“No. I believe the Neophilosophers know, or think they know, something about the interior of the building—but I don’t know of any members of that cult in Balhib. You’ll have to dig that stuff up yourself. Well?”
Fallon paused a minute more. Then, seeing Mjipa about to speak again, he said: “Oh, hell. You win, damn you. Now, let’s have some data. Who are these three missing Earthmen?”
“Well, there was Lavrenti Botkin, the popular-science writer. He went out to walk on the city wall one evening and never came back.”
“I read something about it in the Rashm at the time. Go on.”
“And there was Candido Soares, a Brazilian engineer—and Adam Daly, an American factory manager.”
Fallon asked, “Do you notice anything about their occupations?”
“They’re all technical people, in one sense or another.”
“Mightn’t somebody be trying to round up scientists and engineers to build modern weapons for them? That sort of thing has been tried, you know.”
“I thought of that. If I remember rightly,” said Mjipa, “you once attempted something of the sort yourself.”
“Now, now, Percy, let’s let the dead past bury the dead.”
Mjipa continued: “But that was before we had the Saint-Remy pseudo-hypnotic treatment. If only it had been developed a few decades earlier… Anyway, these people couldn’t give out such knowledge—even under torture—any more than you or I could. The natives know that. However, when we find these missing people, we shall no doubt find the reason for their abduction.”
Chapter III
The Long Krishnan day died. As he opened his own front door, Anthony Fallon’s. manner acquired a subtle furtiveness. He slipped stealthily in, quietly took off his sword-belt, and hung it on the hatrack.
He stood for a moment, listening, then tiptoed into the main room. From a shelf he took down a couple of small goblets of natural crystal, the product of the skilled fingers of the artisans of Majbur. They were practically the only items of value in the shabby little living-dining room. Fallon had picked them up during one of his rare flush periods.
Fallon uncorked the bottle (the Krishnans had not yet achieved the felicity of screw-caps) and poured two hookers of kvad. At the gurgle of the liquid a female Krishnan voice spoke from the kitchen: “Antane?”
“It is I, dear,” said Fallon in Balhibou. “Home the hero…”
“So there you are! I hope you enjoyed your worthless self at the Festival. By Anerik the Enlightener, I might be a slave for all the entertainment I receive.”
“Now, Gazi my love, I’ve told you time and again…”
“Of course you’ve told me! But need I believe such moonshine? How big a fool think you I am? Why I ever accepted you as jagain I know not.”
Stung to his own defense, Fallon snapped: “Because you were a brotherless woman, without a home of your own. Now stop yammering and come in and have a drink. I’ve got something to show you.”
“You zaft!” began the woman furiously, then as the import of his words sank in: “Oh, in that case, I’ll come forthwith.”
The curtain to the kitchen parted and Fallon’s jagaini entered. She was a tall, powerfully built Krishnan woman, well made and attractive by Krishnan standards. Her relationship to Fallon was neither that of mistress nor that of wife, but something of both.
For the Balhibuma did not recognize marriage, holding it impractical in a warrior race, such as they had been in earlier centuries. Instead each woman lived with one of her brothers, and was visited at intervals by her jagain—a voluntary relationship terminable at whim, but exclusive while it lasted. Meanwhile the brother reared the children. Therefore, instead of the patronymics of the other Varasto nations, the Balhibuma tagged themselves with the name of the maternal uncle who had reared them. Gazi’s full name was Gazi er-Doukh, Gazi the niece of Doukh. A woman who—like Gazi—actually lived with her jagain was deemed unfortunate and déclassé.
Fallon, looking at Gazi in the doorway, wondered if he had been so clever in choosing Krishna as the scene of his extraterrestrial activities. Why didn’t he walk out on her? She could not stop him. But she cooked well; he was fond of her in a way…
Fallon held up the goblet that he had poured for her. She took it, saying: “ ’Tis grateful, but I’ve seen you’ve spent the last of our housekeeping money on it.”
Fallon dug out the wallet that hung from his belt, and displayed the fistful of gold pieces that he had extracted from Qais. Gazi’s eyes widened; her hand shot out to snatch. Fallon jerked the money back, laughing, then handed her two tenkard coins. The rest he put back in the wallet.
“That should keep the ménage running for a few ten-nights,” he said. “When you need more, ask.”
“Bakhan,” she muttered, sinking into the other chair and sipping. “If I know you, ‘twill do no good to ask where you got these.”
“None whatever,” he replied cheerfully. “Some day you’ll learn that I never discuss business. That’s one reason I’m alive.”
“A vile, indign business, I’ll warrant.”
“It feeds us. What’s dinner?”
“Cutlets of unha with badr, and a tunest for dessert. Is your mysterious business over for the day?”
“I think so,” he responded cautiously.
“Then what hinders you from taking me to the Festival this eve? There’ll be fireworks and a mock battle.”
“Sorry, dear, but you forget I’ve got the guard tonight.”
“Always something!” She stared gloomily at her glass. “What have I done to the gods that they should hold me in such despite?”
“Have another drink and you’ll feel better. Some day, when I get my throne back…”
“How long have I heard that same song?”
“…when I get my throne back, there’ll be fun and games enough. Meanwhile, business before pleasure.”
The third section of the Juru Company of the Civic Guard, or Municipal Watch, of Zanid was already falling in when Fallon arrived at the armory. He snatched his bill from the rack and stepped into his place.
As Fallon had explained to Mjipa at the Festival, it was impractical to exhibit the Juru Company on parade. The Juru district was largely inhabited by poor non-Krishnans, and its representation in the Watch resembled a sampling of all the Earth-type planets having intelligent inhabitants. Besides the Krishnans, there were several other Earthmen: Weems, Kisari, Nunez, Ramanand, and so on. There were twelve Osirians and thirteen Thothians. There was a Thorian (not to be confused with the Thothians)—something like an ostrich with arms instead of wings. There was an Isidian—an eight-legged nightmare combination of elephant and dachshund. And others of still different form and origin.
In front of the line of guards stood the well-made Captain Kordaq er-Gilan, of the regular army of Balhib, frowning from under the towering crest of his helmet. Fallon knew why Kordaq glowered. The captain was a conscientious spit-and-polish soldier, who would have loved to beat a company of civic guards into machine-like precision and uniformity. But what sort of uniformity could one expect from such a heterogeneous crew? It was useless even to try to make them buy uniforms; the Thothians claimed that clothes over their fur would stifle them, and no tailor in Balhib would have undertaken to cut a suit for the Isidian.
“Zuho’i!” cried Captain Kordaq, and the jagged line came to some sort of attention.
The captain announced: “There shall be combat drill for all my heroes upon the western plain next Fiveday, during the hour after Roqir’s red rays first shed their carmine beams upon it. We shall bring…”
Captain Kordaq exhibited to an extreme degree the Krishnan tendency to wrap his speech, even the simplest sentences, in fustian magniloquence. At this point, however, he was interrupted by a long loud chorus of groans from the section.
“Wherefore in Hishkak do you resty knaves waul like the creak of an aged tree in a gale?” cried the captain. “One would surmise from these ululations that
you’d been commanded on. pain of evisceration to slay a shan with a dust-broom!”
“Combat drill!” moaned. Savaich, the fat tavern keeper from Shimad Street, and the senior squad-leader of the section. “Of what use would that be to us? Well ye know one mounted Junga could scatter the whole company with a few flights of arrows, as Qarar scattered the hosts of Dupulan. Then why this silly soldier-playing?”
Junga was the Balhibo term for one of the steppe-dwellers to the west: the fierce folk of Qaath, Dhaukia, or Yeramis.
Kordaq said: “For shame, Master Savaich, that one of our martial race should speak so cowardly! Tis the express command of the minister that all companies of the Civic Guard do exercise at arms, willy-nilly.”
“I’ll resign,” muttered Savaich.
“Resignations are not being accepted, poltroon!” Kordaq lowered his voice confidently. “Betwixt me and ye, a vagrant rumor has been wafted by the breeze from the steppes to my ears, saying: the state of the West is indeed parlous and threatening. The Kamuran of Qaath—may Yesht make his eyes fall out—has called up his tribal levies and is marching to and fro throughout the length and breadth of his whole immense domain.” He pronounced “Qaath” something like “Qasf,” for the Balhibo tongue has no dentals.
“He cannot so assail us!” said Savaich. “We’ve done nought to provoke him, and besides he swore not to in the treaty that followed the Battle of Tajrosh.”
Kordaq gave an exaggerated sigh. “So, old tun of lard, thought the good folk of Jo’ol and Suria and Dhaukia and other places I could mention, had I nothing else to do this night save bandy arguments. At any event, such are your orders. Now off upon your rounds, and let not the reek of the wine-shop, nor the enticements of the giglot, seduce you from the speedy execution of your allotted task. Watch well for thieves who rape from citizens’ doorways their very good-gongs. There’s come a veritable plague of such thefts since preparations for sanguinary strife have driven up the price of metal.
“Now, then, Master Antane, take your squad to the eastern metes of the district via Ya’fal Street, circling the Safq and returning via Barfur Street. Take particular notice of the alleys near the fountain of Qarar. There have been three robberies and a dolorous murder there during the last ten-night: a reeky disgrace to the virtuous vigilance of the Guard. Master Mokku, you shall patrol…”
As each squad received its orders, it broke ranks and wandered off into the night, bills at all angles and bodies swathed against the cold in thick quilted over-tunics. For while the seasons are less pronounced on Krishna than on Earth, the diurnal temperature range is considerable, especially in a prairie region like that in which Zanid stands.
Fallon’s squad comprised three persons besides himself: two Krishnans and an Osirian. It was unusual for non-Krishnans to hold offices of command, but the polyethnic Jura Company made its own rules.
To be sent to cover the district wherein lay the Safq suited Fallon fine. The squad cut through an alley on to Ya’fal Street and proceeded along that thoroughfare—two on each side— peering into doorways for signs of burglary or other irregularities. The two largest of Krishna‘s three moons, Karrim and Gokaz, provided an illumination which, though wan, was adequate when supplemented by the light of the little fires burning in iron cressets at the main intersections. Once the squad passed the cart, drawn by a single shaihan, that made the rounds of the city every night replenishing the fuel in these holders.
Fallon had heard a rumor that a plan to substitute the more efficient bitumen-lamps for these cressets had been blocked by a magnate who sold firewood to Zanid.
Now and then, Fallon and his “men” halted as sounds from within the houses attracted their attention. But tonight, nothing illegal seemed to be in progress. One uproar was plainly that of a woman quarreling with her jagain; another racket was caused by a drunken party.
At its east end, Ya’fal Street bent sharply before opening out into the Square of Qarar. As Fallon neared this bend, he became aware of a noise from the square. The squad increased its gait and burst around the corner to find a crowd of Krishnans about the Fountain of Qarar and others hurrying up.
The Square of Qarar (or Garar to use the Balhibo form of the name) was not square at all, but an elongated irregular polygon. In one end lay the Fountain of Qarar, from the midst of which the statue of the Heracleian hero towered up in the moonlight over the heads of the crowd. The sculptor had portrayed Qarar as trampling on a monster, strangling another with one hand, and clutching one of his numerous lady-loves with his other arm. At the other end of the square rose the tomb of King Balade, surmounted by a statue of the great king himself seated in a pensive attitude.
Steel rang from the crowd’s interior, and the moons glinted briefly on blades appearing over the heads of the mass. From the crowd, Fallon caught an occasional phrase:
“Spit the dirty Yeshtite!” “Ware his riposte!” “Keep your guard up!”
“Come on,” said Fallon, and the four guardsmen strode forward, bills ready.
“The watch!” yelled a voice.
With amazing celerity, the crowd disintegrated, the duelling-fans running off in all directions to disappear into side-streets and alleys.
“Catch me some witnesses!” cried Fallon, and ran toward the focus of the disturbance.
As the crowd opened out, he saw that two Krishnans were fighting with swords beside the fountain—the heavy, straight cut-and-thrust rapiers of the Varasto nations.
Out of the corner of his eyes Fallon saw Qone, one of his Krishnans, catch one runaway around the ankle with the hook of his bill and pounce upon his sprawling victim. Fallon himself bored in with the intention of beating down the fighters weapons.
Before he arrived, however, one of the two—distracted by the interruption—glanced around and away from his antagonist.
The latter instantly struck the first man’s sword a terrific beat and sent it spinning away across the cobbles. Then he bounded forward and brought his blade down upon the head of his antagonist.
There goes one skull, thought Fallon. The Krishnan who had been struck fell backwards on the cobbles. His assailant stepped forward to run him through; the fatal thrust had started on its way when Fallon knocked the blade up.
With a wordless cry of rage, the duellist turned upon Fallon. The latter was being forced back by a murderously reckless attack when Cisasa, the Osirian guardsman, caught the duellist around the waist from behind with his scaly arms and tossed the fellow into the fountain. Splash!
Qone appeared at this point, dragging his witness by a fetter which he had snapped around the Krishnan’s neck. As the dunked duellist rose like a sea-god from the waters of the fountain, Cisasa took hold of him again, hoisted him out of the water, and shook him until his belligerence subsided.
“This one iss trunk,” hissed the Osirian.
The remaining Krishnan guardsman appeared at this point, panting and displaying a jacket dangling from the hook of his bill. “Mine slipped from my grasp, I grieve to say.”
Fallon was bending over the corpse on the cobbles, which presently groaned and sat up, clapping hands to its bloody head. Examination showed that the folds of the fellow’s stocking-turban had cushioned the blow and reduced its effect.
Fallon hauled the wounded Krishnan to his feet, saying: “This one’s drunk, too. What does the witness say?”
“I saw all!” cried the witness. “Why did you trip me? I’d have come willingly. Always on the side of the law am I!”
“I know,” said Fallon. “It was just an optical illusion that you were running away from us. Tell your story.”
“Well, sir, the one with the cut head is a Yeshtite and the other an adherent of some new cult called Krishnan Science. They fell to disputing at Razjun’s Tavern, the Krishnan Scientist holding that all evil was nonexistent, and therefore the Safq and the temple of Yesht therein had no reality, nor did the worshippers of Yesht. Well, this Yeshtite took exception and challenged…”
�
�He lies!” said the Yeshtite. “I spoke no word of challenge, and did but defend myself against the villainous assault of this fap rascallion…”
This “fap rascallion,” having coughed the water out of his windpipe, interrupted to shout: “Liar yourself! Who cast a mug of falat-wine into my face? If that be no challenge…”
“ ’Twas but a gentle proof of my reality, you son of Myande the Execrabte!” The Yeshtite, dark blood trickling down his face, blinked at Fallon and turned his wrath upon the Earthman. “A Terran creature giving commands to a loyal Balhibu in his own capital! Why go not you scrowles back to those enseamed planets whence you came? Why corrupt you our ancestral faiths with depraved, subversive heresies?”
Fallon asked, “You three can take this theologian and his pal to the House of Judgment, can’t you?”
“Aye,” said the Krishnan guards.
“Then take them there. I shall meet you back at the armory in time for the second round.”
“Why take me?” wailed the witness. “I’m but a decent law-abiding citizen. I can be summoned any time…”
Fallon replied: “If you can identify yourself at the House of Judgment, they may let you go home.”
Fallon watched the procession file out of the Square of Qarar, the chains of the prisoners jingling. He was glad that he did not have to go along. It was a good three-hoda hike, and the omnibus-coaches would have stopped running by now.
Moreover he was glad of a chance to visit the Safq by himself. He could do so less conspicuously in his official capacity; and to be able to do so without his fellow-guards was better yet. Luck seemed with him so far.
Anthony Fallon shouldered his bill and set off eastward. When he had gone a few blocks, the apex of the Safq began to appear over the low roofs of the intervening houses. The structure, he knew, stood just inside the boundary separating the Juru from the Bacha district, in which lay nearly all the other temples of Zanid. Religion was the business of the Bacha, just as manufacturing was that of the Izandu.
Tower of Zanid Page 3
