The Steel of Raithskar (4 page)

I stood back far enough from the mirror to see my whole body, and I was very pleased with what I saw.

My neck was short, thick, and muscular, like that of a wrestler. My shoulders and chest were broad and well-muscled. They tapered slightly to a waistline fuller than the one I remembered, but flat and harder even than mine had been in my youth.

My genitals seemed quite adequate and appropriate for my size and weight. I would have to see how they stood up to the ultimate test if the opportunity arose.

My legs were muscle-corded, and ended in feet which looked quite ordinary. The toes were a little longer, I thought, but when I flexed them, they worked fine. What more can you ask of toes?

I looked at my hands then, wondering how it was that I had not noticed the difference before now. Ricardo Carillo’s hands were not in any sense delicate, but these made them look weak. The fingers were long and fine, full of strength. The hands themselves were large, though not massively so. With the corded wrists that held them, they were appropriate to the long, thickly muscled arms.

The dark-blond hair of my head grew downy-fine along my forearms and over the backs of my hands, more coarsely on my chest, on the back of my neck, and around my genitals.

I turned and posed in front of the mirror, getting acquainted with my body as I had with my face.

As Ricardo Carillo, I had been tall and reasonably strong; my muscles had remained firm until only a few years ago. The height of this Gandalaran I couldn’t judge until I compared it to others, but he was unquestionably strong. “Rider,” they had called me. I could well see that clinging to the back of that cat for any length of time would develop every muscle you could find.

Whoever it was who shared this body with me, he had taken very good care of it, considering the short time he’d had to develop it …

It hit me then, with more of a shock than looking in the mirror. This was the body of a
young
man.

I’m young again!

I had been ready to die. In the only way I could reckon it, less than two days ago I had come to terms with the fact that I would be dead within a year. To face such a truth, to let it penetrate down to the core of your being, demands incredible effort and indescribable pain. No matter how much life you’ve had, you want more. There are things undone, words unsaid, potentials unexplored. You know you could have done more with your life, and you beg fate, or whatever god you believe in, to give you more time. You know in your heart that another entire lifetime would not be sufficient, yet you pray for just a few more years. You’ve been goofing off, you think; please, just an extra year or two to finish all those abandoned projects!

But you know it can’t be done. Your time has come, and there’s no changing it.

So then you look back and count what you
have
done. And, all in all, the balance is really in your favor.

I looked back and realized that I had spent most of my adult life doing exactly what I wanted to do; exposing younger minds to the variety and the history of the world that I had discovered through languages. Some of my students had taken the time to tell me how much I had changed them. Their viewpoints had broadened, their lives had felt richer. They were aware of themselves as individual units in the composite of civilization. And those words of thanks were precious trophies.

There had been personal relationships, friendships I remembered warmly. Coming back from the war to find “my girl” married to someone else had been a blessing in disguise. I was left free to study all over the world, and to make friends wherever I went. Many of them were women, and some were very special. We shared our lives for a time. It was always—at least for me—very satisfying, and it ended naturally and without bitterness. Yes, I could say to my credit that I had never made a friend, man or woman, who was not still my friend.

So I had accepted, at last, that my life had been full, and well worth living. I had contributed what I could to the lives of other people; hopefully, through them and their memory of me, to the human race as a whole. An extended pleasure trip, to see the places I’d always traveled
between
—that was what I had wanted to do with what remained of my life.

I had made that adjustment. Painfully. Finally. I had been prepared to die.

And now I am alive in another world
, young
in another world, with another lifetime of experiences—new experiences—ahead of me.

I stood motionless for some time, taking it in. Letting the silent raging joy wash away the musty taste of death. And giving thanks in an incoherent, inexpressible way. I knew that I might never know why or how this had happened. But,
Oh, God!
was I glad!

A grumbling roar that I remembered well sounded from outside and brought me back into focus. I dressed again quickly; Keddan would be back soon with my breakfast. And then …

I would have to go out and face that monster cat.

The door curtain was swept aside, and the older of the two men came in, followed by Keddan, who was carrying a bowl. I glanced quickly from it to the recess where the stoppered pitcher stood. Yes, it was the same pattern. These people appreciated fine craftsmanship, if they did not, in fact, create these lovely things themselves.

They stopped a few paces from where I stood and Keddan, still in the background, said in formal tones: “Rider, I present the Respected Elder Balgokh.”

Help!
I thought.
What am I supposed to do? What are the customs?
No answer was forthcoming, so I followed my instincts; I bowed slightly and spoke, relieved to find that the words, at least, were there.

“Greeting, Respected One.”

“Greeting, Rider.” He did not return my bow, but he showed no offense. In fact he smiled, and waved Keddan forward. “We bring you breakfast. You seem to have recovered well. How do you feel?”

“Remarkably well, all things considered,” I said. I accepted the good-smelling bowl of food from Keddan and smiled at him. “Thank you.”

A quick smile lit Keddan’s face, then he left the room. I looked at the imposing figure of Balgokh in his floor-length white robe. He was older than I had first thought, but that did not affect the attitude of accustomed authority which emanated from him. He was a little taller than I, his hair darker and sparser, his hands thinner. He moved them in a gesture of invitation.

“Sit, Rider, and eat,” Balgokh said.

I sat down and took up the eating implement which was partially imbedded in the contents of the bowl. It was ceramic, shaped very much like a spoon, except there were two slots in the end, which formed three fork-like tines. It matched the other pieces of the serving set, and said something about basic values in Gandalara: graceful utility.

The bowl contained what appeared to be finely chopped vegetables and chunks of meat. I scooped a small bite into my mouth, braced for anything. It was pleasantly warm, and tasted something like oatmeal with bits of lamb—a distant relative of haggis.

“This is delicious,” I said, meaning it. Balgokh bowed slightly, accepting the compliment.

“We offer the best fare we can to those who pass through our compound. Please, eat. We will talk when you have finished.”

As I ate—I was intensely hungry, and had to try not to wolf down the food—I considered what they had called me: “Rider.” It was a title, not a name.

The bowl of food was quickly gone and, surprisingly, I was quite satisfied. When I finished, Keddan came back in to take away the bowl and fork-spoon. Had he been watching through the curtained doorway?

When he had gone, Balgokh reached into his flowing robe and took out a small pouch and handed it to me. “Your money, Rider. Your sword will be returned when you are ready to leave.”

I accepted the purse with new misgivings. Hesitantly, I asked, “Do I owe you for your hospitality?”

Oops.

The tall man stiffened, and his voice lost the note of familiarity that had been present earlier. “We sell water to the caravans,” he said with deadly formality, “for that is the living of the Fa’aldu. But we demand nothing of the distressed, and we
never
accept coin.”

Hurriedly I stood up and bowed with what I hoped was formal grace. “I ask your pardon, Respected One.”

Boy, do I need more information about this culture—for that matter, about the person I’m supposed to be. But how the hell can I ask questions about things which are absolutely obvious to other people? A man wandering around California asking questions like “What are grapes?” or “Who is the president of the United States?” is going to be suspect as a mental case. If I don’t want to head straight for the local equivalent of a twitch bin, I’d better think about
everything
I say before I say it. Unless …

I decided to tell part of the truth.

I touched the side of my head gently. “This blow on my head has left me confused, Respected One. My memory is addled.”

To say the least.

He thawed instantly, and looked so concerned that I felt a twinge of guilt. “I have heard of such cases,” he said. “I saw one, myself, many years ago, when I was an apprentice. An unfortunate man. He was a caravan driver, who had been kicked in the head by one of the vleks. He did not know his name or where he came from.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, glad to hear Balgokh’s voice lose its frostiness.

“He died.” Then, at what must have been a look of utter shock on my face, he added quickly, “But he was in much worse shape than you. It was a miracle that he lived the three days he spent with us.”

I laughed a little. “I’m not going to die.” The words held infinite meaning for me. “But I admit I can’t remember my own name.”

He grinned broadly. I was interested to see that, old as Balgokh was, he, too, still had all his own teeth. I was getting used to the large canines; Balgokh’s smiling face was not what I could yet call handsome, but I was beginning to like it. Especially when Balgokh said:

“I am delighted to be of help to you in that respect. Four days ago, the caravan of Gharlas stopped by, trading food and cloth for water. You were with them as a mercenary guard—at least, so Gharlas said.” His grin faded, and a look passed across his face which I couldn’t read. It might have been dislike, or wry humor. “He confided to me—not at my request, I assure you—that he intended to bypass Thagorn in order to save that portion of his freight which would go as duty to the Sharith.”

Sharith.
Catfolk. There was something about the carefully neutral tone in which Balgokh spoke that word that worried me.

“You said ‘so Gharlas said’?” I prompted him.

“Yes.” He began to walk around the room. There was too much dignity in the slow movement to call it pacing. It dawned on me that he was embarrassed, and I recalled Keddan’s reluctance to ask personal questions.

It must be a code of privacy
, I decided.
Or self-preservation. The Fa’aldu don’t get involved with their clientele. But I’m a mystery he couldn’t resist thinking about. Could he be afraid of offending me with his opinions?

“Respected Elder,” I said, and he stopped. He turned to look at me. “Do you know my name?”

“Your name was given to me as Lakad.”

Nice phrasing
, I thought. The name meant nothing at all to me. “But who am I, really?”

Balgokh sighed, and seemed to make a decision. “My first thought,” he said, “when you returned as a Rider, was to believe that you had been a Sharith agent, planted on the caravan. But after we had cared for you, and I considered carefully, I wondered why your sha’um hadn’t taken you directly to Thagorn, given the time you must have been exposed on the desert.

“If you were not Sharith, as I had begun to suspect, your identity was obvious. I know of only one Rider in this part of Gandalara who does not reside in Thagorn. He and his sha’um live in Raithskar. When you named this one Keeshah, the proof was complete.” He paused for emphasis.

“You are Markasset, son of Thanasset.”

“Thank you, Respected One,” was all I said. I had to push the words through a chilling rush of associations too tangled and jumbled for me to read them yet. “My mind is still clouded, but at least I know my name. You have been a great help.”

Markasset.
Yes, it was my name. It
felt
like my name. But it wasn’t. Not quite. Not completely. I still felt like Ricardo Carillo, too.

Thanasset.
My father. As I thought of his name, I could see his face quite clearly. I would recognize him when I met him. But how would I feel about him? There was no emotion connected with the memory. A picture only—a face much like mine, but older and etched with lines. A good face, but only that. Like a photograph.

But instead of solving everything, my new knowledge only led to more questions. If I had been with a caravan, how did I wind up alone in the desert with a dead man? Why was I traveling under an alias? What happened to the rest of the caravan? The old man was looking at me speculatively. I assumed he was thinking those same questions. But I was wrong.

“I am not a Recorder, Rider Markasset,” he said gently, “but it has been said of me that the All-Mind has touched me with the power to read men. And I tell you now that you have changed greatly since you came through here four days ago. Has some Ancestor given you wisdom?”

“Changed?” I asked, avoiding his last question because it made no sense to me at all. “How have I changed, Respected One?”

“As I said, I did not speak to you. But I observed you, and heard what you said to others—in the caravan and here in the compound. Let me say only that now you are … less prideful. Less arrogant. And yet, you seem much more sure of yourself.”

If I’m more sure of myself now
, I thought,
I
must have been
really
confused four days ago.

“If I was disrespectful to the Fa’aldu, I am shamed, Respected One,” I said. And meant it. The Fa’aldu and their water meant survival in the desert, Markasset’s memory told me. Only a fool would offend these desert-dwellers.