A Covenant of Justice (24 page)

The inhabitants called it Porginara. Everyone else knew it as Pig Town.

Where StarPort lay heavily under the Authority of the Regency, Pig Town gave its allegiance only to the banknote. Everything in Pig Town had its price. Those who came here usually did so with a specific purpose, a specific end in mind.

While Pig Town may have lacked much of the resources or versatility of larger communities, like MesaPort on Thoska-Roole, the intent remained the same—to provide access to commodities and services not generally available elsewhere. A ruggedly independent trade in darkside goods had grown up here and after several hundred years, still stubbornly resisted all attempts to control or eradicate it.

Here in Pig Town, you might not find exactly what you wanted—but you would certainly find someone who knew where you could get it. If you could afford it.

On the afternoon in question, two aristocratic fops wandered into Pig Town on an excursion of obvious curiosity. They strode arm-in-arm, chattering gaily, pointing, and taking pictures of everything that didn't glower at them. Few of the natives of Pig Town paid them any serious attention. Tourists from the nearby StarPort often came down to the shores of the lake to sample the more vigorous life of Porginara. As long as they left some money behind, no one paid them too much attention.

Had anyone paused to give them a serious inspection, he would quickly have noticed that neither of the men wore clothes that fit them very well, and the uncomfortable mix of color and garment suggested either an ignorance of style, or a deliberate flouting of convention. Their cloaks did not match their boots, their breeches caught and bagged in all the wrong places; their vests betrayed the bulges of too many weapons.

An even closer observer would also have noticed that these two fops didn't even like each other very much and most of their banter seemed forced and deliberate. Indeed, they exchanged most of their words through clenched and gritted teeth.

“I don't like it here,” Lee whispered to Sawyer. “This place has a bad reputation for violence. Even Death travels in pairs.”

“You want the goddamn TimeBand?” Sawyer whispered back. “Then we need to find an Informant. Now quit your damn bellyaching and let me do my job.”

“Can't we do it somewhere else? I don't think the residents of Pig Town feel very kindly toward human tourists.”

“Don't take it personally. They hate everybody equally. What do you expect from porcines?” Sawyer grabbed Lee's arm and pointed. “There. That green banner.”

He led his companion across the broken plaza toward a small round structure, festooned with green banners, silken veils and velvet drapes. They ducked into it quickly and found themselves in a room of dark blue and green light that came filtering down through a stained glass ceiling. More silks hung all around—they hung in tatters and shreds and gave the chamber a feeling like the inside of a spider's nest. In the center of the room sat a small, low table. Around the edges sat gray featureless lumps.

Lee took one look around and reacted in dismay. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell and tried to wave it away.

“You've never visited an Informant before, I take it?”

“I've never had need of their services,” Lee said. Then he admitted, “Actually, I don't believe in Informants.”

“They probably don't believe in you either,” said Sawyer. “Sit over there on that gray lump.”

“Lump of what?”

“The Knaxx spin great bales of silk, which they sell to the unwary. Sometimes you'll find an unpleasant surprise inside all the windings. But don't worry, you can sit on it safely.” Sawyer seated himself on another great gray lump.

Lee lowered himself tentatively onto the mass of silk threads that Sawyer had pointed him toward and found it surprisingly comfortable. He allowed himself to relax only slightly. “You've come here before, haven't you?”

“Once or twice,” Sawyer admitted.

“Do you trust this Informant?”

“I trust Informants,” Sawyer said obliquely.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I've never known if I've ever spoken to the same Informant twice. Nobody does. They all look exactly the same.”

“Don't they have names?”

Sawyer shook his head. “They have no identities at all. I've never heard of a way to tell one Knaxx from another. I don't think they can do it themselves. Apparently, they consider it rude to ask. If you even raise the subject, they get up and walk away.”

The curtains at the back of the room parted then, and the creature known as the Knaxx stepped out into a beam of amber luminance.
⁹
Lee's eyes widened at the sight. The creature had a short fat body, it glistened with chitiny scales that reflected back a metallic sheen. Glittery-green and shiny all over, the Knaxx had huge multifaceted eyes that covered the greater part of its head. Instead of a mouth, it had a pair of short mandibles surrounding a curled proboscis.

Lee stiffened where he sat. Sawyer leaned over and touched his arm gently. “Relax. They only eat fruit. They just look like . . . well, what they look like.” Sawyer did not know if a Knaxx could take offense. He didn't want to find out now.

The creature did not speak. It eyed both of the men without apparent expression or reaction. With one bony arm, black and hairy, it reached into the folds of its garment, a vest-like affair, and extracted a small white bowl, which it placed in the center of the table before them.

“What do we do now?” Lee asked.

“We ask our question,” Sawyer explained. “Then we start putting money in the bowl. When we've put enough money in the bowl, the Knaxx turns the bowl over and answers the question. Unfortunately—”

“What?”

“Well . . . sometimes, the Knaxx answers in riddles. Sometimes indecipherable riddles.” Sawyer poked Lee. “Go ahead. Ask.”

Lee puffed out his cheeks and blew. He cleared his throat. He looked at the Informant. The Informant looked back at him. He swallowed hard and said, “My companion and I need to find someone. We want to find the person who wears or carries the TimeBand of Burihatin-14. Whoever has the TimeBand, we want to locate that person.” He glanced to Sawyer. “Did I say that clearly enough?”

Sawyer nodded. “Go ahead. Start putting money in the bowl.”

Lee reached into his cloak and pulled out a sheaf of bills. He began peeling off notes—the Knaxx watched impassively—but before Lee could lay them in the bowl, the creature put its claw-like hand over the top of the bowl.

“What does that mean?” Lee asked.

“I don't know. I've never seen an Informant do this before. Maybe it means that it won't answer the question. Or can't.” The two men traded puzzled looks.

Abruptly, the Informant spoke. It had a voice like a soft whistling breeze, sibilant and blurred. They had to strain to make out the words. “Now you should pray.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sawyer asked.

“Say your prayers,” the Knaxx repeated. Then it got up and left the room, leaving them alone with the table and the empty bowl.

“What do you think that meant?” Lee asked.

Sawyer scratched his head. “I think . . . it meant that we should say our prayers.”

“Doesn't it worry you?”

“Everything worries me, these days.”

Captain ‘Ga Lunik watched the fleet of landers approach
The Golden Fury
with mixed emotions—fear and loathing. The return of the Dragon Lord to the Imperial Starship had come much too soon for his taste, but he recognized the inevitability of it.

The Dragon Lord had not acknowledged his request for information about the search for Zillabar. That meant that the search for the Imperial Queen had still not turned up any trace of either the Lady or her captors. The embarrassment of failure would make the Dragon Lord a ferocious passenger indeed, and Captain ‘Ga Lunik did not look forward to welcoming a troop of disgruntled Dragons back aboard his vessel.

He knew the Dragon Lord would not tell him everything that had occurred down on Burihatin-14; but the Vampires had their own resources of information, and Captain ‘Ga Lunik had used them to determine that the Dragon Lord had savaged the economy of Dupa badly enough to require several generations of serious repair work to undo the worst of the damage. Dragons did not have a reputation for patience. Furious at the lack of immediate results, the Lord of All Moktar Warriors had assumed a lack of cooperation on the part of the natives, and had ordered grievous retributions. Over a hundred small towns and cities had disappeared from the maps of Dupa.

While Captain ‘Ga Lunik understood the
rationale
for the Dragon Lord's actions, in the long run such offenses served only to annoy the natives, instill greater resentment than fear, and make the job of peaceful governance that much more difficult.

Additionally, the Dragon Lord had expanded his orders to keep the StarPort sealed. Now, if any ship tried to run the blockade either
in
or
out
, the marauders would intercept it. If the Captain of the intercepted vessel refused to allow boarders, the marauders had orders to destroy the vessel without questions. Captain ‘Ga Lunik expected horrendous repercussions from that decision—especially after the second or third vessel disappeared in a bright nuclear flash.

He pondered his own future with a less than sanguine apprehension. The bad news had not yet finished arriving, and he did not particularly relish the thought of attending the confrontation about to occur.

Another starship—even bigger than
The Golden Fury
—had arrived at Burihatin, and brought itself alongside. He had recognized it immediately;
The Black Destructor
, Kernel d'Vashti's Armageddon-Class battle-wagon, the largest military ship in the Palethetic Cluster. Kernel d'Vashti had already signaled his desire to meet with the Lady Zillabar at her earliest opportunity.

Captain ‘Ga Lunik had not known how to appropriately answer this. He had spent long moments pacing the bridge of his vessel, considering what he might reply to d'Vashti's request. Should he inform d'Vashti of the circumstances of the Lady's abrupt unavailability? He didn't like that idea; he knew what happened to bad news bearers. He'd done it himself. Should he attempt to discourage d'Vashti without revealing exactly what had happened? That course of action seemed equally inappropriate. When d'Vashti found out—as he most certainly would in a very short matter of time—he would not have very good feelings about the author of any obscure messages.

After a bit more cogitation, Captain ‘Ga Lunik hit upon a dangerous, but ideal subterfuge. He signaled d'Vashti that, “In respect to the Lady's present circumstances, all those who seek an audience with her must present themselves first to the Lord of All Moktar Dragons.”

Yes. He liked that solution best. It took him out of the crossfire.

Maybe.

“I don't know what it means,” Sawyer said again. His frustration rose with every repetition. “I've never heard an Informant say anything like that before.”

“Well, figure it out! You said you knew Informants. Show me some of your famous expertise!”

“Maybe it means exactly what it means! Maybe we should find a temple and say our prayers.” Sawyer felt helpless. He'd never come up against a problem like this before. “Y'know, sometimes the Knaxx
don't
speak in riddles. No wonder nobody understands them.”

“And maybe it means we have
no
chance at all,” Lee suggested. “Maybe the Knaxx meant that the situation has passed beyond the point of simple hopelessness into a state of total annihilation.” Lee grabbed Sawyer angrily. “Do you have any more good ideas?”

Sawyer shook off Lee's frustration. “I think we should try saying our prayers—” He looked around. “There,” he pointed.

“What?”

“Across the square. I see a House of Random Happenstance.”

Lee raised an eyebrow at him. “Coincidentalism?”

Sawyer's expression turned into one of conviction. “The one thing I do have certainty about—Informants don't make mistakes.”

“Of that,” said Lee, “I still remain unconvinced.”

Sawyer didn't bother answering. He just grabbed Lee's arm and began pulling him across the plaza toward the House of Random Happenstance, also known to those who worshipped regularly within its walls as the Temple of Intentional Coincidence.
¹⁰

The temple presented a simple appearance. Four whitewashed walls stood apart at a distance of thirty meters, forming a perfect square. The walls stood unconnected to each other and their thick white surfaces remained unbroken by doors. Pilgrims entered at the open corners.

Sawyer and Lee entered the temple respectfully. No ceiling covered the space within, a complex roof of silk banners hung from the tops of the walls; the thin cloth rippled in the soft breezes of the ringed Burihatin dusk.

Here and there, Coincidentalists of all species, but mostly porcines, consulted various oracles of meditation. Sixty-four low tables lay arranged in a pattern of eight rows by eight; worshippers bent over several of them, casting complex hexagrams with yarrow stalks and coins. The process began with the writing of an important question on a scrap of holy parchment, then the pilgrim burnt the parchment in a dish of incense while waving fifty sacred yarrow stalks through the smoke. Then, the questioner would begin sorting the stalks in a complex iteration which would eventually result in a remainder representing two lines of the final pattern.

Every set of iterations produced two more lines of the total pattern, one line grew from the past, the other from the future. At completion, the practitioner would have before him two separate patterns; one represented the events that had formed this moment, the other represented the events that would grow from this moment.