
*Serious,’ he scolded me. *Place smells bad.*
I laughed.
*You didn’t get very close to Chizan, or you wouldn’t say that about Dyskornis. Don’t worry,* I added, scratching behind his left ear. *I’ll be careful. One glass of faen, and I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.*
I walked toward the nearest row of buildings, and I felt my skin creep with much the same feeling Keeshah had tried to describe. There was a tension in the air here that had been absent in Chizan. For all his faults, Molik had kept an ironhanded order in his city. In these outskirts of Dyskornis, the high spirits were uncontrolled, the complaining loud, and the competition fierce.
I walked down the street, looking for a quiet bar tucked into a corner somewhere. It was soon evident that I wouldn’t find one unconnected to a gaming room. Because I really hadn’t planned to be long—and because that feeling of standing near a stack of dynamite wouldn’t go away—I finally just turned into the next door I found open.
It was a place called Pemor’s, and it was so crowded that I almost changed my mind again.
Get your faen and go back to Keeshah, I told myself.
I pushed my way up to the bar and yelled my order to one of the two busy bartenders. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I felt my left elbow jostled. I looked down to see a short, slender man reaching to pick up his glass of faen. He smiled, shouted something I couldn’t hear, and took his glass out of the mob. My order arrived, and I reached for my money pouch to pay for it.
There were only the leather thongs which had fastened it to my moneybelt. The dangling ends
had been sliced through cleanly.
I saw the little guy, just getting through the door into the street. I started after him, yelling for somebody to stop him, but the bartender’s big hand claimed my right forearm and wouldn’t let go.
“You owe me nine zaks, stranger. No credit.”
“Somebody just stole my pouch!” I yelled at him, struggling to free my arm. “He’ll get away, if you don’t let me go.”
“I’ve heard that before,” the man said drily, and gave a twisting nod of his head.
Uh-oh, he’s calling in the bouncers, I thought. Probably the thief gives all of them a cut. I’d better count Molik’s money well lost, and concentrate on getting the hell out of here.
I jerked my arm out of the man’s hold, and the force of my movement sent my elbow into my neighbor’s ribs.
“Hey! Watch it!” he complained—but I was already trying to push my way to the door.
Through the crowd, I caught glimpses of two heavyweights converging on the doorway. It was going to be close.
I made it through the door with only seconds to spare. And there, across the street, stood the little man who had taken my pouch. He was counting.
The two bouncers had followed me out. I should have run for it, but my temper got the better of me, and I launched myself at the thief. He looked up at a call from one of the uglies, dropped the coins back in the pouch, and whipped out a thin-bladed dagger. I swerved my charge far enough to get room to draw my sword.
“You drop that pouch, and you can keep your life,” I said. He looked at the sword, then my face. He dropped the pouch and ran off down the street.
I whirled to face the two bouncers. By this time, one had his sword out, and the other was holding a big, sharp knife. Behind them, the gaming room was emptying into the street. I heard bets being made. The odds weren’t in my favor.
*Coming,* Keeshah told me.
*Not down the main street,* I ordered, as I blocked the sword and dodged the knife. *Don’t let them see you. But make some noise.*
The Glass of Dyskornis Page 17
