All thoughts of Cachalot’s tropical seas vanished as the sun set and the atmosphere once more grew chilly as well as damp. Notwithstanding that it was home to a largely engaging intelligent race as well as to the usual abundance of natively evolved species, the first life-form that came to mind now when he thought of the local ecology was the Largessian equivalent of mold. He was sure some of it was beginning to form on his backside as he followed Wiegl toward the way station.
Additional proof that few offworlders made it this far from Borusegahm was not necessary, but it was provided anyway in the form of the dark-eyed stares that greeted him as he entered the stone-and-wood structure in Wiegl’s wake. Ignoring the guide, they focused on him as the eclectic pair made their way to a corner booth. Conversation did not cease and webbed hands greasy with food did not cease their scooping, but Flinx was well aware that he was the subject of numerous stares. The emotions he detected were thick with curiosity interspersed with isolated flare-ups of mild hostility.
Wiegl seemed to enjoy the attention that was directed their way. It was widely believed that those Larians who managed to ingratiate themselves with offworlders, of any species, often acquired opportunities to prosper that were denied to those who could not. Though much in the way of the transfer of goods and technology was proscribed, knowledge was not, and could also prove valuable. Flinx had no doubt that Wiegl was the subject of much speculation and envy on the part of his fellow Larians.
Gently, Flinx leaned his walking tube up against the back wall that closed off one side of the booth. There was no movement from within. Unlike a human, Pip was either frenetically active or sound asleep. He reminded himself to make sure to take away something for her to eat. Her unusual metabolism ensured that the meals she took were modest but frequent.
As he and Wiegl chatted and it became evident to everyone else in the establishment that the round-eyed, fur-deprived, digit-heavy offworlder could engage in ordinary speech, the initially intrigued onlookers returned to their own meals and conversation. Thirty minutes later there was no indication in the room that a representative of an alien species from a distant world was sharing their space. While none of those present had personally had contact with humans, news and hearsay had spoken of them often. Flinx’s presence soon devolved from revelation to the more mundane status of novelty.
He and Wiegl were halfway through a perfectly satisfactory meal when one of the other diners proved bold enough to leave his own table and approach them, slapping his tail against his legs by way of deferential greeting.
“The pearlescence of a thousand tenalgs blind me, for the impertinence I display, in disturbing your meal, in interrupting your talk, in hopes of learning, one iota of information. I, poor Ibatogh, seek only enlightenment, wherever it may be found.”
Wiegl was instantly on guard. In contrast, a curious Flinx regarded the petitioner with quiet interest. Within her tube Pip remained still. Flinx detected nothing about the stranger that hinted of hostility, and singular talent aside, he could plainly see that the individual who had displayed more boldness than any of his fellows carried no visible weapons. Perhaps more significantly, consuming the meaty corpses of several unidentified sea creatures that resembled a crescent of demented scallops had proven to have an unexpected narcotic effect. Feeling better, notably better, than he had in days, Flinx was in a mood to be welcoming. Indeed, to be downright generous. He felt that his carefully composed harmonious reply employed an especially sweet progression of notes.
“Do you know where I am from, do you know the home that’s mine? A world of more water than even Largess, where the sun shines warmly, allowing one to go, without heavy covering. My second home, I have to confess, in addition to another, that is very different. The first has a wing, the second a glow, the others I have seen, every one is almost as beautiful.” He was waving his hands now, unaware that half the room was watching him in amusement while the other half studiously ignored his offworlder antics. Only Wiegl eyed him worriedly, wondering what the suddenly strangely empowered and just plain strange human might do next.
“Many are the worlds on which I have trod.” Flinx sang on, while within her tube Pip stirred slightly in confusion at her sudden inability to correctly interpret her master’s emotions. “And many are the beings whom I have met. Thranx and AAnn, they are but two, and like too many others, inclined to cut one another’s throats.” He was feeling decidedly woozy now, but it didn’t seem to affect his singspeech. “To cut a thranx throat requires a vibraknife, or something extra sharp, as their exoskeletons are tough, and their resistance dexterous.” He waved an unsteady hand in their visitor’s direction.
“Ask away, ask away, ask whatever, you may say. And I will try, as best I can, to read the runes, and quick reply.”
His singspeaking was definitely improving, Flinx told himself confidently. More melodic with each try, more intuitive, more natural sounding. He hoped the Larians in his vicinity appreciated his efforts.
Certainly the unremarkable specimen who had made so bold as to approach the offworlder thought so, because he launched a query without further hesitation.
“I would know, visitor from another world, visitor from the darkling sky: what would bring one, such as yourself, so far north, and away from your station, away from familiar comforts? I ask only out of, my personal curiosity, and only to satisfy, my personal interest—in such things,” he concluded on an awkward note.
Flinx paid the poorly sung coda no more heed than he did Wiegl’s subdued but anxious three-fingered semaphoring. “Curiosity brings me, as it is all I have left, to drive me to seek out, other worlds than mine.”
Hiding his satisfaction, Wiegl now relaxed. It did not seem to matter what state of mind dominated the thinking of his alien human companion. It was apparent that the five-fingered furless one could keep his wits about him whether addled or coherent. He had answered the questioner with a harmless generality while at the same time revealing nothing.
That intrusive interrogator was plainly as frustrated by Flinx’s reply as the guide was pleased. He tried once more.
“Curiosity regarding what, if this master of a humble inquisitiveness, might more specifically inquire, in hopes of gaining education, in hopes of being enlightened?”
Flinx sang back without hesitation, aware, despite his current slightly diffuse mental state, that Pip was not stirring from her rest. “Well, for one thing, I have an interest, in seeing if my abilities, play well with your kind.”
The questioning one sang back uncertainly. “Your replies do not clarify, but instead confuse, a mind as simple, as is my own.”
Nodding somberly, Flinx straightened on the too-low supportive bench. “Then I will endeavor, to show without singing, of what I speak, in the absence of tunefulness.”
And why shouldn’t I? Flinx thought to himself. He was not an orphan anymore, running through the back alleys of Drallar in search of a meal or something to steal. He had vanquished the Great Emptiness, was privy to a few secrets of the Universe, had survived Midworld, visited the AAnn homeworld of Blassussar, and even met and befriended the AAnn emperor himself! Perhaps the lawbreaker he sought on behalf of the United Church might present some difficulties, but whoever it was was human. The simple songsters of Largess posed no threat to him beyond severe musical criticism.
In his mildly stoned stupor he forgot that hubris is more deadly than any weapon.
Nothing materialized to menace him, however, or to remind him of that salient fact, as he proceeded to entertain the crowd of locals who had gathered to witness the offworlder’s antics.
“In return for a single alk,” he sang, naming a money disc of humble denomination, “I will endeavor to tell, the one who pays, something of interest he or she, does not know.”
More nonspecific equivocation. Wiegl’s admiration for his employer was further enhanced. Still, it remained to be seen how much, if anything, the human might be inclined to reveal.
Enrobed in a carou
sel of gauze, a sinuous female came forward to drop a coin on the table. “I would know, who here among these, is male enough, to accept the challenge of my companionship.” She took several steps back, her large limpid eyes never leaving Flinx.
He let his talent roam. There were more representatives of the male persuasion present than female, but that did not make it a simple matter to parse feelings. He sought, and felt, and sampled among those who were not talking, while Pip slept on within her tube. Having sought, he now tensed slightly. His ingrained honesty combined with a loosening of caution courtesy of the local shellfish pushed him to speak the truth.
“In fact there are none present,” he sang awkwardly, “who seek your companionship, but would happily make acquaintance, provided you were wealthy.”
She stared at him a long moment, drinking in the full meaning of his stiff little tune-reply. Then her eyes darted (as much as Larian physiology permitted) rapidly to left and right, seeking to meet those of the mature males around her. None had the stomach to return her stare and all found reason to be looking elsewhere when she turned to them. A couple of such uncomfortable moments passed before she finally fled the room.
Silence rushed into her wake like water filling a canal, until one of the males present spoke. While older than anyone else in the room, he was no ancient grayfur. What he offered with his query-song was experience to match the coinage he deposited on the table.
“You who come from faraway places, you who seek to know our ways; to experience our culture and to see our world, to understand or perhaps exploit: you claim to know of many things.” Broader of body than the majority of his furry brethren, the questioner leaned toward Flinx. Though his manner was forceful, even challenging, there was no threat in it. A glance at the walking tube told Flinx that Pip felt likewise.
“I am Ernach, Fisher of the Deep Ones, Hunter of the Hiders, soldier for hire to those who can pay. I have enemies, though only the stupid; for the smart ones, they seek safety from my presence.” Lips rippled backward as the Hunter Ernach exposed his teeth. “Tell me, seer from other worlds: what do you see of my future, of the dangers lurking, in the high tomorrow? Of rivals lurking, waiting for their one chance, to find Ernach sleeping, and slit his throat?”
There was dead silence in the room. Not only was there no noise; there was no movement. Those eyes that were not fixed on the Hunter Ernach watched the slightly swaying human closely, waiting for a response. For his part, Flinx was taken aback by the directness of the Larian’s query. How should he answer? Should he even try? Or should he plead exhaustion, and have Wiegl escort him from the room? He had made promises to this lot of locals. Through the shellfish-induced fog it now occurred to him that his promises had moved out of the realm of entertainment and into potentially dangerous territory.
Still, he had been paid. Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Wiegl’s right hand slide along the bench on which he was sitting, in the direction of the short sword stashed halfway under the table. Nearby, the walking tube quivered slightly as Pip, responding in the absence of direct hostility solely to her master’s uncertainty, was beginning to stir. He did not want to reveal her to any more Larians than was necessary. So he felt it necessary to reply, felt compelled to formulate some kind of response to the hunter’s inquiry. The only kind he could. An honest one.
Letting his ability roam the crowd, he marveled at the coherency of emotions among sentient species. Shape did not matter, nor did what a being ate, or breathed. Among sentients, there existed a remarkable kinship of feelings. So it took him only a moment to isolate one particular emotion boiling within a single member of the gathering. He nodded at the Hunter Ernach, even though the Larian did not possess the proper references to correctly interpret the gesture.
“I am no seer,” he sang, “but a simple traveler, gifted with the ability, to smell out certain things. Proclivities, one might say, among the thinking, though I cannot read, such things as thoughts. What I can feel is the pressure, of certain emotions, that course like water, through the minds of others.” He started to rise from the too-low bench on which he was sitting.
Wiegl was instantly alert, all too aware that his human employer was about to do or say something that might call for an actual response on his part. Still, thus far the offworlder had sung much while saying little. Perhaps that was a plan, or at least a trend, that would hopefully continue.
Standing erect, Flinx sang on, and as the words and music flowed out of his non-Larian throat, Wiegl found himself more alarmed than ever.
“Everyone smells, of hidden emotion, of feelings held back, until released. Take for example, the tall traveler behind you, whose feelings tremble, on the cusp of murder.”
Whirling, Ernach was just able to throw up his right forearm in time to block the downward thrust of the blade wielded by the individual who had worked his way through the milling crowd until he was directly behind the hunter. Flinx’s revelation had thrown off his timing just enough for Ernach to muster a defense. Excited whistles and musical barking cries filled the air as the crowd spread out to give the combatants room. In the ensuing chaos, as the two antagonists grappled and fought for advantage, Wiegl scooped up the coins on the table, grabbed Flinx’s arm, and started leading him out. His head beginning to clear from the effects of the shellfish, it occurred to Flinx that while he had not violated any Commonwealth directives in striving to “entertain” the crowd, he might have overstepped some personal ones. Of one thing he was quite certain: had they been present, Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex would not have approved.
Upset at himself, at letting his mind and stomach combine to betray him, he wanted to return to set things right. Wiegl would have none of it.
“Leave them to marvel at your perception, my friend, and to compose songs, with which to entertain, those who are not present. Leave them to enjoy the fight, without us, so that any blood that is spilled, will not stain our clothing, or our reputations. Leave them so that we may sleep, and tomorrow, perhaps we may catch up, to the one you seek, if we are lucky. Or unlucky,” he concluded on an uncharacteristically discordant note.
Clutching the walking tube close, Flinx bumped the bottom end along the wooden floor so much that Pip finally responded by sticking her head out of the top and hissing at him. Thus chastised, he made an effort to steady his stride, for her sake if not his own. While recognizing the wisdom of Wiegl’s words (and why hire a guide if not to partake of his wisdom?), Flinx still wanted to go back and try to stop the fight. It was his disclosure that had started it and he felt a responsibility to put an end to it. Realizing that might entail risking his own life, he rationalized his nonintervention by telling himself that he had no right to endanger Wiegl’s as well.
Besides which, there was a great deal more at stake here than whether one disagreeable local slaughtered another. Merely by exposing the emotions of several of the natives in his vicinity, he had initiated social disruptions that would otherwise have remained quiescent.
When will I ever learn to keep my nose out of the affairs of others, be they human or alien? he asked himself. Responsible guide that Wiegl was, Flinx allowed the Larian to lead him farther from the scene of local, and possibly fatal, disputation.
—
Ibatogh had also taken his leave of the clash, with its clanging swords and flashing knives. It was his interest in weapons of another sort that had prompted his quiet departure.
Like a bowanda settling onto its nestlings, the usual heavy mist had snuggled down over the town, working its penetrating dampness into every crevice and corner. As did all his kinsfolk, Ibatogh welcomed its arrival. Larians could abide any degree of dampness, but their fur would curdle and their skin crack if they were subjected for very long to any degree of humidity less than seventy percent, or to an extended period of accompanying bright sunshine.
So despite their ability to see well at night, he had sufficient cover to allow him to reach the stable unseen by others of his kind. While at present
it was inhabited by a variety of domesticated animals, there were only two brund: those belonging to the oddly matched pair of visitors. Doubtless the stablemaster would have assured the travelers that she would keep close watch on their mounts and their goods. Just as Ibatogh hoped, she was fast asleep in her corner of the business.
Easily avoiding the simple, unmechanized warning devices, Ibatogh slipped inside the stable boundaries and made his way deeper into the corral. A trio of mafier scuttled to one side as he padded past them, their wide webbed feet making soft slapping sounds on the hard stone. Heavy-bodied and built low to the ground, mafier provided meat that was excellent eating, wiry fur strong enough to weave into flexible armor, and secretions from the glands on their backs thick and sticky enough to render into a useful glue.
Ibatogh pushed impatiently past them. He was neither rustler nor thief, though not above helping himself to something special if the opportunity to do so should present itself. At the moment, he was torn between loyalty to his Leethliege and his own interests. Whether he ended up serving the first or the second depended on what he found.
Or in this case, didn’t find. The belongings of the human and his guide were disappointingly devoid of anything worth appropriating. In the offworlder’s kit there were no magical devices, no unique materials, no wondrous revelations. Ibatogh had no interest in alien provisions and even less in various articles of clothing. While the material utilized in the weaving of the latter was certainly of interest, it was worthless to him. He could not wear it, likely could not sell it, and probably could not modify it into anything useful. Certainly the peculiar garments, far heavier than anything worn by a Larian, had curiosity value. But he was not about to risk discovery in order to filch something merely to satisfy someone else’s boredom.