Queen of Zamba, page 5
part #1 of Viagens Series
Hasselborg pushed his own dagger until Sarhad said: "Ohé! I bleed!"
"Then drop your knife."
Hasselborg heard it fall, felt for it with his foot, and kicked it away. All this had happened so quietly and quickly that nobody else appeared to have noticed.
"Now, young master," said Hasselborg quietly, "we're going to have a little talk."
"Oh, no we're not! If I yell, they'll be all over you."
Hasselborg made the head-motion meaning "no" and said: "I think not. Dips operate alone, so you have no gang; and you'd be dead before they could interfere and so would get no satisfaction from my demise. Finally, the brotherhood of criminals considers it an unfair business practice to commit a crime in a hideout like this for fear of bringing danger upon all. Do you follow me?"
The youth's naturally greenish complexion became even more so. "How know you so much? You look not like one of the fellowship."
"I've been places. Keep your voice down and keep smiling." (Hasselborg emphasized the point with a dig of the dagger.) "This inn caters to the brotherhood, doesn't it?"
"Surely, all men know that."
"Are there others in Rosid?"
"It's true. The big robbers frequent the Blue Bishtar, the spies collect at Douletai's, and the perverts at the Bampusht. While if you'd have an orgy of the rramandú drug, or crave to feast on the flesh of men, try the Ye'mazd."
"Thanks, but I'm not that hungry yet. Now, I want to know about local police methods—"
"So the haughty stranger has a game—"
"Never mind that; I'm asking the questions! Who's the chief of police?"
"I know not your meaning ... ao! Prick me not; I'll answer. I suppose you'd wish the commandant of the city guard—"
"Is that part of the army?"
"But of course; what think you? Or else the captain of the night watch. They've but now elected a new one, Master Makaran the goldsmith."
"Hm-m-m. Is there any central office where they keep records of your colleagues and other matters having to do with the law?"
"I suppose the archives of the city court—"
"No, not records of trials. I mean a file of records of individuals—with a picture and description of each one, a list of his arrests, and the like."
"I've never heard of aught like that!" cried Sarhad. "Do they thus at the place whence you come? A terrible place it must be, in all truth; not even Maibud god of thieves could make an honest living, let alone a poor mortal cutpurse. How manage they?"
"They get along. Now, where can I buy some artist's supplies?"
The youth pondered. "Oho, so you're one of those who falsify copies of old pictures? I've heard of such; fascinating work it must be. You'd not like an assistant, would you?"
"No. Where—"
"Well, let me see, keep you along Novorecife Pike until you pass through the city wall, then continue for two blocks to the public comfort station, then turn right for one block, then left for half a block, and you'll see the place on the left. The street's called Lejdeú Lane. I remember not the name of the shop, but you can tell it by the—you know, one of those things painters hold in one hand while they mix their hues on it—over the door."
Hasselborg said: "I suppose you could enjoy your meal better without my dagger pricking your skin. If I put it away, will you be a good boy?"
"But surely, master. I'll do aught that you command. Are you absolutely sure you crave no partner? I can show you your way about here, as Sivandi showed Lord Zerré through the maze in the story—"
"Not yet," said Hasselborg, who thought he could trust Sarhad about as far as he could knock him with a feather. He ate with his left hand, keeping his right ready for trouble.
When he finished, he hitched his wallet around and said: "Has anybody around here heard of another stranger from Novorecife coming this way about ten ten-days ago? A man about my height—" He went into his description and produced the sketches.
"No," said Sarhad, "I've seen none like that. I could ask around, though I doubt 'twill help, because I keep close track of new arrivals myself. I make the rounds of the inns, and watch by the city gates, and keep myself generally informed. Little goes on in this city that Goodman Sarhad knows not of, I can tell you."
Hasselborg let him chatter until he finished. Then, rising, he said: "Better get that prick taken care of, chum, or you'll get infected."
"Infected? Ao!" Sarhad for the first time noticed the darkened stain on his jacket. "The cut's nought, but how abut paying me for my coat? Brand-new; only the second wearing; just got it from Rosid's finest tailor—"
"Stow it; that's only a fair return. The stars give you pleasant dreams!"
-
Next morning Hasselborg, not trusting these great clumsy locks, checked his belongings to make sure nothing had been stolen. Then he set out afoot. The city gate was decorated with heads stuck on spikes in what Hasselborg considered questionable taste. A couple of spearmen halted him. They let him through after he had waved the letter to the dasht and signed a big register.
He strolled through the city, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells—though the last could not very well be avoided, and caused him to worry about picking up an infection. He was almost run down by a boy-Krishnan on a scooter and then had to jump to avoid a collision with a portly man in the robe, chain, and nose-mask of a physician, whizzing along on the same kind of vehicle.
At the artists' shop, he asked for some quick-drying plaster—he meant plaster of Paris but did not know the Gozashtandou for it—and some sealing wax. With these purchases he returned to his hotel, signing out again at the gate. The calendar girl, having let herself in with a pass key, was doing his room. She gave him a good-morning and a smile that implied she would be amenable to further suggestions. Hasselborg, having other fish to fry, merely gave her the cold eye until she departed.
When alone, he put on his glasses, lit his candle, and got out his bachelor sewing kit and his little Gozashtandou-Portuguese dictionary. With the plaster he made molds of the three big waxen seals on his letter to the dasht. Then he broke open the seals, carefully so as not to tear the stiff glossy paper, and detached the fragments of the seals from the ribbon that enwrapped the letter by heating the needle from his kit in the candle flame and prying the wax loose from the silk.
He held the letter towards the light from the little window and frowned in concentration. When he had puzzled out the Pitmanlike fishhooks of the writing, he saw that it read:
Julio Góis to the Lord Jám, Dasht of Rúz:
I trust that my lord's stars are propitious. The bearer is a spy from Mikardand who means you nought but ill. Treat him even as he deserves. Accept, lord, assurances of my faithful respect.
-
Chapter V
Hasselborg, reading the letter through again, did a slow burn and suppressed an impulse to crumple the letter and throw it across the room. That dirty little— Then his sense of humor came to his rescue. The fishes answered with a grin, "Why, what a temper you are in!" And hadn't he been up against this sort of thing often enough not to let it get his goat, or whatever they had in lieu of goats on Krishna?
So, Góis had been getting ideas from Hamlet! Hasselborg shuddered to think of what might have happened if he'd handed the letter to the dasht without reading it first.
What now? Gallop back to Novorecife to denounce Góis? No, wait. What had possessed Góis to do such a thing? The man had seemed to like him, and he didn't think Góis was off his wavelength. It must be that Hasselborg's presence on Krishna threatened Góis' interests; just how would transpire in due course. If so, if Góis were involved in some racket or conspiracy, his superiors like the pompous Abreu might be also involved. In any case, these Brazzies, while good fellows for the most part, would stick together against a mere Americano do Norte.
Could he forge a new letter? It would take a bit of doing, especially since he was not sure that his written Gozashtandou would fool a bright native. By consulting his dictionary, however, and experimenting with a pencil eraser, he found that he could erase the words for "spy" and "ill" and substitute "artist" and "good" for them. He did so, folded the letter, and tied it up. Then with the candle he melted gobs of sealing wax on the ribbon where it crossed itself and used the plaster molds of the original seals to stamp new impressions on the wax just like the old.
Before he mounted his noble aya and galloped off in all directions, however, a little reflection was in order. He went to work with needle and thread on the cuts in his coat left by the affrays of the previous day while he pondered. Since Góis had tried this treacherous trick, he had probably also lied about the direction in which Fallon had gone. As Hasselborg could neither be sure of the direction nor return to Novorecife for more instructions, he would have to do it the hard way. He would have to make a complete circuit of the Terran outpost: rivers, mountains, bandit-infested swamps, and all, investigating all the routes radiating out from Novorecife until he picked up the trail of the fugitives. Of course, if his circuit failed to find the trail, he would have a good excuse to—stop it! he sternly told himself. This is a job.
Meanwhile he had better try the dasht, as originally intended, on the chance that he might be able to pick up a lead at the court. Then a quick getaway with an introduction to some bigwig in Hershid ...
-
A brisk, cool wind flapped the pennons on the spires of the onion-shaped domes of the palace and drove great fleets of little white clouds banked deep across the greenish sky. This green-and-white pattern was reflected in puddles around the palace gate. The wind also whipped Hasselborg's cloak as he stood talking to the sentry at the gate. The guard said:
"His High-and-Mightiness will take your letter within, and in an hour he'll come back to tell you to come round tomorrow to learn when the dasht'll give you an audience. Tomorrow he'll tell you the schedule's not made up for the next ten-night, and to return next day. After more delays, he'll tell you to be here twenty days from now. So ye'll just sit and drink until your money's gone, and when the day arrives ye'll be told that at the last minute they gave your time to some more worshipful visitor, and ye'll have to begin over, like Qabuz in the story who was trying to climb the tree for the fruit and always slipped back just afore he reached it. I envy you not."
Hasselborg jerked the strap of his wallet so that the coins inside jingled, saying: "D'you suppose a little of this might help, if you follow me?"
The sentry grinned. "Mayhap, so that ye know how to go about it. Otherwise ye'll lose your coin to no advantage—"
The guard shut his mouth as the black-clad major-domo waddled back to the gate, wheezing: "Come at once, good Master Kavir. The dasht will see you forthwith."
Hasselborg grinned in his turn at the sight of the guard's drooping jaw and followed his guide across the courtyard and through the vast entrance. They passed Krishnans of both sexes in bright clothes of extreme cut, the women in gowns like those of ancient Crete on earth, and walked through a long series of halls dimly lit by lanterns held in wall brackets in the form of scaly, dragonlike arms. Occasionally a page whizzed by on a scooter.
Hasselborg was beginning to wish for a bicycle when they halted at the entrance to a big official-looking room. At the far end he saw a man talking to another who sat on a raised seat—the dasht, no doubt. The major-domo whispered to another functionary. Other Rúzuma sat at desks along the walls or stood around as if for want of anything better to do.
The standing man bowed, put on his hat, and went over to one of the desks to talk to a man there. Then a drum rolled briefly, a horn went blat, and the functionary at the door cried:
"Master Kavir bad-Ma'lum, the distinguished artist!"
Who ever said he was distinguished? thought Hasselborg. Maybe they were trained to do that to impress the yokels. During the long walk, the figure of the dasht grew larger and larger. Hasselborg realized that he was a big fellow indeed, in all directions, with plump ruddy features and bulging green eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles; except for the glasses, altogether like the Krishnan version of a jolly medieval baron.
When Hasselborg reached the end of the line down the middle he doffed his hat, knelt, and cried: "I abase myself before Your Altitude!"
Evidently he had done it right, for Jám bad-Koné said: "Rise, Master Kavir, and advance to kiss my hand. With this recommendation from my good friend Master Julio, all doors shall be open to you. What's your business in Rosid?"
Jám's hand was noticeably dirty, so that the thought of kissing the germ-infested object almost made Hasselborg squirm. Still, he managed the ceremony without a visible tremor, saying:
"I have some small skill at portrait painting, may it please Your Altitude, and thought you or some of your court might like their pictures painted."
"Hm-m-m. Have you mastered the new ertso style?"
"I'm tolerably familiar with the methods of the Ertsuma, Your Altitude."
"Good. I may have a commission for you. Meanwhile feel free to frequent the court. By the way, how's your hunting?"
"I—I've had but small experience—"
"Excellent! My gentlemen pine for amusement, and you shall attend my hunt on the morrow. If you're truly not good at it, so much the better; 'twill afford the rest of us some honest laughter. Be at the lodge an hour before sunrise. It's been a pleasure meeting you."
Hasselborg gave the formula and backed along the line until he came to the crossline that indicated that he could turn and walk out forwards. As he did so, the drummer gave five ruffles and the bugler a toot after each. The doorman shouted:
"A message from His Supreme Awesomeness, the Dour of Gozashtand!"
Hasselborg stood aside to let the messenger by, then went in search of the Charon who had brought him in. He walked slowly, partly to appear at ease, and partly to watch the others to observe how they behaved. There was even a remote chance of stumbling upon Fallon and Julnar; at least one should keep one's eyes open ...
He got lost for a while, wandering from room to room. In one room a pair of bare-breasted women were playing Krishnan checkers while other people kibitzed; in another, a group of Krishnans seemed to be rehearsing for a play. Finally Hasselborg entered a room where Krishnans were snaffling food from a buffet table. He tried some of the stuff cautiously, although the heavy perfume used by the Krishnans kept his appetite down.
"Try some of this," said his neighbor, a man in white satin. "You're the portrait painter, aren't you?"
"Why yes, sir, how did you know?"
"Gossip, gossip. My good sir, with neither war nor jury duty at the moment, how else can one occupy one's time?" Presently they were in friendly chit-chat about superficialities.
"I'm Ye'man," the Krishnan explained, as if everybody should know the patronymic and titles that went with his given name. "This ugly wight on my right is Sir Archman bad-Gavveq the glider champion. Paint him not; 'twill curdle your pigments, as the salt demons curdled the Maraghé Sea in the myth. You should hear Saqqiz read his poem on the theme; a masterpiece in the old epic style—"
When he could get a word in, Hasselborg asked: "Who's the lady in the transparent blue outfit with hair to match?"
"That? Why, that would be Fouri bab-Vazid, of course. You know, old Hasté's niece. Could you not tell by the Western hue of her hair? There are various stories of the whys and wherefores of her staying here; whether that she's enamored of our good dasht, or promoting her uncle's cult, or spying for the dour—But you'll hear all that in due course. You'll be in on the hunt? We should have a good fall, not like last time, when the field crossed the reach and the drum led porridge up the chimney—"
Since his companion's speech seemed to have become suddenly unintelligible, and since mention of hunting reminded him that he had preparations to make, Hasselborg excused himself and sought the exit. He found the major-domo in a kind of sentry box just inside the main entrance to the palace, whence he could keep an eye on the gate.
He said: "Thank you for your courtesy," and dropped a couple of silver karda into the man's hand. As the latter's expression implied that he'd guessed the size of the tip about right, he continued:
"I should like to ask you some questions. The dasht just invited me to go hunting tomorrow, and being new here and no hunter anyway, I don't know how to go about it. What do I need, and where's this lodge, and what's he going to hunt?"
"You'll need a hunting suit, sir, which you can get any good tailor to make you, though he'll have to hasten. His Altitude will probably hunt yekis, since the pair he kept for games died but lately. As for the lodge—"
Hasselborg copied down the directions, thinking that to one who had hunted the most dangerous game, man, riding out and spearing some poor animal would seem pretty stupid. However, orders were orders.
