Don looked at him, his thoughts going into overdrive. The form of
address was all wrong. Always before, he had been Donald, of the clan
Michaels--they abbreviated it to Michaelsdon. But what had gone wrong
now?
He tensed a little, then relaxed. At least, it was a friendly greeting.
One does not "know" an enemy. He extended a hand toward Jasu Waern.
"I bring the Waerntal, Jasu. And his son, Waernpeto," he said.
The other nodded. "The men of Kor-en know the Waernu," he said
noncommitally. "You want dealings with the Korental?"
Don nodded. "The Waerntal would discuss clan affairs with the
Korental." he said. "I but serve as guide."
"It is well. You and this clansman may rest by the wells." Korendwar
turned toward Jasu Waern, gesturing with his sling.
"I will conduct you to the Korental, your honor."
* * * * *
Pete leaned against a mossy bank and watched one of the village women
as she raised a clay pot from a well.
"Tell me, Don, why did you push my father forward to consult with the
Korental? Why didn't you go ahead and deal with him yourself? You said
you knew him. Father doesn't."
"That's just the point," smiled Don. "I do know him. And I know his
people, and his way of thinking." He waved a hand to indicate the
entire collection of huts.
"These people are about as formal as you can get, when business is at
hand. Did you notice the way I talked to Korendwar? Migosh, I've hunted
with that guy, rolled around in the dirt with him when we were kids,
know him about as well as you'd know a brother. But he was on guard.
And, friend, you don't get informal with a clansman when he's on guard.
"This is just like a little nation, and the Korental is just as surely
a ruler as any king of a huge country," he went on. "Even more so than
most."
He fixed his eyes on the council hut, across the narrow end of the
valley.
"Everyone in his clan is his child--symbolically, at least. He tells
them what to do. He tells them what to plant and when--and how much. He
tells them when to hunt, and where. Governs their lives down to some
pretty fine points. I mean, he's as absolute as an absolute monarch can
get.
"And if you want to get along with an absolute monarch, you treat him
on his terms." He glanced at his companion.
"Oh, I don't mean this guy's a tyrant or despot," he added quickly.
"These people are pretty proud. They wouldn't like a dictator--as such.
But the Korental doesn't need force to govern his people. They do
things his way because ... well, it's a matter of tradition. It's the
only honorable way to do things. See what I mean?"
Pete shook his head doubtfully and Don frowned.
"Pete, your family was originally a mountain clan. I should think you'd
know these customs better than I do."
Again, Pete shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, "but I don't.
You see, my father and my uncle thought it would be better if I learned
the customs and culture of your people and of the plainsmen. And they
thought I should be familiar with the ways of the great cities."
He looked across the village at the great tree which shaded the council
hut.
"You see," he continued, "my great uncle was king. And he had no
children. He was getting old and it was agreed that if he died
childless, his queen would then adopt me. And, of course, I would then
be head of the Onaru, and king of Oredan." He smiled wanly.
"The agreement was not made public, of course. And the queen no longer
lives. But signatures and agreement are recorded at Oreladar. And they
appear in the Book of the Waernu, against my name. References in the
Book of the Waernu are so arranged that I may be quickly removed, to be
placed in an already prepared place in the Book of the Onaru, if the
time should come. This and the fact that my mother was the daughter of
a brother of the king, places me in the line of kings of Oredan." He
shrugged.
"Especially since the king did, in fact, die childless.
"And this, in my father's eyes, meant that I should know of the plains,
of the cities, and of the galactics, since there, he said, lies the
power and wealth of the present day Oredan."
Don shrugged. "Wealth, maybe," he said quietly. "I'm not so sure about
the power. The pressure of History is a very real thing, and I seem to
remember noticing that every time some king has gotten into a jam with
one of the other kingdoms or with his own nobles, he's had to raise the
clans. And there have been times when that wasn't easy."
Pete nodded. "I know. The Onaru took the throne two hundred years ago,
simply because the clans withheld support from the Chalenu--the Old
Line."
"Yeah." Don picked idly at the bark of a tree. "And Stern's been trying
to get the clans into hot water ever since he took over."
Pete looked at him for a moment, then looked about the village.
There was no orderly arrangement of houses, as could be found in town.
Wherever someone had found a suitable spot, there he had embedded his
poles. And there, he had erected walls, daubed them with clay from the
nearby stream, and formed long, limber wands from the thickets into
arched roofs, to be covered with long grass from the valley. There
were isolated houses, and there were tight little groups of houses.
Possibly, Pete thought, family groups.
No streets existed here, though generations of sandaled feet had beaten
the ground into winding paths which led from houses to wells, and from
wells to fields, and to the surrounding forest.
And there was no litter, as could be found in any city. No fallen twig
or leaf was allowed to remain on the ground of the village. Grass and
moss grew on unused ground and on hillsides, but before each hut, the
growth gave way to the forecourt and the small garden.
Here and there, a bank by a path had been reinforced with clay cemented
stones and over these grew the moss, to soften the hard outlines of the
works of man. Here and there, a small, neat pile of material for
building lay, to remind the onlooker that this was a still growing
community. Pete leaned back.
"It's quite a bit different from the plains," he said, "and not as I
thought it would be. I always thought the hillmen were wild and
uncultured." He turned toward Don.
"But you still haven't really answered my question. Why is it my father
has to talk to the Korental--alone?"
Don lifted a shoulder. "Simple enough," he said. "Your father is the
head of your branch of the family right now. It's a pretty small clan
branch--just the two of you, but he's the clan head--the Waerntal.
Right?"
"I suppose so. Yes." Pete thought a moment. "Actually, I guess he's tal
over more than just the two of us. We are the senior line of the
family."
"Well, then. This is clan business. Your father wants to advance a
member of his clan as a claimant for the throne of Oredan. He needs the
support of other clans to do this. And this is important clan business.
See?"
Pete rubbed at an ear. "I begin to get the idea, I guess, but it just
doesn't make too much sense. He could have you speak for him. Or I
could plead my own case, for that matter, couldn't I?"
"Makes all kinds of sense." Don shook his head. "Look, you can't talk
to the Korental--not on even terms--not now. You're just a clansman. If
he accepts you as king-to-be, then you'll be a sort of super clan head.
Then you'll be able to discuss policy with him. But even then, only as
an equal--never as a superior. He actually acknowledges no superior."
He pointed to himself, pausing.
"Me? Good grief, I'm not even in this. I'm just a hired hand--not even
a member of your clan. Before I could open my mouth, I'd have to be
adopted into your clan and designated as a clan councilor. Even then,
the tal would have to open the discussion.
[Illustration]
"Oh, I can talk to the Korental as an individual who wants to get help
from some of his people for a hunt, sure. And we can then arrange an
exchange of goods. That's between him and me. But if I tried to talk to
him on this affair, he'd throw me out of the village." He rubbed his
cheek thoughtfully.
"And, come to think of it, if he thought you'd asked me to intervene,
after he'd tossed me out, he'd probably feed you to the Choyneu. That,
he'd regard as a selling of honor."
Pete looked at him quizzically. "I can just see him--or any other
person, monarch or no--throwing you anywhere you didn't want to go. I'd
say the throwing would be the other way."
Don laughed softly. "Oh, that." He shook his head. "Well, let's just
say I don't think I'd care to try it out on a whole clan at once.
Things might get a little complicated."
* * * * *
A short, heavily muscled man came out of the council hut. In his hands,
he held his slender sling-stick. He paused as he got to the door, then
shook out the thong. For a moment, he stood, glancing across the end of
the valley, then he wound the thong about the stick, securing it at the
end with a half-hitch.
Again, he looked in the direction of Don and Pete. Then he held up the
stick and beckoned to them.
Don pushed himself away from the bank.
"Well," he said, "here we go. They've come to some sort of a decision."
They walked through the door of the hut, stopping as they came inside.
An old man sat on a hide-covered stool, facing the entrance. Near him
stood Jasu Waern. The old man got to his feet.
"Waernpeto?" he asked.
Pete stepped forward and bowed. "I am Peto of the clan Waern," he said.
"It is good." The Korental nodded briefly, then looked at Don.
"And Michaels. I know you," he added.
Don looked at him curiously. There was that odd form of address again.
Had he suddenly come to be regarded as clanless? What was this? He
bowed.
"I know you, Korental," he said formally.
The old man before him nodded.
"We are not now sure how to address you," he explained. "Your father
may yet be alive, so we cannot regard you as clan head. But as your
father has not been found you may, therefore, be clan head in fact. The
men of clan Mal-ka have joined us in searching the gorge of the Gharu,
where his flier was shot down. Thus far, nothing has been found. It is
a long gorge, and deep."
"Dad?" Don blinked. "Shot down?"
The Korental nodded. "Two days since," he said. "A flier of the Royal
Guard fired upon him and his flier weaved and dropped into the gorge.
No man saw its landing place." He paused thoughtfully.
"Nor were there flames."
Don glanced about the hut. It was the same place he had come to
many times before, when he wanted to get beaters. It was familiar.
And yet it was now a place of strangeness. Suddenly, he felt
rootless--disassociated from people. He struggled to regain his
poise and retain the formal manner expected of him. He managed a
bow of acknowledgment.
"I thank the Korental for this information," he said. "I beg permission
to await further word under his protection."
Somehow, he couldn't imagine anyone succeeding in shooting his father
out of the sky. Kent Michaels had been one of the hottest fighter men
in the guard. And even if he hadn't been able to get away from the guy,
he'd have taken him down with him. How...? He jerked his attention to
the Korental.
The old man had inclined his head. "My clan is yours during this time
of trouble," he was saying. He looked toward Pete.
* * * * *
"And you are he who would be King of the Oredanu?"