Planet of Adventure Omnibus (48 page)

On the second
day of Balul Zac Ag, as Adam Reith wandered through the bazaar, he became aware
that he was being watched. The knowledge came as a dismal shock; on Tschai,
surveillance always led to a grim conclusion.

Perhaps he
was mistaken, Reith told himself. He had dozens of enemies; to many others he
represented ideological disaster; but how could any of these have traced him to
Smargash? Reith continued along the crowded lanes of the bazaar, pausing at the
booths to look back the way he had come. But his follower, if in fact he
existed, was lost in the confusion. There were Niss in black robes, seven feet
tall, striding like rapacious birds: Xars; Serafs; Dugbo nomads squatting over
their fires; Human Things expressionless behind pottery faceplates; Zhurvegs in
coffee-brown caftans; the black and white Lokhars of Smargash themselves. There
was odd staccato noise: the clank of iron, squeak of leather, harsh voices,
shrill calls, the whine, rasp and jangle of Dugbo music. There were odors:
fern-spice, gland-oil, submusk, dust rising and settling, the reek of pickled
nuts, smoke from grilled meats, the perfume of the Serafs. There were colors:
black, dull brown, orange, old scarlet, dark blue, dark gold. Leaving the
bazaar Reith crossed the dancing field. He stopped short, and from the corner
of his eye glimpsed a figure sliding behind a tent.

Thoughtfully
Reith returned to the inn. Traz and the Dirdirman, Ankhe at afram Anacho, sat
in the refectory making a meal of bread and meat. They ate in silence; disparate
beings, each found the other incomprehensible. Anacho, tall, thin and pallid
like all Dirdirmen, was completely hairless, a quality he now tended to
minimize under a soft tasseled cap after the style of the Yao. His personality
was unpredictable; he inclined toward garrulity, freakish jokes, sudden
petulances. Traz, square, somber and sturdy, was in most respects Anacho’s
obverse. Traz considered Anacho vain, over-subtle, over-civilized; Anacho
thought Traz tactless, severe and over-literal. How the two managed to travel
in comparative amity was a mystery to Reith.

Reith seated
himself at the table. “I think I’m being watched,” he announced.

Anacho leaned
back in dismay. “Then we must prepare for disaster-or flight.”

“I prefer
flight,” said Reith. He poured himself ale from a stone jug.

“You still
intend to travel space to this mythical planet of yours?” Anacho spoke in the
voice of one who reasons with an obstinate child.

“I want to
return to Earth, certainly.”

“Bah,”
muttered Anacho. “You are the victim of a hoax, or an obsession. Can you not
cure yourself? The project is easier to discuss than to effectuate. Spaceships
are not wart-scissors, to be picked up at any bazaar booth.”

Reith said
sadly, “I know this only too well.”

Anacho spoke
in an offhand manner: “I suggest that you apply at the Grand Sivishe
Spaceyards. Almost anything can be procured, if one has enough sequins.”

“I suspect
that I don’t,” said Reith.

“Go to the
Carabas. Sequins can be had by the bucketful.”

Traz gave a
short snort of derision. “Do you take us for maniacs?”

“Where is the
Carabas?” asked Reith.

“The Carabas
is in the Dirdir Hunting Preserve, at the north of Kislovan. Men with luck and
strong nerves sometimes prosper.”

“Fools,
gamblers and murderers, rather,” muttered Traz.

Reith asked, “How
do these men, whatever their nature, gain the sequins?”

Anacho’s
voice was flippant and airy. “By the usual method: they dig up nodes of
chrysospine.”

Reith rubbed
his chin. “Is this the source of sequins? I thought that the Dirdir or some
such folk minted them.”

“Your
ignorance is that of another planet indeed!” declared Anacho.

The muscles
around Reith’s mouth gave a rueful twitch. “It could hardly be otherwise.”

“The
chrysospine,” said Anacho, “grows only in the Black Zone, which is to say, the
Carabas, where uranium compounds occur in the soil. A full node yields two
hundred and eighty-two sequins, of one or another color. A purple sequin is
worth a hundred clears; a scarlet is fifty, and down through the emeralds,
blues, sards and milks. Even Traz knows as much.”

Traz looked
at Anacho with a curled lip. “‘Even Traz’?”

Anacho paid
him no heed. “All this to the side; we have no certain evidence of
surveillance. Adam Reith may well be mistaken.”

“Adam Reith
is not mistaken,” said Traz. “‘Even Traz,’ as you put it, knows better than
this.”

Anacho raised
his hairless eyebrows. “How so?”

“Notice the
man who just entered the room.”

“A Lokhar;
what about him?”

“He is no
Lokhar. He watches our every move.”

Anacho’s jaw
fell a trifle slack.

Reith studied
the man surreptitiously; he seemed less burly, less direct and abrupt than the
typical Lokhar. Anacho spoke in a subdued voice: “The lad is right. Notice how
he drinks his ale, head down instead of back ... Disturbing.”

Reith
muttered, “Who would be interested in us?”

Anacho gave a
bark of caustic laughter. “Do you think that our exploits have gone unnoticed?
The events at Ao Hidis have aroused attention everywhere.”

“So this
man-whom would he serve?”

Anacho
shrugged. “With his skin dyed black I can’t even guess his breed.”

“We’d better
get some information,” said Reith. He considered a moment. “I’ll walk out
through the bazaar, then around into the Old Town. If the man yonder follows,
give him a start and come behind. If he stays, one of you stay, the other come
after me.”

Reith went
out into the bazaar. At a Zhurveg pavilion he paused to examine a display of
rugs, woven, according to rumor, by legless children, kidnapped and maimed by
the Zhurvegs themselves. He glanced back the way he had come. No one appeared
to be following. He went on a little way, and paused by the racks where hideous
Niss women sold coils of braided leather rope, leap-horse harness, crudely
beautiful silver goblets. Still no one behind. He crossed the passage to
examine a Dugbo display of musical instruments. If he could take a cargo of
Zhurveg rugs, Niss silver, Dugbo musical instruments back to Earth, thought
Reith, his fortune would be made. He looked over his shoulder, and now he
observed Anacho dawdling fifty yards behind. Anacho clearly had learned
nothing.

Reith
sauntered on. He paused to watch a Dugbo necromancer: a twisted old man
squatting behind trays of misshapen bottles, jugs of salve, junction-stones to
facilitate telepathy, love-sticks, sheafs of curses indited on red and green
paper. Above flew a dozen fantastic kites, which the old Dugbo manipulated to
produce a wan wailing music. He proffered Reith an amulet, which Reith refused
to buy. The necromancer spat epithets and caused his kites to dart and shriek discords.

Reith moved
on, into the Dugbo encampment proper. Girls wearing scarves and flounced skirts
of black, old rose and ocher solicited Zhurvegs, Lokhars, Serafs, but taunted
the prudish Niss who stalked silently past, heads out-thrust, noses like scythes
of polished bone. Beyond the encampment lay the open plain and the far hills,
black and gold in the light of Carina 4269.

A Dugbo girl
approached Reith, jangling the silver ornaments at her waist, smiling a
gap-toothed grin. “What do you seek out here, my friend? Are you weary? This is
my tent; enter, refresh yourself.”

Reith
declined the invitation and stepped back before her fingers or those of her
younger sister could flutter near his pouch.

“Why are you
reluctant?” sang the girl. “Look at me! Am I not graceful? I have polished my
limbs with Seraf wax; I am scented with haze-water; you could do far worse!”

“No doubt
whatever,” said Reith. “Still...”

“We will talk
together, Adam Reith. We will tell each other of many strange matters.”

“How do you
know my name?” demanded Reith.

The girl
waved her scarf at the younger girls, as if at insects. “Who at Smargash does
not know Adam Reith, who strides abroad like an Ilanth prince, and his mind
always full of thoughts?”

“I am
notorious then?”

“Oh, indeed.
Must you go?”

“Yes. I have
an engagement.” Reith continued on his way. The girl watched after him with an
odd half-smile, which Reith, looking over his shoulder, found disconcerting.

A few hundred
yards further along, Anacho approached from a side-lane. “The man dyed like a
Lokhar remained at the inn. For a period you were followed by a young woman
dressed as a Dugbo. In the encampment she accosted you, then followed no more.”

“Strange,”
muttered Reith. He looked up and down the street. “No one follows us now?”

“No one is
visible. We might well be under observation. Turn about, if you will.”

Anacho ran
his long white fingers over the fabric of Reith’s jacket. “So I suspected.” He
displayed a small black button. “And now we know who tracks you. Do you
recognize this?”

“No. But I
can guess. A tell-tale.”

“A Dirdir
adjunct for hunting, used by the very young or the very old to guide them after
their quarry.”

“So the
Dirdir are interested in me.”

Anacho’s face
became long and pinched, as if he tasted something acrid. “The events at Ao
Khaha have naturally attracted their attention.”

“What should
they want with me?”

“Dirdir
motives are seldom subtle. They want to ask a few questions and then kill you.”

“The time has
come to move on.”

Anacho
glanced toward the sky. “That time has come and gone. I suspect that a Dirdir
sky-car approaches at this very moment ... Give me the button.”

A Niss
approached, black robes flapping to the stride of his legs. Anacho stepped
forth, made a swift movement toward the black gown. The Niss sprang around with
a grunt of menace, and for a moment seemed ready to abandon the unnatural
restraints of Balul Zac Ag. Then he wheeled and continued along his way.

Anacho gave
his thin fluting chuckle. “The Dirdir will be puzzled when Adam Reith proves to
be a Niss.”

“Before they
learn differently, we had best be gone.”

“Agreed, but
how?”

“I suggest
that we consult old Zarfo Detwiler.”

“Luckily we
know where to find him.”

Skirting the
bazaar, the two approached the ale-house, a ramshackle structure of stone and
weather-beaten planks. Today Zarfo sat within, to escape the dust and confusion
of the bazaar. A stone crock of ale almost hid his black-dyed face. He was
dressed in unaccustomed elegance: polished black boots, a maroon cape, a black
tricorn hat pulled down over his flowing white hair. He was somewhat drunk and
even more garrulous than usual. With difficulty Reith made him aware of his
problem. Zarfo at last became exercised. “So, the Dirdir now! Infamous, and
during Balul Zac Ag! They had better control their arrogance, or know the wrath
of the Lokhars!”

“All this to
the side,” said Reith, “how can we most quickly leave Smargash?”

Zarfo blinked
and dipped another ladle of ale from the crock. “First I must learn where you
wish to go.”

“The Isles of
Cloud, or perhaps the Carabas.”

Zarfo let the
ladle sag in shock. “The Lokhars are the most avaricious of people, yet how
many attempt the Carabas? Few! And how many return with wealth? Have you
noticed the great manor house to the east, with the chain of carved ivory
around the bower?”

“I have seen
the manor.”

“There are no
other such manors near Smargash,” said Zarfo portentously. “Do you get my
meaning?” He rapped on the bench. “Pot-boy! More ale.”

“I mentioned
the Isles of Cloud as well,” said Reith.

“Tusa Tala on
the Draschade is more convenient for the Isles. How to reach Tusa Tala? The
motor-wagon fares only to Siadz at the edge of the highlands; I know of no
route down the chasms to the Draschade. The caravan to Zara is two months gone.
A skyraft is the only sensible conveyance.”

“Well, then,
where can we obtain a sky-raft?”

“Not from the
Lokhars; we have none. Look yonder: a skyraft and a party of rich Xars! They
are about to depart. Maybe their destination is Tusa Tala. Let us inquire.”

“A moment. We
must get word to Traz.” Reith called the potboy, sent him running to the inn.

Zarfo strode
out across the compound with Reith and Anacho behind. Five Xars stood by their
old sky-raft: short bullshouldered men with congested complexions. They wore
rich robes of gray and green; their black hair rose in rigid varnished columns,
flaring slightly outward and sheared off flat.

“Leaving
Smargash so soon, friend Xars?” Zarfo called out in a cheerful voice.

The Xars
muttered together and turned away.