Haydn of Mars (12 page)

When he finished and dropped his bowl with a belch onto the ground, I asked, “What about the lesser cities?”

He became thoughtful.
 
“There is Robinson, of course, but that is a strange place, full of outlaws.
 
Then there is Sagan and Shklovskii, the twin cities, which in some ways are even stranger. They are near the lowlands and deserts.
  
There are many outlaw scientists there, practicing strange arts.”

“Such as?”

He waved a paw in dismissal.
 
“Blasphemous things.
 
Airships that will fly without balloons – as if the gods would not swat them down like flies!
 
Mechanical motors that don't run on steam.
 
Then after the highlands come the lowlands, which quickly become dunes and desert.
 
The Baldies live there, of course.”

His talk of flying ships intrigued me, but so did his mention of the Baldies.

“Tell me about the Baldies,” I replied.

“What's to tell?
 
You avoid them!
 
They are like wildcats with intelligence!
 
Which will not prevent them from eating your flesh!
 
But at least they will discuss it with you in guttural terms while they are cooking you!
 
We will avoid them, believe me.
 
I know ways through the deserts” – he pointed to his laden horse – “I have maps and charts that took me years to acquire which will get us through any part of the lowlands.
 
There are some interesting things there.”

“Such as?”
 
I told him of the place the Mighty had shown me, where I found my precious book.

He nodded, without much interest.
 
“Like that, and more.
 
In fact, there is a place near the ruins of an ancient city that is exactly like that you describe, only much larger.
 
It is on one of my maps.
 
But we won't be going that way.”

He saw the dejection on my face and added, “But we will see other things that will no doubt amaze you.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“If you are interested in the past.”

“And you aren't?”

“Me?
 
I am interested in two things: shen,” he rubbed a finger and thumb together, “and spices.
 
The two of them are often the same thing.”

“And cooking?”

He pondered this.
 
“Yes.
 
But cooking without spice is nothing.
 
It is boiling water and roasting dead things.”
 
He groaned himself to his feet.
 
“But come.
 
We must be on our way if we are to make Schiaparelli for Noon services.”

We made Schiaparelli at ten minutes to noon.
 
The city appeared as a shimmer on the horizon, which soon resolved into a wide dusty blur and then, abruptly, an oasis of sound and drab color.
 
It seemed to be one vast market stall.
 
We passed under the watchful eye of a sentry in a low tower guarding a gate in the low, rugged stone wall surrounding the place.
 
He seemed more interested in what Hermes had in his hand and tossed to him as we rode by than in ourselves.
 
Hermes never broke stride or looked at the scraggly fellow, but a slight nod passed between them after the sentry caught and checked the coin in his paw, and that was the last we saw of him as he retreated into his tower.

I had become so unused to masses of people that at first I was uneasy.
 
Hermes must have sensed this because he turned to me and shouted above the roar of the milling crowds in the dusty streets, “It is different from the Mighty's camp, eh?”

I nodded, and he laughed.

“Don't worry, my dear.
 
I have two men to see and then we will be off on the road again.”

I noted the decrepit clock tower in the middle of the square, a copy in miniature of the one on the imperial tower in Wells – its hands were just reaching noon.

“What about services?” I shouted.

He laughed.
 
“That is just something I tell myself to make sure I'm on time for other things!”

No one else seemed to be slowing down as the rusty-sounding chimes gave off the hour of the day and then moved on.

We drove our mounts as best as we could through the milling throng.
 
I saw cats in various strange garb – tall stiff hats, scarves composed of acres of colored silks, one fellow who seemed to be dressed like a metal man, in armor.
 
In amongst them I saw the distinctive red tunic and watchful, suspicious eye of the F'rar guard.
 
My heart skipped a beat.

But my companion rode oblivious through all this, a pleasant, expectant grin on his countenance, so I tried to follow suit.
 

No one seemed to have the slightest interest in us, until we came to one of the few prosperous-looking structures in the town – a two story edifice of red brick with gold-painted cherubs with wings and paws stretched toward the sky, full-sized statues, mounted to either side of the gold-painted door.
 
The door was half open, and a tall, thin, sharp eyed and prosperous looking gentleman stood with his arms folded, smiling hugely.

“Hermes!” he shouted, as we dismounted and tied our mounts to the post to the left of the door.
 
The man came all the way out and greeted my companion with a hug.
 
He then abruptly pushed the fat cook away and stood regarding me with wary interest.

“And who is this?”

“My cousin,” Hermes said.
 
“That is all you need to know, Dardo.”

Dardo let his eye linger on me for one more moment before turning back to the cook.
 
“So, tell me!
 
What have you brought!
 
My chef is dying for more takka root!”

“I have takka root coming out of my ears!” Hermes laughed.
 
“And I have no doubt that your cook uses too much of it!”

They both laughed, and Dardo pushed the door to his establishment wide and bade us in.

I entered into gloom suffused with eye-hurting beams of light streaming in through tall windows.
 
The room was cavernous, with a long, dark bar along one end to the left, and a huge dining area over-lit by those windows on the right.
 
Ceiling fans turned lazily below the lushly painted ceiling – there were scenes of ancient battles and love scenes immediately identifiable from various ancient poems and myths.
 
I noticed that the scenes began chaste over the dining area near the windows and grew increasingly less so, until, as they reached the bar, they became downright raunchy.

Hermes threw his arm around my shoulder and drew me toward the bar.
 
“Come with me!
 
You'll get a neck cramp looking at that junk.
 
I have
ale
for you to try!”
 

I sat with him, and Dardo himself served us from behind the bar.

I stared at the drink before me: a huge, tapered glass, dark brown as a toasted nut, and frothing foam on the top as if Olympus Mons had come back to life.

“What is–?”

“That, dear cousin, is Volcano Ale!”
 
He pointed to Dardo, who gave a slight nod of his head.
 
“That highway robber behind the bar brews it himself in the cellar!”

They both waited for me to taste it, and I did so, cringing until the first sip produced a wonderful explosion of sweet berry and fruit tastes on my palate.

I must have shown my pleasure because they both laughed.

Hermes grinned at me from ear to ear.
 
“What did I tell you about ale?
 
But be careful – this stuff is stronger than it tastes!”

He turned to Dardo, and the two of them began to discuss business as if I wasn't there.
 
The ale kept me company.
 
When the first was finished a second magically appeared, and it was somewhere in the midst of this second helping of pleasure that I noticed the tiring effects it was having on me, which did not keep me from finishing a third when it was put before me.

I found myself leaning against Hermes, my eyes half closed.

“What?
 
Is little cousin so tired?
 
Perhaps she should take a nap.”
 
He laughed.
 
“I told her it was strong and she didn't believe me!”

I nodded vaguely, and, vaguely still, noted that the fat cook was now helping me up a wide, beautifully carpeted stairway, with Dardo leading the way.
 
The innkeeper held a large ring of jangling keys in his hand, and selected one as he went along.

“In here,” I heard him say, and noted that we had stopped before a particular door of rich, dark wood.
 
There was a cameo of a female cat's face, the princess from the legend
Ailla
, laid on its surface.

I heard the key rattle in the door, felt myself move forward, saw a rectangle of shaded window and then felt the cool, soft hands of a pillowed bed, something I hadn't slept in in months, enfold me like the arms of a mother.

And then I heard myself gently snoring, and then heard no more.

Until Hermes came back to kill me.

I came instantly awake. I did not know how long I had slept, but I heard the door to the room ease open and felt as much as saw the figure standing over me, holding a long blade.

“Poor girl,” Hermes said.
 
He sounded very drunk.
 
This was confirmed a moment later when he leaned over me as I feigned sleep and I smelled the thick odor of Volcano Ale on his breath.
 
My paw went to my belt under the folds of my robe and stayed there.

He stood swaying with the long blade in his paw and continued to look down at me.

Suddenly he staggered back a step and collapsed to the floor, weeping.

“I am not a murderer,” he sobbed.
 
“Of all the things I have done, I cannot do that!”

Stealthily, I brought my own blade out and slipped out of the bed behind him, pressing the blade to Hermes's throat.

“Why were you going to kill me?” I whispered.
 
“Tell me, or I will cut you.”

He gasped, and dropped his own blade, which I kicked into the corner.

“
Tell me!”
I ordered.
 
“Or I'll bring you back to the Mighty myself and let him deal with you.”

This brought on a fresh bout of weeping.
 
“It's no use, Ransom
.
 
By now the Mighty is gone.
 
They're all gone!
”

I pressed the blade deeper into his throat, and a chill went down my spine.
 
“What do you mean?” I hissed.

“They're dead by now.
 
The Meridiani Pass, they were to be waylaid there.”

I nearly cut him, such was my rage.
 
“How could you do this?”

“How could I
not!
” he wailed.
 
“The F'rar have taken my entire family hostage in the east!
 
Just as it was with the girl Hera.”
 
He looked up at me with haunted eyes.
 
“They drew and quartered my brother Timon!
 
They cut out my father's tongue – and he a singer!
 
And said they would do worse to the rest of them if I did not do as they asked and delivered you to them.
 
If they had known you were still with the Mighty you would be dead by now.
 
Because I did not trust them, I told them you left a week ago and that I was to meet you on the way north.
 
But still they insisted on attacking the Mighty, to make sure.
 
We were lucky to leave when we did.”

“The Mighty trusted you!” I responded.

“It is the worst thing I could ever do!” He buried his face in his paws and wept. “
But they have my family!
”

“What were you to do after you killed me?” I asked him.

Still weeping, he said, “Bring your body to them as proof.
 
Then they will let my family go.”

“They won't, and you are a fool.
 
I suggest you go to the morgue and find a suitable replacement for me.”

He looked at me in horror.
 
“The F'rar will kill me!”

“If you follow me, or ever come within my sight again, fat cook, I'll kill you myself,” I said. “I am sorry for your family, but what you did cannot be forgiven.”