The Glass of Dyskornis (4 page)

*
Have you for lunch,
* he said.

I grabbed the trunk of a big bush, pulled against it, and snatched my foot away. He let me go, of course. By now boot and foot would have been a total loss, if he’d been the least bit serious.

*
Come on, you big pussycat,
* I said, grabbing his head and hauling myself to my feet. I ruffled the fur around his ears. *
Let’s get going. I’m hungry.
*

I knelt down by the bush, which was tilted crazily, and tried to repack the soil around the disturbed roots. I whispered an apology to Thanasset, who had planned and planted this landscaped garden himself. Then Keeshah and I went out into the street and headed for the main avenue.

The meatmonger saw us coming, and brought out my order. The roast
thaka
was packed in a draw-string bag of oiled canvas. I tied it to my belt and slung the glith carcass, about thirty pounds of meat and bone, across Keeshah’s shoulders. With my hand resting behind the sha’um’s left ear, we walked down the broad, packed-clay street that led directly from the Square at the center of the city to the gates in Raithskar’s ancient stone wall.

Keeshah would have had no trouble meeting me at the gates or at the meatmonger’s shop. But the riders of the house of Serkajon had always taken pains to make it clear that their sha’um were under control. When Keeshah was in Raithskar, he stayed home unless I was with him.

We walked through the caravan market area that lay just within the city gates. It was bustling with people, but everyone made sure we had plenty of room to pass through.

As soon as we were out of the city, Keeshah crouched down and I sat on his back. I tucked my feet up just ahead of his hindquarters and held down the glith carcass with the weight of my body. The sha’um stood up, moving slowly because he knew I wasn’t as securely attached to him as I usually was.

*
Where?
* he asked me.

*
Somewhere peaceful, Keeshah. You choose.
*

He set off at an easy run, following the city wall westward. We crossed the Skarkel River on a jiggling pontoon bridge that made me so queasy that I had to close my eyes. Then he turned northward, following the river on its western bank. Past the city, the eastern bank was crowded with buildings. Grain mills, refineries, a big building that housed the Raithskarian mint—the river’s power assisted most of Raithskar’s industry.

The western side of the river boasted more agriculture than industry, though we did pass a grain mill or two. When the ground began to rise toward the Wall, cultivated fields gave way to wilder country, lush grassy growth, and thick groves of the short Gandalaran trees.

The Great Wall of Gandalara was a sheer escarpment, so high that its upper edge was obscured by the ever-present cloud layer. When I had awakened, dazed and irrational, in the middle of a salty desert, I had seen the Great Wall as a faded blue line in an otherwise featureless vista. I had scrambled toward it desperately, until Keeshah had decided, finally, that I was worth saving.

The Wall ran roughly east to west, several miles north of Raithskar. Ahead of us now, striking up the thunder that had been growing louder with Keeshah’s every step, were the Sharkel Falls. A massive sheet of water poured down the rock face from the clouds above. The spray it cast around the lake at the base of the Wall formed a new, ground-hugging cloud in the hot Gandalaran air. If we had gone further north, we would have run into the misty cloud. As it was, beads of moisture were already collecting in Keeshah’s fur.

The sha’um turned aside to climb a short, steep slope that was crowned with several of the curly-trunked
dakathrenil
trees. These seemed to be part of an abandoned orchard, for they had been trained, at one time, to stand upright and form an umbrella-like topknot. Now branches twisted downward, intertwined between the trees, and created a perfect backrest for a man sitting on that knoll and looking out over the mist-shrouded lake.

*
Picnic?
* Keeshah repeated the strange image.

*
It’s perfect, Keeshah. Let’s eat.
*

*
What should I do, Keeshah?
* I asked the sha’um. We had finished our food and drunk the water I had brought in a pouch from home. Keeshah was stretched out on his side, and I was sitting propped up against his back, shredding stalks of a hardy, thick-bladed weed.

*
Scratch between shoulders,
* he suggested. I laughed and complied, enjoying the way his thick fur whispered through my fingers.

*
I mean, which job should I take? Or should I pass up both of them? What should I do about Worfit?
*

*
l kill?
*

*
No. At least, not unless you have to, OK?
*

He agreed, with the mental equivalent of a shrug. Unless Worfit actually caused me harm, or I gave Keeshah specific orders regarding him, the little roguelord meant absolutely nothing to the great cat.

*
You don’t want jobs,
* Keeshah volunteered.

*
Yes, I
…
You’re right, as usual, Keeshah. Both jobs need doing, but I’m not the one to do them. At least, not yet. Still
—
I have to do something to make a living for us. The idea of teaching kids to use a sword doesn’t strike me well, either.
*

With his stomach full and his back being scratched, Keeshah had almost fallen asleep. I assumed that I was talking to myself. But a thought from Keeshah reached me, sounding slow and sleepy in my mind.

*
Need time. Rest.
*

*
You or me, Keeshah?
*

*
Both.
*

Hadn’t I had the same thought earlier? That I needed some leave time before I could settle down to—well, to whatever career I chose in this world? And even then, I hadn’t considered Keeshah’s needs, assuming that just lying still after all that running would constitute rest for him.

I realized now that it didn’t work that way. He could always sense unhappiness or anxiety in me. As long as I couldn’t relax, neither could he.

*
I’m sorry I haven’t asked you before this,
* I said to him. *
Is there something you would like to do?
*

*
Yes.
*

He stopped there, and I sensed a reluctance in him, as though he wasn’t sure whether I’d approve of what he wanted.

*
Tell me,
* I urged.

*
Hard to say,
* he explained, and I felt his mind groping for the close bond we had shared on other occasions. As he had done for me then, I stilled my mind and waited for what he wanted to tell me.

An image formed slowly, at once familiar and all new. It was the nighttime scene at Thagorn which had moved me so much that I had reached for Keeshah to share it. The river which cut the valley in half was murmuring nearby. Across it, dying cookfires cast glows like candle flames into the night sky. There was music, and the sound of children playing. Through Keeshah’s perception, odors I had not even noticed were distinct and plentiful.

And there was the sound of sha’um.

What I had felt when I looked at that scene paled to insignificance beside the emotions it had stirred in Keeshah. I had heard growling and rumbling and roaring from the sha’um. Keeshah had heard music far more potent than the flute and harp and voice which had charmed me. He had heard the song of his own heritage, and it had stimulated long-ago memories and unrecognized needs.

The vision lasted only a short while, for this kind of sharing was both a joy and a tremendous strain for both of us. When Keeshah withdrew, he waited silently for my response, lifting his head to look over his shoulder at me.

*
How could it hurt me to know that you are lonely for your own kind?
* I asked him gently. *
I
felt something like that, too—a kinship with those people who understood the partnership between a man and his sha’um. And I do remember saying to you that we would go back to Thagorn together someday, if it were possible. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it?
*

*
Yes. We go?
*

*
I don’t know, Keeshah. There’s a job waiting there for me, too. And I know I don’t want that one.
*

*
You don’t want job,
* he agreed, staring at me with unblinking gray eyes. *
You do want to go. Say when.
* With that, he lowered his head to the ground and slipped into a light sleep.

It’s an unsettling experience, having a cat tell you what you’re thinking. Especially when you’re not sure, yourself, about something. But it’s useful.

I do want to go back to Thagorn
, I realized, as I lay down beside Keeshah and looked up through pointed leaves at the cloud-masked sky.
I like Dharak a lot, and it seems unfair to let him believe I’m going to come back and take over the burden he’s carried all these years. If I could get there, and talk to him alone before he makes anything official …

Boy, I would like to spend some time with the Sharith. Get to know their routine. Share the experience of riding. Relax. Be myself.

Markasset never set foot in Thagorn. I don’t believe he ever thought very much about the Sharith and their connection with his family. In Thagorn, I could be free of his “echo” for a while, and get acquainted with this world on my own.

Zaddorn doesn’t have lines of people waiting for that job. He’d accept a short delay before I stepped into it. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d let me do it. He wouldn’t have much choice.

What about Ferrathyn and the Council? I can’t know for sure, of course, but I suspect they’ll want a definite answer tomorrow. They might accept the delay if I could be confirmed, or sworn in, or whatever, before I left. But that would still require a decision right now, which is what I’m trying to avoid.

And here’s the sixty-four dollar question: if I leave Raithskar and get out of his reach, will Worfit take out his anger on the people close to me? Would I be justified in taking away their protection?

Puzzles! Always puzzles!
I complained.
I’m not getting anywhere.

Gharlas is responsible for all this
, I thought.
If
he hadn’t stolen that fool gemstone, Zaddorn wouldn’t have harrassed Worfit into threatening me.

But then, I’d never have gone to Thagorn. For that matter, Markasset would have had no reason to follow Gharlas away from the caravan in the middle of the night and get himself killed.

Would I be here if Markasset were still alive?
I wondered.
And if both our personalities were intact, in the same body, which one would dominate? Unimportant, since it didn’t happen that way, but as an intellectual exercise, I’d have to say the native, because of his familiarity with the world and the way his body worked.

I can’t buy Thanasset’s explanation of me. I’m not part of this world, wherever it is. Or I wasn’t, until I died in my own. And if there was some purpose in my coming here, as Thanasset thinks, it’s my guess that I’ve already accomplished it by getting the old man off the hook over the Ra’ira’s theft. So the rest of this life is mine, and I do want it to be worthwhile. All I have to do is decide how to support myself …

I drifted off to sleep.

I woke late in the afternoon, alarmed to think I might be late meeting Illia. Keeshah was instantly alert and, as he had already buried the remains of his meal, we took off running.

I clung to his back with hands, elbows, and thighs, trying to make myself an extension of Keeshah. I closed my eyes against the wind, and reached out to form a light linkage with Keeshah’s mind. He loved to run, to stretch himself and drive the ground along underneath him. I let my problems drift away as I shared that total, physical joy with the great cat.

We stopped at the gate of the city, and I walked Keeshah home, all the way to the semi-dark house at the back of Thanasset’s yard. As I left him, I realized that he hadn’t brought up Thagorn again. I supposed he had considered his last words sufficient.

I went to the back door of the house and found it off its latch, swinging wide open. A shiver crept up my spine.

“Milda! Thanasset!” I shouted, as I ran into the house.

The midhall was a mess. Dishes had been brought from the dining room and shattered against the fine parquet walls. The portraits and sketches which had decorated one wall had been pulled down and thrown around; not one glass frame was intact. The beautiful parquet was marred, and the floor was littered with broken crockery.

“Markasset?” The voice was old and thin, and it sounded from the dining room.

“Milda!” I ran in to find her bending over the dining table, rubbing a dark and glistening oil into white scars that crisscrossed its polished surface. “Are you all right, darling?” I asked her. I put my arm around her shoulders and turned her face toward me, pulling her gaze away from the table. Her eyes looked through me at first, then began to focus.

“Markasset!” This time, her voice carried awareness. She moved to hug me, then drew back. “Oh, I forgot. You’re not …”

“It doesn’t matter, Milda,” I said, and pulled her into my arms. The top of her bald head barely reached my shoulder. “Please tell me you’re all right.”

With a little sob, she put her arms around me and hugged me with all her strength. Gandalarans don’t weep tears except to cleanse their eyes of foreign matter; emotional tears would be a waste of water. They do have physical reactions similar to the human expression of grief. For a few seconds, Milda gasped and choked and clung to me. When she seemed to have control again, I held her away from me and was glad to see that the glaze of shock was almost gone from her eyes.

“Yes, I’m all right, Rikardon,” she said. Her voice was still shaky. “But—oh, look at this! I’m getting oil all over your tunic.” She looked down at the messy rag, and the bowl of oil resting on the ruined table. She laughed a little. “Isn’t that silly? All I could think of was fixing the table before Thanasset came home.” She chuckled again, more loudly. “Isn’t that silly?”