The Steel of Raithskar (10 page)

“Only vaguely,” I said, and blessed the talkative flatfeet who had passed me that night. “I know it came from Kä originally.”

Ferrathyn shook his head. “Not originally. Many tens of hundreds—perhaps a hundred of hundred—years ago, it was found here at Raithskar, in our own precious metal mines. At that time, the Kings of Gandalara at Kä held sway over the whole of the land between the Walls of the World. The jewel was sent as tribute to either King Beykoth or King Veytoth—the Record is unclear on that point—and remained there for tens of hundreds of years, until the fall of the Kings and the sacking of Kä.”

“When Serkajon brought it back,” I contributed.

“Yes,” Thanasset put in. “Our esteemed ancestor returned it to its rightful home, and for tens of hundreds of years it has been the symbol of the power and authority of the Council of Supervisors of Raithskar.”

Our ancestor
, I thought.
Markasset comes from good stock. Or does he? After all, to the Kings of Gandalara, Serkajon must have been a thief.
I turned away from that line of thought, only to realize that what Ferrathyn was saying brought me back to it.

“The descendants of the Kings went to Eddarta when they escaped from the sacking, and they rule that city yet. They have long claimed that the Ra’ira is rightfully theirs—with some justice on their side. The Lords of Eddarta claim that since the stone was freely given to the ancient kings, it is theirs by family right.”

“Our reply,” Thanasset added, “is that the gem was given to the Kings of
Gandalara.
Since there are no such kings anymore, the rights of the stone revert to us.” He chuckled—a deep, warm sound. “Besides, we are—or
were
—in possession of it.”

Nine points of the law
, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Then you think that the Lords of Eddarta are behind this robbery?”

“It’s one possibility,” Ferrathyn said. “Possession of the Ra’ira would certainly increase the prestige of the Lords of Eddarta—except, of course, in Raithskar.” His face acquired a troubled look. “They might well try to re-create the kingdom and rule from Eddarta rather than lost Kä. Some of the cities near them, already dependent on their rich harvests and busy marketplace, might even support them in their claim.”

“But many others would not,” Thanasset said in a quiet voice. “There would be such fighting as has not been seen since the First King united the Walled World. There would be no safety for caravans—no trade—very little water sharing.”

“It would disrupt
everything.
” Ferrathyn was leaning forward in his chair, as though he were trying to impress me with the importance of what he said. “We can’t allow it to happen; we
must
get the Ra’ira back!”

I was duly impressed. Even a little frightened by the man’s intensity. And puzzled. The men on the trail had treated the whole affair like an ordinary jewel theft—a very special jewel, to be sure, but a simple robbery. It was their job to find the thieves. And their pride was at stake; that someone had stolen
their city’s
treasure was galling.

But I had heard nothing in those rough voices to compare with the passion concealed in the quiet tones of these two men. The Ra’ira had a significance for them that went beyond anything the townsfolk had ever thought of. Listening to them, I felt as though Archduke Ferdinand had just been assassinated.

“Are you sure Eddarta is behind the theft?” I asked.

Ferrathyn relaxed back in his chair as Thanasset refilled his glass. He took a hefty drink before answering. “As a matter of fact, we’re not certain of anything. When the robbery was first discovered, we tried to keep it quiet for two reasons. First, we saw no need to excite the townsfolk. And second … well …”

“We thought that someone local must have taken it,” Thanasset finished. “The manner and method of its keeping are not widely known. Whoever planned the theft needed accurate information. So we asked Zaddorn to search the city.”

“House by house?” I asked, astonished. “Respectfully, that’s no way to keep it quiet!”

They laughed, and I was glad to feel the tension in the room ebb away.

“Nothing so obvious,” Ferrathyn said. “Zaddorn and his men have contacts—sources of information—that know about everything that goes on in Raithskar.”

So even this world has an underworld
, I thought to myself, and a name attached itself to the thought.
Worfit. And Markasset? How closely was he involved with them?

“I hate to ask the same question twice,” I said, “but again: why? Why would anyone
in
Raithskar want to steal the Ra’ira?”

“Ransom,” said Thanasset shortly, then shrugged. “At least, that was Zaddorn’s theory. What other reason would there be? It’s the only practical way to make money from the theft.”

“
Was
his theory?” I asked. “What changed his mind?”

“A quarter-moon passed with no message from the thieves, and all of Zaddorn’s digging brought up exactly nothing,” Ferrathyn said. “Either it’s the most tightly-held secret in Raithskar’s long history, or the rogueworld really does know nothing about it.”

“And so he blames Eddarta now,” I said, and refrained from mentioning the posse I had seen.

“Yes,” Farrathyn agreed. “It was actually my idea that sparked the new theory. When he could learn nothing, Zaddorn came to us—” he gestured to include Thanasset “—in desperation for any clue. He seized on my suggestion of city rivalry and, with his usual sharp understanding, quickly determined that if the Ra’ira left Raithskar, it must have traveled with the caravan of Gharlas.”

“Which is where you come in, son.”

Here it was at last. I held out my glass for a refill, surprised that my hand wasn’t shaking.

“That girl, Illia, delivered the note you left for me. When Gharlas was suspected, I confided in Ferrathyn that you had signed on with his caravan. Naturally, seeing you back home so soon, Ferrathyn and I wondered …”

You wondered?
I thought at him.
You should be on this side of things!

“Did you see or hear anything, Markasset,” Ferrathyn asked me, “that might suggest to you that our thieves rode with your caravan?”

How the hell could I answer them? Yet answer them I must, and I had only seconds to decide what to say. The truth?
“Sorry, folks, I’m a stranger here myself.”
I had a strong hunch I’d get a lengthy tour of the local equivalent of the madhouse. Would they believe me if I told them I was Ricardo Emilio Carillo, and that, in some fashion I did not understand, I had been loaned the use of Markasset’s faultless body and faulty memories? I thought not.

But I couldn’t lie, either. Not from any compunction over lying to “my” father—though I did feel a reluctance—but from the sheer impracticality of it. A good lie has to be based on a sound knowledge of the truth, or it won’t fit in, even for a moment.

Even a censored version of the truth wouldn’t work. If I said, “I don’t remember,” I’d sound like a
Capo Mafioso
testifying to a Congressional committee.

But I had to talk, and
talk fast!

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you there. I don’t recall any suspicious or peculiar behavior on the part of anyone in the caravan.”

I waited for more questions, but Ferrathyn only nodded. “Good enough. But—” I had taken a mouthful of faen in my relief; it turned bitter and I had to struggle to swallow it. “—then why did you return early to Raithskar?”

I looked at him directly and brought out my most sincere voices. “Sir, with all due respect, that is a personal matter. I assure you it had nothing whatever to do with the Ra’ira.”

Was I lying? Or telling the truth? I didn’t know. No wave of guilt surged up from Markasset’s memory, but I couldn’t count on that to mean he wasn’t involved in some way.

The Chief Supervisor gazed at me for a long two seconds. He looked kindly, puzzled, and just a little sad. “I see,” he said, and sighed. “Well, we’ll know for certain before too long. Yesterday Zaddorn sent out a special squad with only food and water. They can travel half again as fast as a heavyladen caravan—but even so, we cannot expect them back for more than a moon yet. We shall just have to be patient.”

A moon
, I thought to myself.
It will be much longer than that. The caravan had a nine-day head start. That means Zaddorn’s squad won’t catch up with them for … um … eighteen days, and then it will take them at least that long again to get back …

My chain of reasoning was cut off sharply by the realization that I didn’t know just how long a time period a “moon” was in Gandalara. On my Earth, it was twenty-nine and a half days, but if I were on some planet circling Deneb or Fomalhaut, its moon could have an entirely different period.

“If it can be found,” Thanasset said, “we can trust Zaddorn to find it eventually. He’s tough and he’s smart.”

Ferrathyn nodded. “He is that. And he hates to give up.” Suddenly he chuckled. “He may yet find the Ra’ira here in the city.” The chuckle became a laugh and the old face crinkled up with merriment. “Oh,” he gasped. “I can see it now. The squad reports back, exhausted, dejected, drained by the heat of the desert, and its leader reports sadly to Zaddorn: ‘Sir, we have found no trace of the Ra’ira.’ ”

“And Zaddorn,” added Thanasset, laughing with his friend, “looks up from his desk with that absent expression he has when his mind’s on something else, and says: ‘Oh, that! We found that thirty days ago!’ He’d certainly have twelve very unhappy men on his hands!”

“And it would be my fault,” Ferrathyn said, “since it was my idea that sent them after the caravan!” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “And I can’t say I’d be sorry for it, either. Zaddorn is a fine man, but his independent ways have given me headaches enough in the past.” He drained his glass and stood up. “Well, I must be going. I’ll see you in the morning, Thanasset?” It was only half a question.

“Of course,” Thanasset replied, standing up and walking with Ferrathyn to the door of the room. “I’ll have to see to Tailor’s Street first thing; it hasn’t been resurfaced in eight moons, and the ruts are getting bad. I received a note on it yesterday. And
then
I’ll try to get to the threescore other matters waiting for me. This whole business has thoroughly disrupted my routine.”

“I know,” Ferrathyn said feelingly. “You should see my desk.” He turned to me and smiled. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you at last, young Markasset.”

I stood up and bowed as I had earlier. “You honor me, Chief Supervisor.”

Both men left the room then, and I collapsed back into my chair. I could hear the soft whisper of their sandals as they crossed the polished wood floor toward the door which opened into the street. And I could hear their voices.

“A well-spoken lad,” Ferrathyn said softly. “He is a credit to you, old friend.”

“Thank you,” Thanasset said, and I heard the heavy door swish open. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Yes. Good fortune until then.”

Thanasset came back into the room and silently refilled his glass, then mine. But he didn’t drink his. He just sat there, across from me, and stared moodily at the surface of the faen, tipping the glass slightly and watching the shifting liquid. The tip of his tongue worried his right tusk in about the same spirit as I might drum my fingers on the table. He was thinking. He was worried.

And so was I—and for the first time since I had awakened on the desert, not just about myself. I liked this man. Whether that was a carryover from Markasset I couldn’t tell, but the fact remained that I felt a strong liking for him. I remembered what that cop on the trail had said: something about arresting “that fleabitten old man” and persuading him to tell them all about it. They had meant Thanasset, of course—the Ra’ira had been stolen from him. Did they think …

“Father, are you in trouble?” I asked softly.

He looked up at me with the same expression I had seen on his face when he introduced me to Ferrathyn. He seemed about to say something, then apparently decided against it. At last he said, “I don’t know, son. Maybe. I’m not suspected of the theft, of course, but—I may be open to a charge of criminal negligence.”

“The door,” I said, and he nodded. “Did you leave that door unlocked?”

“
No!
” He slammed the flat of his palm on the top of the table beside his chair. Ferrathyn’s glass, which had been left there, jumped clear off the table. Even with the thick green rug covering the parquet floor, it would have shattered when it landed. With a reflex speed I didn’t know I had, I leaned out of my chair and caught it in midair. Thanasset barely noticed. “I locked that door when Ferrathyn left!” he said. “My honor on it!”

I took the glass and set it on the shelf where the pitcher stood. “I believe you, Father. The question is, how
did
the robbers get in? It definitely can’t be unlocked from the outside?”

“Absolutely not.”

I thought for a minute. If that room was
always
occupied by a Supervisor, it was unlikely that visitors, even the son of one of the Supervisors, would be admitted. It seemed like a safe bet that Markasset didn’t know any more about the room itself than Ricardo did, and I could ask questions freely.

“What would happen if the Supervisor on duty suddenly became ill or dropped dead? How would the others get the door open?”

Thanasset’s eyebrows tried to crawl up over his jutting supraorbital ridges. “That would never happen. A man that ill would never be allowed to take the duty!”

“Not if anybody knew he was ill—of course not,” I agreed. “But if something happened unexpectedly? Suppose … his heart just stopped?” There was no way to say “coronary thrombosis” in Gandaresh.

His face cleared of its puzzled look. “Oh, I see! You’re proposing a purely hypothetical case: that for some reason a man’s inner awareness failed to tell him of the possibility of an oncoming malfunction.”

Inner awareness?
I wondered.

“I’ve never heard of such a case. But, assuming such a thing
could
happen, I suppose we’d just have to take an axe to the door.”