The Steel of Raithskar (2 page)

Water!

It was dripping on my lips, and I licked at it weakly. More drops fell. I licked again.

“Not too much at first,” said a voice. “When a man has been too long without water, it is a strong shock to his system to give him too much.”

The voice was that of a man, but he spoke with an odd, faintly guttural accent that I couldn’t place. I was fully awake now. But I didn’t open my eyes. I was perfectly content to lie there licking the water as it dripped on my lips.

“More, Respected Father?” The voice of either a woman or a young boy. The accent was the same.

Drip. Lick. Drip. Lick. Nothing in my life had ever tasted quite that good. It seemed that the water even
smelled
good. Drip. Lick.

I was flat on my back, resting on something noticeably cooler than the desert floor. The air around me and the delicious water were cool and fresh. Suddenly the dripping seemed too slow. I wanted a
drink
of water. I opened my mouth.

“See.” The man’s voice. “He responds. A little more now, Lamothet. Not too much.”

When my mouth felt moist enough to talk, I said: “Has Keeshah water?”

“The sha’um will take it only from you, Rider.”

I knew what I had said, and I understood what had been said to me. But it had no meaning. I blinked and sat up. What the hell were we talking about? My mind seemed fuzzy, as if it were slightly out of focus.

The room I was in was cool because it was protected from the desert heat by thick walls made of huge translucent blocks. Sunlight penetrated the walls and suffused the room with a soft light, which was a welcome change from the painful glare I had first seen.

More of the large, regular blocks stood free around the room as furniture. On some of these, and hanging on the walls, were finely woven cloths, richly embroidered. One served as a pad for the man-sized block on which I had awakened.

There were three other people in the room with me. A young boy—Lamothet, I presumed—was holding a small, delicate cup, adorned with tiny geometric designs. There was a strong-looking man who could only be “Respected Father”, and another man not quite as young as Lamothet. The older man wore authority with the same ease that he wore his long, clean, white tunic.

My voice sounded as strange as theirs when I spoke.

“Where am I?” I asked. “How did I get here?”

“You are in the Refreshment House of Yafnaar, and are most welcome, Rider,” said the elder. He put gentle hands on my shoulders and pressed me back. “As for how you got here, why, you came on the back of your sha’um, of course.” He unstoppered a small-mouthed jar that matched the cup’s design, took the cup from the boy, and filled it. He lifted my shoulders and helped me drink.

“You must rest a while longer.”

I lay back and looked closely at the man’s face, and realized with a start that he could be related to the corpse I had left out in the desert. He was by no means as ugly, but he had the same high forehead, jutting brows, and pug nose, all a little less pronounced. Even the canines. They weren’t the pointed fangs of a movie vampire, but wide, strong teeth, more like short tusks than fangs. The other two had that same look—a family resemblance?

I decided not to mention the corpse. If these were his family, they might think I had killed him. And it troubled me in an unknown way that I had left his sword out on the desert.

I closed my eyes to a wave of weakness, and again an unfamiliar word came naturally to my lips. “Keeshah?”

“You may tend your sha’um when you are more rested. He is strong—stronger than you. Relax.”

My sha’um. Funny word.
Shah-oom.
With a glottal stop.

I remembered.

The big cat looming over me, not attacking but nuzzling in an urgent way. Trying to get his huge head under my unmoving bulk. I understood at last, and put my arms around his neck. He surged upward, lifting me to my knees, then lay down on the sand in front of me. I fell across his back, managed to turn my body to straddle him, and again locked my arms around his neck. Then he carried me across the desert in long, loping strides. The last thing I could remember before waking here was the regular, comforting motion of the strong body beneath me.

Yes, Keeshah was stronger than I could ever hope to be. He was a sha’um.

Sha’um.
Great cat. Or, literally: cat great. This language put the adjective after the noun, as the Romance languages did.

What?
I started from my half-doze.
What the hell is going on in my head?
It suddenly became very important for me to find out who I was.

I tried to sit up and ask my new friends, but I couldn’t. That last cup of water must have been drugged. I gave in and relaxed again.
I
think I’m better
, I told myself with crazy logic.
At least I know now that I don’t know who I am.

I dozed off, still puzzling over a language I understood perfectly, and at the same time knew damned well I had never heard before.

I dreamed a dream.

“The Mediterranean is beautiful on a moonlit night, is it not?” said a voice at my elbow. A woman’s voice, huskier than contralto, a voice that suited the evening. Her Italian sounded Milanese.

I turned to look at her, sure before I saw her of what I would see. I had just been thinking of her, remembering the happy laugh I had heard across the dining room, wishing that during this cruise I might meet her on deck and share just such a lovely night with her. If I have learned anything in my long life, it is that wishes occasionally come true.

She was tall, five feet seven or so—she would have said 170 centimeters—with the blonde hair and the svelte figure of the Lombard. Her gracefully and delectably low-cut gown had the unmistakable, expensive look of Alderuccio of Rome.

“It is made even more beautiful by your presence, Contessa,” I said. A man of sixty can afford to be gallant, especially if its the truth.

Her lovely laugh rang out. “I am not the Contessa, signore.”

“You must be, my dear. At dinner this evening, the gentleman next to me—Colonello Gucci—distinctly said to me, ‘Dottore, you see that most beautiful woman sitting a few places down from the end, at the Captains table? That is the Contessa di Falco.’ Since you were the most beautiful woman at that table—indeed, on the ship—I concluded he meant you.”

“No.” She shook her head and made the silver-set dangles at her ears wink in the moonlight. “That is my sister, who was sitting next to me. I am Antonia Alderuccio.”

I gestured at the dress. “You are Alderuccio of Rome?”

“Wrong again, signore. That is my uncle.” She moved closer to the railing, and the breeze brought the light scent of her perfume past me. “I am sorry, signore, that no one pointed out to me such a distinguished man as yourself. You are Dottore …?”

“Ricardo Carillo, at your service, signorina.”

She turned to face me. The surprise on her face was a fine compliment. “You are Spanish? You speak Italian perfectly!”

“Thank you, but I am Spanish only by ancestry. I am an American.”

“Naturalized, then?”

“No, native born. My ancestors were living in California before the English ever heard of the place.”

“How wonderful! I have seen the cinema films of the early Californians.” She drew up the skirt of her gown, assumed the
en garde,
and attacked me with an invisible rapier in her right hand. “Zorro! So! Zzzt-zzzt-zzzt!”

She stopped. I looked at her in astonishment, then laughed as I had not laughed in years. She dropped her pose and laughed with me.

I was grateful to her. She was young enough to be my granddaughter, yet with her exuberance, she had not so much flaunted her own youth as reminded me of mine. We were closer now; friends.

When we could speak again, she said: “But that still does not explain how you speak Italian so well.”

“The truth is dull, I’m afraid. I have the honor to be a Professor of Romance Languages, University of California at Santa Barbara.”

“But I think of professores always as intense and stoop-shouldered, wearing glasses and not quite looking at one.” She looked at me critically. “You look more like a military man.”

Her zaniness was infectious. I snapped to attention and saluted crisply.

“Master Sergeant Ricardo Carillo, United States Marine Corps, Retired; at your service, signorina.” I relaxed and added, “Actually, I only made corporal in the regulars; the six stripes came from reserve time.”

“I know the reputation of the Marines of the United States—they are the finest fighting force in the world. How brave you must be!” Was she laughing at me? A little, perhaps, but not entirely. I had indeed impressed her; knowing that I
could
impressed
me.

“Not brave, signorina. Cautious. The Corps has a saying: ‘There are old Marines, and there are bold Marines, but there are no old, bold Marines.’ It’s funnier in English, I’m afraid.”

“But it makes sense in any language,” she said seriously. “Why are you sailing the Mediterranean on a cruise ship, Ricardo?” The sound of my first name was very special in her voice. It was a gentle intimacy between us.

“I’m taking a sabbatical leave, Antonia. I’ve been to Europe before—often, in fact. But always on business. Linguistics research, conferences, and other such mundane activities which didn’t allow me to
appreciate
the countries I saw. This time it’s just for fun: a pleasure trip.”

I told her only what she needed to know of the truth. Could I tell her that my health was bad, that diabetes and kidney infection and just plain old age had caught up with me? I don’t think the knowledge would have driven Antonia away, but I was afraid that it would drive her closer, which, under these circumstances, would have been even more repellent to me. Besides, the deck of a cruise ship, surrounded by the shimmering, restive Mediterranean, was no place to speak of death.

“Oh, look, Ricardo.
Look!”
She had been watching the sky with that thoughtful look that is so appealing in young women, but now she pointed upward, completely alert. “That star! It is getting brighter and brighter.”

I did look. There was a pinpoint of light in the sky, unmoving, which was indeed growing brighter second by second.

“Is that what the astronomers call a nova?” she asked. There was excitement in her voice.

I watched the light closely; it changed color. It was orange, then yellow, finally white. And still it grew brighter.

“I’m afraid that’s not in my line, Antonia,” I told her. “But I’d say it has to be at least a supernova.”

I tried to keep the fear from my voice. But now it was a small ball of fire, visibly growing, which did not seem to move. I thought I knew what it was.

A meteor,
I
thought.
It’s coming straight at us.

A falling star, a boloid, a great hunk of rock or iron—it wasn’t my field, as I’d told Antonia, but I knew enough to be frightened. It was a huge mass of space debris, coming in from the sky at a velocity measurable only in miles per second. To say “thirty-six thousand miles an hour” doesn’t mean anything unless you think about it, and we had no time to think.

But I had time to
feel.
I had come to terms, more or less, with my own death long ago. I had half expected to die before I got home; only the manner of it was an incredible surprise. But I felt a totally irrational guilt, as though this disaster were my fault, and because of me, everyone on the ship would die, too.

And Antonia. I was angry on her behalf. So young … Too young …

I didn’t tell her what I knew. I didn’t even try to give an alarm, because I knew there was no time. We simply stood together and watched it grow in eerie silence—it was moving far faster than the speed of sound. From the time she had first seen it until it struck could not have been more than ten or twelve seconds.

Brighter and brighter … larger … closer …

It became a great ball of unbearable light …

I woke up screaming.

I opened my eyes. The soft light around me, diffused through the frosty walls, told me that day had come again. I sat up slowly, surprised to find that I was feeling quite well.

The young man was seated on a nearby white block, padded, as mine was, with colorful tapestry. He stood up with the silent grace cultivated by those who tend the sick, and smiled at me tentatively.

“You had a bad night last night,” he said. “Are you better this morning?”

“Much better,” I assured him. “I’m sorry if I worried you. I had a—a dream.” As I said it, I knew it hadn’t been
precisely
a dream.

“You screamed,” he said. There was a look of consternation on his face, as though he wanted to ask me why, but hesitated. He compromised. “Were you sent a portent of disaster?”

“No. A … memory of a past one.” I smiled at him; I didn’t want more questions right now. “Don’t disturb yourself, please. It was nothing.”

The worry fell away from his face. “Good. I am Keddan of the Fa’aldu. I think you will have more water, then we will bring you a porridge. These things must not be done too swiftly, or you will be sick at your stomach and waste much water.”

I watched him as he unstoppered the decorated pitcher and poured water into two of the fragile cups. He moved with studied care and spilled not a single drop. He was wearing the same kind of long white tunic as the “Respected Father” had worn, and I wondered briefly if the white robes were a uniform of some kind. I put the thought aside as Keddan brought the two cups over to me.

He offered both of them, unmistakably inviting me to choose one for myself. I understood the gesture; he was assuring me that
this
drink was not drugged. And it wasn’t until he dismissed it in this way that I realized the suspicion had been in my mind. Gratefully, I took one of the cups and drank thirstily—though I was careful not to spill any.