He ordered the Buffalo grounded, that he might load the most precious loot at once. The men, by and large, were too rough, good lads, but apt to damage a robe or a cup or a jeweled cross in their haste; and sometimes those Meycan things were too beautiful even to give away, let alone sell.
The flagship descended as much as possible. It still hung at a thousand feet, for hand pumps and aluminum-alloy tanks did not allow much hydrogen compression. In colder, denser air it would have been suspended even higher. But ropes snaked from it to a quickly assembled ground crew. At home there were ratcheted capstans outside every lodge, so that as little as four women could bring down a rover. One hated the emergency procedure of bleeding gas, for the Keepers could barely meet demand, in spite of a new sunpower unit added to their hydroelectric station, and charged accordingly. (Or so the Keepers said, but perhaps they were only taking advantage of being inviolable, beyond all kings, to jack up prices. Some chiefs, including Loklann, had begun to experiment with hydrogen production for themselves, but it was a slow thing to puzzle out an art that even the Keepers only half understood.)
Here, enough strong men replaced machinery. The Buffalo was soon pegged down in the cathedral plaza, which it almost filled. Loklann inspected each rope himself. His wounded leg ached, but not too much to walk on. More annoying was his right arm, which hurt worse from stitches than from the original cut. The medic had warned him to go easy with it. That meant fighting lefthanded, for it should never be told that Loklann sunna Holber stayed out of combat. But he would only be half himself.
He touched the knife which had spiked him. At least he’d gotten a fine steel blade for his pains. And. . . hadn’t the owner said they would meet again, to settle who kept it? There were omens in such words. It could be a pleasure to reincarnate that Ruori.
“Skipper. Skipper, sir.”
Loklann glanced about. Yuw Red-Ax and Aalan sunna Rickar, men of his own lodge, had hailed him. They grasped the arms of a young woman in black velvet and silver. The beweaponed crowd,
moiling about, was focusing itself on her; raw whoops lifted over the babble.
“What is it?” said Loklann brusquely. He had much to do. “This wench, sir. A looker, isn’t she? We picked her up down near the waterfront.”
“Well, shove her into the temple with the rest till— Oh.” Loklann rocked back on his heels, narrowing his eyes to meet a steady green glare. She was certainly a looker.
“She kept hollering the same words over and over. Shef, rey, oinbro gran— I finally wondered if it didn’t mean ‘chief,’” said Yuw, “and then when she yelled khan I was pretty sure she wanted to see you. So we didn’t use her at all ourselves,” he finished virtuously.
“Aba tu Spaflol?” said the girl.
Loklann grinned. “Yes,” he replied in the same language, his words heavily accented but sufficient. “Well enough to know you are calling me ‘thou.’ “ Her pleasantly formed mouth drew into a thin line. “Which means you think I am your inferior—or your god, or your beloved.”
She flushed, threw back her head (sunlight ran along crow’s-wing hair) and answered: “You might tell these oafs to release me.”
Loklann said the order in Angliz. Yuw and Aalan let go. The marks of their fingers were bruised into her arms. Loklann stroked his beard. “Did you want to see me?” he asked.
“If you are the leader, yes,” she said. “I am the calde’s daughter, Doflita Tresa Carabán.” Briefly, her voice wavered. “That is my father’s chain of office you are wearing. I came on behalf of his people, to ask for terms.”
“What?” Loklann blinked. Someone in the warrior crowd laughed.
It must not be in her to beg mercy, he thought; her tone remained brittle: “Considering your sure losses if you fight to a finish, and the chance of provoking a counterattack on your homeland, will you not accept a money ransom and a safe-conduct, releasing your captives and ceasing your destruction?”