He crossed the tent, taking the sword from the wall. Drawing it from its
scabbard, he pointed to the unusually long, slender blade.
"This comes from Norlar, too. But the smith who made it is still farther
to the east, beyond the Great Sea." He gripped the blade, flexing it.
"Look you," he commanded, "how this blade has life. Here is none of your
soft bronze or rough iron from the northern hills. Here is a living
metal that will sever a hair, yet not shatter on the hardest helm."
Lanko showed interest. "You say this sword was made beyond the Great
Sea? How, then, came it to Norlar and thence here?"
Musa shook his head. "I am not sure," he confessed. "It is rumored that
the priests of the sea god, Kondaro, by praying to their deity, are
guided across the sea to lands unknown."
"Taking traders with them?"
"So I have been told."
"And you plan to journey to Norlar to verify this rumor, and perhaps to
make a sea voyage?"
Musa stroked his beard, wondering if this man could actually read
thoughts.
"Yes," he admitted, "I had that in mind."
"I see." Lanko reached for the sword. As Musa handed it to him, he
extended it toward the rear of the booth, whipping it in an intricate
saber drill. Musa watched, puzzled. An experienced swordsman himself he
had thought he knew all of the sword arts. The sword flexed, singing as
it cut through the air.
"Merchant, I like this sword. What would its price be?"
* * * * *
Musa was disappointed. Here was strange bargaining. People just didn't
walk in and announce their desire for definite articles. They feigned
indifference. They picked over the wares casually, disparagingly. They
looked at many items, asking prices. They bargained a little, perhaps,
to test the merchant. They made comments about robbery, and about the
things they had seen in other merchants' booths which were so much
better and so much cheaper.
Slowly, and with the greatest reluctance, did the normal shopper
approach the object he coveted.
Then, here was this man.
"_Well_," Musa told himself, "_make the most of it_." He shrugged.
"Nine hundred balata," he stated definitely, matching the frank
directness of this unusual shopper, and incidentally doubling his price.
Lanko was examining the hilt of the sword. He snapped a fingernail
against its blade. There was a musical _ping_.
"You must like this bit of metal far better than I," he commented
without looking up. "I only like it two hundred balata worth."
Musa felt relief at this return to familiar procedure. He held up his
hands in a horrified gesture.
"Two hundred!" he cried. "Why, that is for the craftsman's apprentices.
There is yet the master smith, and those who bring the weapon to you.
No, friend, if you want this prince of swords, you must expect to pay
for it. One does not--" He paused. Lanko was sheathing the weapon, his
whole bearing expressing unwilling relinquishment.
Musa slowed his speech. "Still," he said softly, "I am closing out my
eastern stock, after all. Suppose we make it eight hundred fifty?"
"Did you say two hundred fifty?" Lanko held the sheathed sword up,
turning to the light to inspect the leather work.
The bargaining went on. Outside, the crowds in the street thinned, as
the populace started for their evening meals. The sword was inspected
and re-inspected. It slid out of its sheath and back again. Finally,
Musa sighed.
"Well, all right. Make it five hundred, and I'll go to dinner with you."
He shook his head in a nearly perfect imitation of despair. "May the
wineshop do better than I did."
* * * * *
"Housewife, this is Watchdog. Over."
The man at the workbench looked around. Then, he laid his tools aside,
and picked up a small microphone.
"This is Housewife," he announced.
"Coming in."
The worker clipped the microphone to his jacket, and crossed the room to
a small panel. He threw a switch, looked briefly at a viewscreen, then
snapped another switch.
"Screen's down," he reported. "Come on in, Lanko."
An opening appeared in the wall, to show a fleeting view of a bleak
landscape. Bare rocks jutted from the ice, kept clear of snow by the
shrieking wind. Extreme cold crept into the room, then a man swept in
and the wall resumed its solidity behind him.
He stood for an instant, glancing around, then shrugged off a light robe
and started shedding equipment.
"Hi, Pal," he was greeted. "How are things down Karth way?"
"Nothing exceptional." Lanko shrugged. "This area's getting so peaceful
it's monotonous." He unsnapped his accumulator and crossed to the power
generator.
"No wars, or rumors of wars," he continued. "The town's getting
moral--very moral, and it's developing into a major center of commerce
in the process." He kicked off his sandals, wriggled out of the baggy
native trousers, and tossed his shirt on top of them.
"No more shakedowns. Tax system's working the way it was originally
intended to, and the merchants are flocking in."
He walked toward the wall, flicking a hand out. An opening appeared, and
he ducked through it.
"Be with you in a minute, Banasel," he called over his shoulder. "Like
to get cleaned up."
Banasel nodded and went back to the workbench. He picked up a small
part, examined it, touched it gently a few times with a soft brush, and
replaced it in the device he was working on.
He tightened it into place, and was checking another component when a
slight shuffle announced his companion's return.
"Oh, yes," said Lanko. "Met your old pal, Musa. He's doing right well
for himself."
Banasel swung around. "Haven't seen him since we joined the Corps.
What's he doing?"
"Trading." Lanko opened a locker, glancing critically at the clothing
within. "He set up shop with the load of goods we gave him long ago, and
did some pretty shrewd merchandising. Now, he's planning a trip over the
Eastern Sea. He hinted at a rumor of a civilization out past Norlar."
"Nothing out there for several thousand kilos," growled Banasel, "except
for a few little islands." He jerked a thumb toward the workbench. "I
can't show you right now, because the scanner's down for cleaning, but
there isn't even an island for the first couple thousand K's. Currents
are all wrong, too. No one could cross without navigational equipment."
"I know," Lanko assured him. "We haven't checked over that way for a
long time, but I still remember. I didn't put it exactly that way, of
course, but I did ask Musa how he planned to get over the Eastern. And,
I got an answer." He paused as he gathered up the garments he had
discarded.
"It seems there's a new priesthood at Norlar, who've got something," he
continued. "It's all wrapped up in religious symbology, and they don't
let any details get out, but they are guiding ships out to sea, and
they're bringing them back again, loaded with goods that never
originated in the Galankar, or in any place accessible to the
Galankar." He hung up the last article of clothing and turned, a
sheathed sword in his hand.
"Musa sold me this," he said, extending the hilt toward Banasel. "I
never saw anything like it on this planet. Did you?"
* * * * *
Banasel accepted the weapon, drawing it from its scabbard. He examined
the handwork on the hilt, then snapped a fingernail against the blade.
As he listened to the musical _ping_, the technician looked at the
weapon with more interest. Gently, he flexed it, watching for signs of
strain. Lanko grinned at him.
"Go ahead," he invited, "get rough with it. That's a sword you're
holding, Chum, not one of those bronze skull busters."
Banasel extended the sword, whipping it violently. The blade bent, then
straightened, and bent again, as it slashed through the air.
"Well," he murmured. "Something new."
He put the sword on the workbench and took an instrument from a cabinet.
For a few minutes, he busied himself taking readings and tapping out
data on his computer. He sat back, looking at the sword curiously. At
last, he glanced at the computer, then put the test instrument he had
been using back in the cabinet, taking another to replace it. After
taking more readings, he looked at the computer, then shook his head,
turning to Lanko.
"This," he said slowly, "is excellent steel. Of course, it could be an
accidental alloy, but I wouldn't think anyone on this planet could have
developed the technology to get it just so." He held the sword away from
him, looking at it closely. "Assuming an accidental alloy, an accident
in getting precisely the right degree of heat before quenching, and
someone who ground and polished with such care as to leave the temper
undisturbed, while getting this finish--Oh, it's possible, all right.
But 'tain't likely. Musa told you this came from overseas?"
"To the best of his knowledge. He got it from a trader who claimed to
have been on a voyage across the Eastern Sea."
Banasel leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. "You must have
had quite a talk with Musa. Did he remember you?"
Lanko shook his head. "Don't be foolish," he grunted. "You and I were
blotted out of his memory, remember? So are quite a few of the things
that happened around Atakar, way back when. He's got a complete past, of
course, but we're not part of it.
"No, he had a booth in the Karth market. I came through, just looking
things over, and recognized him. So, I picked an acquaintance. Beat him
down to about half the asking price for this sword, still leaving him a
whopping profit. He went to dinner with me, still bewailing the rooking
I'd given him. Told you, he's a trader. We had quite a talk, certainly.
But we were strangers."
"Yeah." Banasel looked off into space. "Seems funny. You and I were born
on this planet. We were brought up here, and a lot of people once knew
us. But they've all forgotten, and we don't belong any more. I'm
beginning to see what they mean by 'the lonely life of a guardsman.'"
He was silent for a time, then looked at his companion.
"Do you think these priests at Norlar might be in our line of business?"
"Could be," nodded Lanko. "There's a lot of seafaring out of Konassa,
and there are several other busy seaports we know of. But no one in any
of them ever heard of navigation out of sight of land, let alone trying
it. There's nothing but pilotage, and even that's pretty sketchy. And,
there's this thing." He crossed to the workbench, picked up the sword,
and stroked its blade.
"Normally," he mused, "technical knowledge gets around. Part of it's
developed here, part there. Then someone comes along and puts it
together. And someone else adds to it. And so on.
"Then, there are other times, when there's an abnormal source, or where
there are unusual conditions, and knowledge is very closely guarded.
This might be one of those cases, and those priests might be fronting
for someone very much in our line of business." He broke off.
"Any maedli hot?"
"Sure." Banasel picked a pot from the heater and poured two cups.
"Think we should set up a base near Norlar and have a look?"
"Probably be a good idea." Lanko accepted a cup, took a sip, and shook
his head violently.
"Ouch! I said hot, not boiling." He blew on the cup and set it aside to
steam itself cool.
"These mountains were an excellent base," he continued, "but this area
seems to be developing perfectly. There's no outside interference, all
traces of former interference have been eliminated, and there's very
little excuse for us to hang around." He picked up the cup again,
cautiously sampling its contents. "And it's about time we moved around
and checked on the rest of the planet."
Banasel turned back to the workbench. "Good idea," he agreed. "I'll get
this scanner set up again, and we'll be ready to load out." He picked up
his tools. "As I remember, Norlar has a mountainous backbone where no
one ever goes. We should be able to set up right on the island."
* * * * *
On the eastern slope of the Midra Kran, a cloud of dust paced a caravan,
which wound up the trail, through a pass. The treachery of the narrow
path was testified to by an occasional slither, followed by a startled
curse.
Musa stood in his stirrups, looking ahead at the long trail which
twisted a little farther up, then dropped to the wide Jogurthan plateau.
Far ahead, over the poorly marked way, he knew, was another range, the
Soruna Kran, which blocked his way to the Eastern Sea.
He looked back at the straggling caravan.
"Better get them to close up, Baro," he remarked. "We'd be in a lot of
trouble if a robber band caught us scattered like this."
The other trader nodded and turned his mount. Then, he paused as shouts
came from the rear of the line. Mixed with the shouting was the clatter
of weapons.
"Come on," cried Musa. "It's happened."
He kicked his mount in the ribs, and swung about, starting up the steep
bank. The bandits would have bowmen posted to deal with anyone who might
try to get back along the narrow path, and he had no desire to test the
accuracy of their aim.
As his beast scrambled up the bank, Musa saw a man standing on a
pinnacle, alertly watching the center of the caravan. His guess had been
right. The bandit leader's strategy had been to cut the caravan in two,
and to deal with the rear guard first. As the watcher started to aim at
something down on the trail, Musa quickly raised his own bow and sent an
arrow to cut the man down before he could fire.
It was a good shot. The man made no sound as the arrow struck, but
clawed for an instant at the shaft in his side, then dropped, to slide
down the face of a low cliff. Musa, followed by his guards, stormed up
the slope.
They went through a saddle in the hill, to find themselves confronted by
a half dozen men, who swung about, trying to bring their bows to bear on
the unexpected targets. Two of these went down as arrows sang through
the air, then the traders were upon the rest, swords flailing, too close
for archery.
One of the bandits swung his sword wildly at Musa, who had drawn a twin
to that blade he had sold back in Karth. The slender shaft of steel rang
against the bandit's bronze blade, deflecting it, then Musa made a quick
thrust which passed through the man's leather shield, to penetrate
flesh. The bronze weapon sagged, and its holder staggered. Musa jerked
back violently, disengaged his sword, and made a swift cut. For an
instant, the bandit sat his mount, staring at his opponent. Then, he
slumped, and rolled loosely from his saddle.
The action had been fast. Only one bandit, a skilled swordsman,
remained, to keep Baro busy. Musa rode quickly behind him, thrusting as
he passed. Baro looked across the limp body.
"Now, what did you have to do that for?" he demanded. "I was having a
good time."
"Let's get down to the trail again," Musa told him. "We can have a
wonderful time there." He pointed.
The caravan's rear guard was in trouble. Several of them were in the
dust of the trail, and the survivors were being pressed by a number of
determined swordsmen.
Baro wheeled and slid down the incline, closely followed by the rest of
the group.
The surrounded bandits fought desperately, but hopelessly. The charge
from the hill had driven them off balance, and they were never given a
chance to recover. At last, Musa and Baro looked over the results of the
raid.
They had lost several guards. One trader, Klaron, had been killed by an
arrow launched early in the attack. Several of the survivors were
wounded.
"We'll have to hire some more guards and drivers in Jogurth," said Baro.
"And what are we going to do about Klaron's goods?"
"We can divide them and sell them in Jogurth," Musa told him. "Klaron
has a brother back in Karth who can use the money, and money's a lot
easier to carry than goods. You'll see him on your return trip."
Baro nodded, and started up the line, reorganizing the caravan. At last,
they got under way again, and resumed their slow way toward the plateau.
* * * * *
The caravan went on, to enter the plateau, where the traders started
resting by day and traveling by night, to avoid exertion during the
day's heat.
They came to the city of Jogurth, which for most of them was a terminal.
From there, they would return to Karth, a few possibly going on to their
homes still farther west. Musa stayed in town for a few days, trading
his few remaining eastern goods for locally produced articles, and
helping in the sale of Klaron's goods. At last, he joined another
caravan, headed by an old trader, Kerunar, who habitually traveled
between Jogurth and Manotro, on the east coast.
The trip across the Soruna Kran was uneventful, and Musa finally saw the
glint of the Eastern Sea. He did not stay long in Manotro, for he
discovered that the small channel ships traveled frequently, and he was
able to guide his pack beasts to the wharf, where his bales were
accepted for shipment. Leaving his goods, he led his animals back to the
market.
Old Kerunar shook his head when he saw Musa. "Be careful, son," he
cautioned. "I've been coming here for twenty years. Used to trade in
Norlar, too. But you couldn't get me over there now for ten thousand
caldor."
"Oh?" Musa looked at him curiously. "What's wrong?"
Kerunar looked at his newly set up booth. Hung about it were durable
goods and trinkets from a dozen cities. There were articles even from
far-off Telon, in the Konassan gulf. He looked back at Musa.
"Norlar," he declared, "has fallen into the hands of thieves and
murderers. You can trade there, to be sure. You can even make a profit.
But you cannot be sure you will not excite the avarice of the Kondarans,
or arouse their anger. For they have a multitude of strange laws, which
they can invoke against anyone, and which they enforce with
confiscation of goods. Death or slavery await any who protest their
actions or question their rules." He paused.
[Illustration]
"Some manage to trade, and come back with profitable bales. Some leave
their goods in the hands of the priests of Kondaro. Some remain, to find
a quick death. But I stop here. I prefer to deal with honorable men.
When I face the thief or the bandit, I prefer to have a weapon in my
hand. A book of strange laws can be worse than any bandit born."
Musa looked about the market. "Here, of course," he acknowledged, "are
the goods of the Far East. But I must see them at their source." He
shook his head. "No," he decided, "I shall make one trip at least."
"I'll give you just one word of caution, then," he was told. "Whatever
you see, make little comment. Whenever you are asked for an offering,
make no objection, but give liberally. Keep your eyes open and your
opinions to yourself."
"Thanks." Musa grinned. "I'll try to remember."
"Don't just remember. Follow the advice, if you wish to return."
Musa's grin widened. "I'll be back," he promised.
* * * * *
The harbor of Tanagor, chief seaport of Norlar, was full of shipping.
Here were the ships which plied the trackless wastes of the Eastern Sea.
Huge, red-sailed, broad-beamed, they rode at anchor in the harbor,
served by small galleys from the city. Tied up at the wharves, were the
smaller, yellow and white-sailed ships which crossed the channel between
the mainland and the island empire.
Slowly, Musa's ship drew in toward the wharf, where a shouting gang of
porters and stevedores awaited her arrival. Together with other
passengers, Musa stood at the rail, watching the activity on the pier.
Four slaves, bearing a crimson curtained litter, came to the wharf and
stopped. The curtains opened, and a man stepped out. He was not large,
nor did his face or figure differ from the normal. But his elegantly
embroidered crimson and gold robes made him a colorfully outstanding
figure, even on this colorful waterfront. And the imperious assurance of
his bearing made him impossible to ignore.
He adjusted his strangely shaped, flat cap, glanced about the wharf
haughtily, and beckoned to one of the slaves, who reached inside the
litter and took from it an ornately decorated crimson chest. Another
slave joined him, and the two, carrying the chest with every evidence of
reverent care, followed their crimson-cloaked master as he strode into a
pier office.
Musa turned to one of the other merchants, his eyebrows raised
inquiringly.
"A priest of Kondaro," whispered the other. "In this land, they are
supreme. Take care never to anger one of them, or to approach too
closely to the sacred chest their slaves carry. To do so can mean prompt
execution."
As Musa started to thank the man for his friendly warning, a cry of
"Line Ho!" caused him to turn his attention to the mooring parties.
Lines had been cast aboard at bow and stern, and the ship was rapidly
being secured to stout bollards ashore.
A gang of stevedores quickly rigged a gangway amidships, and porters
commenced streaming aboard to carry the cargo ashore. Another gangway
was rigged aft for the passengers. At the foot of this, stood one of the
priest's litter bearers, a slave with a crimson loincloth. In his hands,
he held a large, red bowl, which was decorated with intricate gold
designs. Beside him, stood his companion, a sturdy, frowning fellow, who
held a large, strangely shaped sword in his hand. Musa's previous mentor
leaned toward him nodding to the group.
"Don't forget or fail to put a coin in that bowl," he cautioned.
"Otherwise, you'll never get passage on one of the sacred ships."
"How much?" queried Musa.
"The more, the better. If you want quick passage across the Great Sea,
better make it at least ten caldor."
Musa shrugged, reaching into his purse for a gold coin.
"Maybe I should be in the priesthood myself, instead of the trading
business," he told himself silently.
As he passed the bowl, he noted that the other trader dropped only a
silver piece. On the wharf, the incoming passengers were being guided
into groups. Musa noted that his group was the smallest, and that his
previous friend had gone to another, larger group. An official, tablet
in hand, approached.
"Your name, Traveler?"
"Musa, trader, of Karth."
"You have goods?"
"I brought twelve bales. They are marked with my name."
"Very good, sir. We will hold them for your disposal. You may claim them
at any time after mid-day." The man wrote rapidly on his tablet.
Musa thanked him, then turned to see how his shipboard acquaintance was
progressing. He had questions to ask about gold and silver coins.
He watched the older merchant complete his conversation with an
official, and, as he started to leave the wharf, quickly caught up with
him. At Musa's approach, the other held up a hand.
"I know," he said. "Why did I tell you to make a generous offering, then
put a smaller coin in the bowl myself? That is what you want to know?"
"Precisely," Musa replied. "I'm not a poor man, but I'm not a wealthy
holiday seeker, either. This voyage has to pay."
The other smiled. "Exactly why I advised you as I did. Come into this
wineshop, and I'll tell you the story."
* * * * *
Over the drinks, the older man explained himself. An experienced trader,
he had been operating between the mainland and Norlar for many years. It
had been a profitable business, for the island had been dependent upon
the mainland for many staple items, and had in return furnished many
items of exquisite craftsmanship, as well as the produce of its
extensive fisheries and pearl beds.
Then, the prophet, Sira Nal, had come with his preachings of a great sea
god, Kondaro, ruler of the Eastern Sea. Tonda told of the unbelief that
had confronted the prophet, and of the positive proof that Sira Nal had
offered, when he had gathered a group of converts, collected enough
money to purchase a ship, and made a highly successful voyage to the
distant lands to the east. Upon his return, Sira Nal had found a ready
market for the strange and wonderful products he had brought. He also
had found many more converts for his new religion.
His original group, now a priesthood, were the only men who could give
protection and guidance to a ship in a voyage past the sea demons who
frequented the Eastern Sea, and they demanded large offerings to
compensate for their services. Of course, a few adventurous shipowners
had attempted to duplicate Sira Nal's feat without the aid of a priest,
but no living man had seen their ships or crews again.
The profits from the rich, new trade, plus the alms of the traders
visiting Tanagor, had rapidly filled the coffers of Kondaro. A great
temple had been built, and the priests had become more and more
powerful, until now, not too many years after the first voyage of Sira
Nal, they virtually ruled the island.
For some years, Tonda, a conservative man and a firm believer in his own
ancestral gods, had paid little attention to this strange, new religion.
Upon arrival at Tanagor, to be sure, he had sometimes placed small
offerings in the votive bowl, but more often, he had merely strode past
the Slave of Kondaro, and gone upon his affairs.
At last, however, attracted by the great profits in the new, oversea
trade, he had decided to arrange for a voyage in one of the great ships.
Then, the efficiency of the priestly bookkeeping methods had become
apparent. The Great God had become incensed at Tonda's impiety during
his many previous trips across the channel, and a curse had been placed
upon him and upon his goods. Of course, if Tonda wished to do penance,
and to make votive offerings, amounting to about two thousand caldor, it
might be that the Great God would relent and allow his passage, but only
with new goods. His former possessions had been destroyed by the angry
Kondaro in his wrath at Tonda's attempts to place them in one of the
sacred ships. Empty-handed, Tonda had returned to the mainland.
"But why did you return with more goods?" inquired Musa.
Tonda smiled. "The wrath of Kondaro extends only to the Great Sea. And,
even though I cannot go farther east, trade here in Tanagor is quite
profitable." He paused, smiling, as he sipped his drink.
"I think the priests like having a few penitents around to explain
things to newcomers, and to furnish examples of the power of Kondaro."
Musa smiled in response. "But my ten caldor make me and my goods
acceptable?"
Tonda looked around quickly, then turned a horrified face toward his
protege.
"Never say such things," he cautioned in a low tone of voice. "Don't
even think them. Your piety makes you acceptable, so long as you
continue in a way pleasing to the great Kondaro. The money means
nothing. It is only the spirit of sacrifice that counts."
"I see." Musa's face was solemn. "And how else may I be sure I will
remain acceptable?"
Tonda nodded approvingly. "I thought you were a man of good sense and
prudence." He launched into a description of the technicalities of the
worship of Kondaro, the god of the Eastern Sea.
At length, Musa left his tutor, and repaired to an inn, where he secured
lodging for the night.
* * * * *
The following morning, in obedience to the advice given him by Tonda,
Musa took his way toward the Temple of the Sea. As he threaded through
the crowds already gathering in the streets, he took note of the types
of merchandise displayed in the booths, and hawked by the street
peddlers. Suddenly, one of these roving sellers approached him. In his
hands he held a number of ornaments.
"Good day to you, oh Traveler," he cried. "Surely, it is a fortunate
morning for both of us." With a deft gesture, he threw one of the
trinkets, a cunningly contrived amulet, about Musa's neck.
Musa would have brushed the man aside, but the chain of the amulet had
tangled about his neck and he was forced to pause while removing it.
"I told myself when I saw you," the man continued, "ah, Banasel, here is
one who should be favored by the gods. Now, how can such a one venture
upon the Eastern Sea without a sacred amulet?"
Musa had slipped the chain over his head. He paused, holding the
ornament in his hand. "How, then, are you to know where I am going?"
"Oh, Illustrious Traveler," exclaimed the man, "how can I fail to know
these things when it is given to me to vend these amulets of great
fortune?"
In spite of himself, Musa was curious. He looked at the amulet. There
was no question as to the superb workmanship, and his trading instincts
took over.
"Why, this is a fair piece of work," he said. "Possibly I could spare a
caldor or so."
The man before him struck his forehead.
"A caldor, he says! Why, the gold alone is worth ten."
Musa looked more closely at the ornament. The man was probably not
exaggerating too much. Actually, he knew he could get an easy
twenty-five balata for the bauble in Karth. A rapid calculation told him
that here was a possible profit from the skies.
"Why, possibly it is worth five, at that," he said. "Look, I'll be
generous. Shall we say six?"
"Oh, prince of givers! Thou paragon of generosity! After all, I, too,
must live." The man smiled wryly. "However, you are a fine, upstanding
young man, and one must make allowance. I had thought to ask twenty, but
we'll make it ten. Just the price of the gold."