Collected Short Fiction, page 155
“Living devils,” said Kris. He stood there silent for a moment, toying with a carved-ivory statuette some sailor had made from a bone of a large sea animal and had given to Secretary Norvis long ago.
Suddenly, the abrupt plop plop plop of cloven deest-hoofs sounded outside. Kris looked up to see Leader Del pulling up at the hitching-post in front of Headquarters.
Kris nodded coolly as the Leader entered. Del’s fine golden body-down was covered with a dull coating of road dust from his journey, and he showed signs of fatigue.
“Miserable trip,” Del peFenn Vyless grunted as he strode in and sat down. “I’d rather sail from Gycor to Lidacor the long way than travel from Tammulcor by deest.”
“How come you rode?” Kris asked.
“Couldn’t get a ship,” said Del. “I was in Elvisen when I found out there was trouble down in the south, so I rode down there. But the harbor’s so fouled up because of the riots that there weren’t any passenger ships available.” He coughed and wiped perspiration from his face.
“Find out anything interesting down there?” Norvis asked.
“Aye,” Del peFenn said heavily. He was a big man, tall for a Nidorian, with wide, muscular shoulders. He still walked with the rolling stride of a seafaring man, although it had been ten years since he had last captained a merchantship. “Aye. We have a bunch of raggle-tail grumblers who don’t know what they want, but who know they don’t like things the way they are.”
“Sounds like promising material for us,” Kris said.
Del dropped into a chair at the side of the bare room. “I don’t know,” he said. “The fatheads didn’t want to listen to me.” The Leader smoothed a thick-lingered hand over his silvering down.
At Del’s bitter words, Kris felt a moment of triumph. He knew blustering, clumsy Del was doing things the wrong way—and here the Leader himself was admitting failure!
Del shook his head. “The Elders pulled the rug out from under those people by scragging their bank. They’re rioting, marching up and down, burning things and yelling. And yet . . . yet they can’t be persuaded that the priests are no good for them. I don’t understand it, Norvis.”
“Suppose we send Kris down there?” Norvis suggested suddenly. “We need Tammulcor—it’s the lifeline of Gelusar and all the Central Plains area. It’s a trading port surrounded by plenty of farming country—and the farmers are still on the side of the Elders, despite all that’s happened to them.”
“Why send Kris?” Del asked uneasily.
“He’s a new face. He might be able to do the trick where you failed. They know you from way back, and they know you don’t respect their religion. They don’t know Kris.”
Del considered that for a moment. “All right,” he said finally.
“Let’s send Kris to Tammulcor.” He turned to face Kris peKym, who had been watching the interplay silently and without opinion. “You’d better go by deest,” he said. “The harbor’s blocked up.”
“You want me to go immediately?” Kris asked, surprised despite himself.
Del nodded. “I think so. Come—let’s sit down and plan out what you’re going to say to them.”
V
“Oh, the life for me is the heaving sea,
And the feel of a keel afloat;
The rise and dip of a sturdy ship
Or the roll of a rocking boat!”
Kris peKym’s strong baritone rang joyously through the warm, humid summer air.
“You is so right, captain,” Dran peDran said. His voice sounded tired. “I is weary from riding this cursed deest. It’s no way for an honest sailor to travel.”
“Quiet, youngster,” Kris said smilingly. “The feel of a deest ride, if you but had the sense to notice it, is very like that of a boat.”
“Yes. I is in agreement. I is never been sea-sick in my life, but I is definitely deest-sick now.”
Kris grinned. “Better get used to the swing of it, Dran. We’ve got a long way to go.”
The seaport of Thyvocor was not far behind them; Tammulcor was more than a day’s journey overland ahead. They were on the second leg of their journey southwest to the big seaport.
There was a direct route from Vashcor to Tammulcor, but it was winding, dusty, and rarely traveled. There was the constant menace of bandits to be considered, too. Instead of the overland route, Kris and Dran peDran had taken the coastal packet south from Vashcor to Thyvocor, and there had purchased two sturdy-looking deests with which to complete the journey overland from midpoint. Vashcor lay directly west of the small port of Thyvocor.
“Flat, dull country this is,” Dran commented as they spurred their mounts through the coastal lowlands.
Kris nodded. It was dull country, all marshy gray-green grass and flat, swampy plain. But it was necessary to cross through it, and so they were crossing it. It sometimes was necessary, Kris realized, to do perfectly dull, dreary things like crossing the lowlands, in order to get to where more exciting things could happen.
Like getting to Tammulcor, for instance—Tammulcor, where bewildered men were rioting and demonstrating against anything and everything. Once in Tammulcor, Kris would face a difficult job, but he was looking forward to it.
There was an analogy. For the past three years, he had taken orders from Del peFenn—dull, blockheaded, blustering Del peFenn. Kris had threatened rebellion from time to time, but Norvis had always managed to smooth things over. Now, at last, Del peFenn had sent Kris off to Tammulcor in a position of unquestionable authority. It had been worth waiting for.
Dran yawned. “When is we getting to Tammulcor?”
“Soon, Dran peDran. Be patient.”
Easy to say, Kris thought. He scowled as the deests barreled through a muddy marsh and kicked up a shower of brackish water. This trip would never end.
Somehow, he managed to hold himself in check for the rest of the long day. Toward nightfall, the Great Light began to dim rapidly, and soon the nightly drizzle started coming down.
“Do we camp for the night?” Dran asked.
Without turning his head, Kris said, “No. Let’s keep going.”
They kept going. Before morning, the harbor of Tammulcor came into view. Smoky fires trailed upward, giving sign of violence the night before.
“There’s been trouble here,” Kris said. “And there’ll be more.” There was a note of keen anticipation in his voice.
The Great Cor Bridge across the Tammul river was guarded by a group of ten husky men wielding heavy truncheons. One of them was armed with a cocked and loaded rifle—an expensive weapon, but an effective one. The guard, Kris thought, looked as though he could handle the gun effectively enough.
They had placed a heavy wooden barrier across the bridge, just high enough to prevent even a trained deest from leaping over it. As Kris and Dran trotted their mounts up to the barrier, one of the men stepped forward to meet them.
Before the Peaceman could say anything, Kris called out: “Who are you? Why is the bridge blocked?”
“Peacemen!” said the burly one. “Who are you, and what is your business?”
“My compliments to the Uncle of Public Peace,” Kris said smoothly. “I can see that he chooses his men well.”
“What do you want? Why do you go to Dimay?” the Peaceman repeated, obviously attempting to ignore the naked flattery. But his voice was less harsh than it had been.
“I am Kris peKym Yorgen,” Kris said. “Merely a citizen who wants to go to Tammulcor. Is that wrong?”
“Not wrong,” said the Peaceman. “But foolish. The whole province is in an uproar; there is rioting in the cities and bands of looters in the country. You take your life in your hands to enter Dimay.”
“Is that why you’re here then?” Kris asked with feigned innocence. “To warn travelers?”
The Peaceman shook his head. “No. Somewhere in Dimay, someone has hidden eight million weights in cobalt. We don’t want it to leave the Province.”
“Indeed? Eight million weights?”
“Yes. You may enter if you wish, but watch yourself. And don’t try to pass an exit barrier without stopping.”
“Of course,” Kris said meekly.
The barrier was lifted, and Kris and Dran urged their deests across the bridge.
“What is all that for, captain?” Dran asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“They’re playing it smart. They didn’t ask us if we had any coins when we came in, but you can bet your life we’ll never leave with any. They’re letting cobalt into the province, but they’re not letting any out.”
“I wonder why,” Dran said slyly.
“I wonder!”
They trotted on across the Great Cor Bridge.
The first task at hand was to find lodging and a place of business. Then, Kris thought pleasantly, once things were set up, things would really begin to pop in Tammulcor.
Kris reined in his deest, and Dran pulled up alongside him. “What is we going to do?” Dran asked.
Kris glanced around. The city was quiet, just now, but it looked as if it were about to explode into violence any minute. An uneasy fog hung over the port, and even the usually placid Tammul River looked oddly threatening. Restless townsfolk moved aimlessly about the streets, and here and there an ugly-looking little knot of men was gathered, whispering earnestly.
“The first thing,” Kris said, “is to find a place to stay. Suppose you get moving into town and find some hotel with room for us.”
Dran nodded. “And then?”
“I want to find an office for us. We need a center of operations. I’ll go look for that, and you meet me back here at midmeal. Got that?”
“I sees perfectly,” Dran said.
“I hope you does,” said Kris.
Kris rode down into the heart of town, watching carefully for sign of an office building that would serve his purposes. He needed one centrally-located, impressive-looking, and easily defended in case of emergency.
After about half an hour, he found what he wanted. He hitched up the deest and strode inside. A thin youth with blinking eyes looked up lazily at him from a chair in the vestibule of the building. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for the landlord,” Kris said. “I want to rent an office.”
“He isn’t here,” the boy said.
“When will he be back?”
The boy shrugged complacently. Kris took a step closer to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic.
“Hey, let go of me!”
“Not so much noise,” Kris said mildly. “Where’s the landlord, now?”
“He’s . . . upstairs,” the boy said.
“Get him,” Kris commanded.
The boy dashed away, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was happy to be out of Kris’ reach, and returned a few moments later with a sour-faced man of middle age. The landlord confronted Kris with an expression of unhidden hostility. Kris noticed that a wide-bladed peych-knife was thrust in the sash of the man’s trousers.
“You the fellow who wants an office?”
Kris nodded. “My name is Kris peKym Yorgen. I’m interested in renting one of your vacant suites.” The landlord clamped his lips together and grimaced owlishly. “We don’t have any vacant suites,” he said.
“Oh? That’s odd; I’d say the building was at least half empty, from the looks of things.”
The man’s hand slipped to the pommel of the peych-knife, but he made no move toward Kris. “I say the building’s full, and I say I don’t want any strangers renting here. What are you going to do now?” Kris shrugged. “Well, if you’re going to be that way about it—” Casually, he drew a thick sheaf of purple-and-gold Bank of Pelvash scrip from his pocket, riffled through the notes reflectively, smiled, and stuffed the roll of bills back in the pocket. He drew forth a handful of cobalt coins, jingled them, and likewise replaced them. Then, whistling a sea tune, he turned and sauntered toward the front door.
“Just a minute,” the landlord said hesitantly as Kris started to leave. “What kind of business you say you were in?”
“What does it matter?” Kris countered. “The building’s all full, isn’t it?”
The landlord smiled craftily. “That was Bank of Pelvash money you had there, wasn’t it?”
“What of it?”
The landlord put his palms together. “Possibly I could find a vacancy,” he said. “Quite possibly.”
The sign on the door said:
Kris grinned as he looked at the reversed printing on the inside of the frosted glass door. It looked impressive. If Dran were doing his duty, spreading the word around Tammulcor, it wouldn’t be long before the good folk of the town would be clawing at each other to see who’d get inside that door first.
Gently, he slid open the desk drawer and looked down at the handgun that lay there. It was one of a pair, the other of which was concealed inside his belt, covered by his vest.
They were handsome weapons, lovingly made, a fine pair of the few handguns in existence. The rifle had become a fairly common weapon in recent years; some student at the Earthmen’s school had invented it for use by the farmers in the days of the Great Depression, when, because of the superabundance of crops, the herbiverous forest animals had multiplied like wildfire. The farmers had needed something to hold them off when they became hungry in the second year.
They were expensive because they had to be made of specially treated iron; bronze would be much too weak to withstand the violence of the powder unless the weapon were reinforced—in which case it would be too heavy to carry easily. And there was, of course, no need for a weapon like that. What good is a gun so big you can’t carry it?
The pistol was Norvis peKrin’s idea. Instead of one charge, it carried four in a little revolving cylinder, each with its own cap. Norvis had been very careful about allowing that secret to leak out.
Thus far, very few people had realized the effectiveness of such weapons against men—although there were undoubtedly a few farmers in Dimay who were learning fast, and certainly the Peacemen had recognized it.
Since the rifle was designed to kill at long range, it was necessarily long enough to give proper distance to the copper projectile. But Norvis’ idea had been to make a short-range gun for personal protection. It didn’t need to be as big or as heavy, because it carried le-ss powder and had a shorter barrel.
Someone else might think of the idea—but unless he had Norvis peKrin’s ingenuity, the gun would only fire one shot without reloading—not four. As he studied the gun, Kris reflected that perhaps he had been underestimating Norvis a little.
Suddenly he heard footsteps in the corridor. He pushed the desk drawer closed and looked up.
There was a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass, and then a timid knock.
“Come in,” Kris said.
The short, stocky man who opened the door was obviously a farmer. His hands were calloused, and he wore the heavy cloth of a field worker. In his belt was a long peych-knife.
“Are you Kris peKym Yorgen?” he asked cautiously.
Kris flashed his most winning smile. “I am. What can I do for you?”
“Well . . . well—The man took a deep breath. “I heard somebody say that you were redeeming Bank of Dimay notes. Is that so?” His tone was querulous, timid, as though he was certain he was about to be called a liar.
“Perfectly true, my dear fellow,” Kris said. “A ten-weight Dimay note will bring you a five-weight note of Pelvash.”
Without hesitation, the farmer pulled a wad of bills from his belt pouch. “These ain’t no good at all. Nobody will take them. I got two hundred weights here, but I can’t spend them.”
Kris opened the drawer in his desk. On top of a huge pile of Pelvash notes lay the heavy pistol, which he pushed casually aside. He took out twenty-five weight notes and counted them ostentatiously.
“Here you are, sir. One hundred good Pelvash notes for your Dimay money. May I see them?”
He took the Dimay notes, leafed through them, and dropped them into another drawer. Then he handed the Pelvash bills to the farmer. “It’s a pleasure to do business with you, sir.”
“And you, sir,” the farmer said. His eyes glittered; obviously he still did not quite believe such a windfall could occur. He mumbled his thanks, suspiciously counted the notes, and left hurriedly.
Kris watched him go, and chuckled in amusement. It was a good business, he reflected. If only it worked the right way!
At this very moment, Kris thought, Dran peDran is roaming around the town telling people of the fabulous fool who was buying up the worthless Dimay scrip at two-to-one. And now there was a farmer who would also spread the tale. Before long, how worthless would the Dimay currency be?
By mid-afternoon, there was a line forming that stretched out of Kris peKym’s office, down the stairs, and out into the street. Business was booming. The word was getting around Tammulcor rapidly.
One at a time, Kris took care of each customer, ushering him into the office, giving them a winning smile and half their money back—in cobalt-backed notes of the Bank of Pelvash.
It was a long day. By the time the Great Light had begun to fade, he had collected nearly sixty thousand weights in Dimay bills, and had paid out half that in Pelvash scrip. The drawer that held the redeemed Dimay currency was overflowing.
And then it happened—the thing that Kris had been half expecting all day. Two men stepped into the office. One of them, a swarthy one with a heavy scar drooping over one eye, walked up to Kris’ desk and suddenly jerked a heavy peych-knife out of his belt. The two-foot blade, with its blunt end and razor-keen edge, was poised six inches from Kris’ throat.
At the same time, the second man drew his knife and stationed himself at the door, facing the crowd outside.
“Nobody’s going to get hurt if they behave themselves,” he said roughly. There were several men in the crowd who were carrying the heavy knives, but none of them did anything except shrink back from the doorway.
