The Steel of Raithskar (13 page)

“I confess that I do not always
like
my son. But he is my only son, and I love him more dearly than my own life.” His voice deepened, and for the first time I could see through his outward calmness to a core of grief and fear. “You need not reveal your identity to me,” he said, with a dignity I admired more for having had a glimpse of its shaky foundation. “I have seen enough of you to be well content that your presence honors the body of my son. But I ask you, as a father, to tell me this: when will Markasset return?”

My brain seemed to freeze.
Return?

Great God in Heaven!

The thought had simply not occurred to me before. I had accepted the fact that I had possession of a body that belonged to someone else. I felt no guilt for taking it over—certainly without its owner’s permission. It had just happened. I hadn’t planned it—hell and damnation, I had never even dreamed that something like this
could
happen.

That’s not to say that I believed that reincarnation was impossible. As a child I had had the concepts of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory (and Limbo, which didn’t concern me since I had been baptized) drilled into me. As I grew older, I began to question the truth of those teachings, and to consider other alternatives. Philosophically, Nirvana and the Final Blackout were equally unappealing to me. Reincarnation—well, it seemed like wishful thinking to me. The defining factor for my entire attitude toward an afterlife of any kind was the total absence of objective evidence. I decided fairly early to suspend belief. “Wait and see” was my personal policy with regard to eschatology.

And now, what I had seen fit none of the alternatives I had considered. Even reincarnation was supposed to be an entirely new beginning—not an interruption of someone else’s life.

I had lived through a dizzying displacement. I had come to accept the change. I was prepared, after traumatic adjustments I haven’t been able to describe adequately, to assume the identity of Markasset. And with his identity, his responsibilities. For Thanasset. For his possible involvement with the theft of the Ra’ira. For his obligation—one which Ricardo had never undertaken in his own life—to Illia. For his wonderful bond with Keeshah.

I had accepted Markasset’s life.
The rest of Markasset’s life.

It had never occurred to me that I might only have borrowed it.

I felt suddenly like some indigent old drunk who has awakened from a rotgut binge to find himself in a fine house with no idea how he got there. He takes advantage of it, enjoys himself—clean silk sheets, caviar, and champagne—and then realizes suddenly that the owner may come back at any moment and throw him out. Or worse.

“When will Markasset return?”
Thanasset’s words echoed in my brain, stirring up a maelstrom of emotion. Not panic. Panic is unreasoning and unreasonable. It was logical, possible, even, I had to admit,
just
that Markasset might reclaim the place I had unwillingly taken from him. What I felt was a thundering, horrible fear.

Not fear of death. I had felt that before: when the doctor gave me the bad news, when I watched the meteor approach, when Keeshah rushed toward me out in the desert. This was far worse. It wasn’t only that after having been given a second chance at life, it might be snatched away from me. It was …

The closest thing I had felt to it before was beginning a really entertaining mystery novel and misplacing the book. It’s a poor simile, and only a shallow imitation of what I felt now, but it shared the sense of … leaving something important, something worthwhile unfinished.

I
cared
about this old man, about the town, about the Ra’ira. It terrified me to think that Markasset might return before I could straighten out the mess he had left behind!

I realized that Thanasset had said something to me.

I fought down the surge of fear, got it under control, and searched my short-term memory for Thanasset’s words.

“Is something wrong?”
came the playback. He was standing beside my chair, his hand on my shoulder. I was stiff and cramped, and I realized that I was clutching the arms of the chair as though holding on to life itself. Which I had been trying to do. With an effort, I relaxed my arms and reached for the glass beside the table. My hand was still shaking.

Thanasset picked it up before I could reach it. “I’ll refill your glass,” he said.

While his back was turned, I sat up straighter, shook my head to clear it. It would do no good to think of the future right now. I had to face a man who wanted to know about an intruder who had taken his-son’s place. I needed all my wits to be honest with him without frightening or alienating him.

Thanasset brought back my glass and sat down again across from me, obviously expecting an answer to his question. I looked at him directly.

“I don’t know, Thanasset. Please believe me, I would tell you if I knew, but I don’t.”

His shoulders sagged, and I saw a brief struggle in his face. Then he smiled.

“A fair answer. Then—can you tell me about yourself? Who are you?”

Here, I knew, I needed caution. One of the things that had led me to be skeptical about reincarnation had been a uniform quality of silliness in the Westerners I had met who professed to “remember” past lives. The Hindu or the Buddhist of eastern Asia bears his belief with dignity. It is part of a religion. To so many Westerners, it was a topic for discussion at cocktail parties.

The “remembered” lives had always been exciting and ended in murder, execution, or dramatic suicide. Not one of them had been a potato farmer who died quietly in his bed after seventy years of monotonous hard work. I had heard the argument that only violent personalities survived intact, but I frankly saw more late-night television than actual memory in the “past lives” I heard retold. No, I had kept an open mind about reincarnation—in spite of those people, not because of them.

But if I had been unwilling to believe such stories about a world and a time within my experience, if even as history, what would Thanasset think of a man who claimed to have fought his way through the South Pacific in World War Two, had written fourteen well-received books on linguistics and three detective novels, and had died four days ago by being hit by a huge meteor?

My world had oceans, an abundance of wood and iron, horses instead of sha’um … Thanasset wouldn’t even believe the world I had lived in—much less the role I had played in it. So what
could
I tell him?

Carefully, I said, “Before I tell you that, Thanasset, I—well, let me put it this way: I’m more than a little confused, myself. What do you know about … this kind of thing? Have you met cases like this before?”

“I?” he answered with surprise. “No, it happens but rarely. Maybe once in a generation in all of Gandalara. But I have read the accounts of most—if not all—of the Visitations. If I can help you at all, I’d be glad to try.”

“I hope you can.”
You don’t know how much I hope you can!
“It’s my memory, you see. It’s … unreliable. I can ‘remember’ things that did not happen
to me. I
have some of Markasset’s memories, but not all of them, by any means.” I smiled at him. “I remember you well, and Milda.”

“And Illia? Is my son really planning to marry her?”

“That’s one of the blank spots, I’m afraid. I didn’t remember her at all at first. No one else I have met even strikes a bell.” That wasn’t quite true. I remembered Worfit all too clearly. But I didn’t want to bring the outside story, so to speak, into this conversation.

He nodded. “According to the Recordings, that is not at all unusual for a Visitor. Enough memories remain of the displaced one to allow the Visitor to adjust.”

“Well, yes, I appreciate what I have. But I still feel I’m missing some important pieces. That I don’t know a lot of things I should.”

“Such as?”

“Well … this All-Mind you mentioned. If I’m visiting from it I ought to know what it is. But …” My voice trailed off weakly when I looked at his face. “I—I don’t.”

He might have turned to stone, but his eyes widened. He stared at me with the same expression a devout Christian might wear if a radiant being with golden wings and a halo had said to him, “Pardon me, but who is this Jesus fellow you’re talking about?”

After a moment, he relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your … ignorance startled me. But it was foolish of me to suspect you as one of the Nine.”
Nine what?
“Even if I believed my son open to such evil—and he is not; he may be wild but he is basically good—the fact that Keeshah brought you home is perfect evidence of your worth.

“But …” he shook his head, obviously concerned, “not to know of the All-Mind? It’s—well, it’s like not knowing of the sky or the air.”

“The knowledge may have been removed from my mind for a purpose,” I said carefully. “Perhaps it is something I must learn … from you.”

He looked up sharply, suddenly excited. “Yes, that may be it! Markasset had almost no conscious mind-link, and it was a source of bitter argument between us. I always contended that if he could bond with Keeshah, the other skills were there. I said he simply didn’t want to try—” He shrugged and sighed. “Perhaps I was being unfair. But it seemed like a willful failing to me, and symbolic, somehow, of the other ways in which he hadn’t become the son I wanted him to be. It was the main reason why I told him that I would not recommend him to the Council, should a vacancy occur.”

“You
wouldn’t?
Did he have a chance without your support?” I wasn’t sure what the election process was for the Supervisors, but I was fairly sure of Thanasset’s answer before he said it.

“Not the slightest. And he would have been the first son of the house of Serkajon to fail to qualify for the Council. He always seemed rather unimpressed with our family history—but I believe that he realized it, and felt a little shame over it.”

“How long ago did you tell him this?” I asked.
The night before he left with Gharlas?
I wondered.
Have you just given me the true motive for Markasset’s involvement—revenge?

“Several moons ago. Our relations have not been … peaceful ever since.” A wry smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You’re thinking of Illia, aren’t you? He didn’t tell her.”

“Maybe he didn’t believe you’d really bar him from the Council.”

“Maybe. But I prefer to think that it finally dawned on him that his future position meant a great deal to his romance with that girl, and telling her would diminish her interest in him rather drastically.”

I think he’s underrating her. Though she did say specifically “wife of a Supervisor.” In any case, it explains Thanasset’s disapproval of their relationship.

“But to get back to your suggestion of the purpose for your Visitation—I hope you’re right. If I can help you understand about the All-Mind, perhaps Markasset will also learn. Then, when—if—he returns to me …”

Thanasset stood up, taking a small key from the pouch at his belt. He strode over to a wall cabinet, unlocked it, and took out a curiously-wrought bottle and two glasses. Special refreshments, obviously.

I was ready for it.

I felt a deep sense of relief that at last I would be able to discuss the situation, even in limited terms, with someone I could trust. And I was glad to notice that in Thanasset’s attitude there was no trace of religious fear or awe. Respect, yes. But no more than that. For him, my situation was an individualized repetition of something that had happened before. I began to hope he might really help me to understand.

I couldn’t help contrasting the present circumstance with the way such a thing would be treated in California. If a person I believed to be St. Michael or St. Francis came to my home, could I carry it off so naturally? Would I have offered him a shot of even my
best
booze?

That was, indeed, what Thanasset was pouring into the glasses. It smelled wonderful.

“Can you tell me something of yourself?” Thanasset asked as he handed me my glass. “What were your lifeskills?”

“When I was young,” I said, choosing my words with much care, “I was trained as a fighting man. I was no great champion, but I learned to survive. In later life, I became a scholar and a teacher, adequate, but not famous beyond my own academic circles. I was not, I fear, a very distinguished person.”

“A commendably modest answer.” He sat down and looked me over critically, as though trying to see the mind inside his son’s body. “Still, there must be
some
special quality about you, or the All-Mind would not have sent you to us.”

“If there is, I don’t know what it is,” I said, honestly. “I am not even aware of what the All-Mind might have had in mind.” He chuckled, and I realized what I had said. “Sorry; I didn’t mean that to sound flippant.”

“I understand.” He waved a hand in the air. “You know, it’s an odd feeling talking to someone you know, and yet you don’t. I keep trying to call you Markasset, and reminding myself that you’re someone different. It would help—may I ask your name?”

In Gandaresh, I knew, men’s names always ended with a consonant, women’s names with a vowel sound. I adjusted my own given name and gave it to Thanasset: “Rikardon.”

“Rikardon,” he repeated, thinking about it. “Rikardon. A very old kind of name.
He who leads upward.
A good name. But I confess that I have never heard it before.”

I shrugged. “I told you I was not particularly distinguished.”
Especially in Gandalaran history
, I thought.
I’d he very surprised if they had heard of me here.

“Mmmm.” He picked up his glass and sipped. I had been waiting for his opening; now I picked up my own glass eagerly.

The glasses were small; I could barely have fitted my thumb in one. After one sip, I could see why. The stuff had a rich flavor without being sweet, and an aroma that invaded the nose like a whiff of mint—but it was not mint. And there was power there. It wouldn’t take very many slugs of that stuff to put a man flat on his face.

I liked it.

I learned later that it was
barut
, made by the Fa’aldu of the desert from a secret mixture of herbs and fruits. An old family recipe, as it were, handed down through the generations. It was part of their trading stock, less plentiful but more lucrative than water. Ounce for ounce, its selling price was a hundred times more than that of water. How terribly, foolishly
human!