Much as he would have liked to make my restrict entire, our limited crew prevented total imprisonment. I had to attend the ship’s booth during some selling hours. But I was left with no doubt that the slightest infringement of orders on my part would end in complete disaster for one Krip Vorlund. And he told me that he awaited now some complaint on the part of the fair authorities. He would be my defender in any such trial and the tape would be my best argument.
Most of the morning in the booth was routine. I would have no further chance to go hunting on my own; I had forfeited that privilege on Yiktor. But I kept thinking in my free moments of Maelen’s dream of a traveling beast show in space. As far as I knew, such had never been seen before. All the difficulties I had listed for her were only too true. Animals were not always adaptable, our tough species being one of the exceptions. Some cannot thrive away from their native worlds and can eat only highly specialized foods which cannot be transported, or they cannot stand the strains of shipboard life. But supposing a species that could overcome all such difficulties could be located, trained, taken out to roam the stars—would such a venture be profitable? A Trader’s mind always turns first to that question, just as he is willing to leap beyond the next sun if the answer may be yes.
There I could judge only by my own reaction to the performance of the night before—and personal judgments were chancy. We had been long trained to use our own enthusiasm only to spark initial interest, beyond that to test and retest before committing a fortune to any venture.
I wondered about the barsk, why Maelen had been so determined to rescue it. There had been other ill-housed and presumably ill-treated beasts in that selling tent. But only the barsk had interested her. It was a rare animal, yes, and one seldom seen in confinement. But why?
“Freesh—”
A pluck at my sleeve brought me around. I had been standing at the open front of the booth and now I looked down at the ragged boy, shifting from one bare, grimy foot to the other, his hands clasped together over his middle as he bobbed his head up and down in a “salute-to-superior.” I recognized him as the one who had guided us last night.
“What wish you?”
“Freesh, the Freesha asks that you come to her. There is that which she has to say with her own lips.”
It says much for discipline that I hesitated in my refusal for less than a second. “Give to the Freesha,” I dropped into the speech of formal Yiktorian politeness, “that I bide under the word of my liege lord and so cannot do as she desires. It is with sorrow that I must say this, by the Rings of the True Moon and the Flowering of the Hress.”
He did not go. Then I drew a small scale token from my pocket and held it out.
“Drink sweet water on me, runner.”
He took the token, but still did not go.
“Freesh, the Freesha wishes this very much.”
“Does the sword-sworn go about his own desire when he is under orders from his lord?” I countered. “Say to her as I have said, I have no choice in this matter.”
He did go then, but with a kind of reluctance which puzzled me. For the excuse I had given him was sound and acceptable anywhere on Yiktor. A follower was bound to his lord, and his commander’s whim must be set above, far above, any personal desires, even above his own life. Why had Maelen sent for me, an out-worlder who had no connection with her save that we had shared a small adventure last night? Prudence dictated that it was better to keep well away from the tent of the Thassa, from the little people, from all that had to do with them.
Still, I kept remembering her silver-and-ruby trappings, herself as she had stood, not outwardly directing her animals but as if she, too, watched them. I thought of her concern over the barsk, her remote contempt which had frozen the beast dealer as her wand had bound him. Strange powers were allotted to the Thassa by rumor, and there seemed to be some truth at the roots of rumor, at least Maelen gave one the suspicion it was so.
But there was little time for dreaming over puzzles, for two of the high merchants from the north swept into the booth as the boy departed. They were not dealers in sprode, but offered other wares to make up our light cargo, small luxury items which could be packed in the ship’s treasure room and so realize good return for small bulk. Captain Foss greeted them, they being his own customers, enticed here not by our regular cargo but our own light wares. These were the true aristocrats of the merchant class, men who had founded their fortunes securely and now speculated in things to pull wealth from the belt purses of the high nobility.
I produced the talk cups, plasta-crystal of Farn, reflecting light with diamond brilliance, yet so light in the hand that they appeared to be water bubbles. A man could stamp a magnetic-plated space boot on their rounded bowls and slender stems, and they would emerge unshattered.
Foss poured the wine of Arcturus into them, that deep crimson liquid which made them shine as the rubies on Maelen’s collar. Maelen—I put her sternly out of mind and stood respectfully, waiting to show whatever Foss or Lidj would signal for, needfully alert to unvoiced orders.
The four bearers the merchants had brought with them, all senior servers, took their places across the booth, the small chests they had carried hither before them. In spite of the peace of the fair they demonstrated the worth of their burdens by the fact they were all wearing, not the daggers of custom but, swords of defense.
But I was never to see what they guarded so closely. For there came a shrill whistle at the open front of the booth, and all the surge of noise to which we had become accustomed during the hours died away to a silence so complete one could hear the faint jangle of armor, the scrape of sword which heralded the arrival of a squad of fair justiciars. There were four of them, armed as if about to go against a fortified tower. Leading them was a man in a long robe that was half white (though marked with dust), half black, to signify the two sides of justice. He went unhelmed, a wilted wreath of Hress leaves sitting slightly crooked on his head, so that we knew him for a priest who had temporary duty thus, to remind, if only faintly, that there bad once been a sacred meaning for this assembly.
“Hark and give heed.” His voice was high-pitched, specially trained in the sacerdotal style of delivery. “This be the justice of the Moon of Rings, by the favor of Domtatoper, by whose will we run and walk, live and breathe, think and do! Let he stand forth who Domtatoper calls—even the off-worlder who drew weapon within the bonds of the Fair of the Moon of Rings!”
Captain Foss fronted the priest in one quick movement.
“Upon whose complaint does Domtatoper’s sword-sworn summon my liegeman?” He made the conventional reply to the summons.
“Upon the complaint of Othelm, sworn on the altar and before witnesses. There must be answer made.”
“There shall be,” Foss returned. I caught the slight movement of his eyes and went to join him. He had my persona tape in his tunic pocket. It would be enough to justify my use of the stunner. But how soon we could get a hearing before the mixed tribunal of priests and merchants was another matter, and I knew that this present conference between the captain and the northern men was an important one.
“Let me go,” I said in Basic. “If they propose to try me at once, I can send a message—”
Foss did not answer but called into the booth. “Lalfarns!”
Alfec Lalfarns, tube man, had no regular booth duties save to lend a hand in unpacking and stowing goods.
“This man,” Foss said to the priest, “goes as my eyes and ears. If my sword-sworn comes to trial, he will inform me. This is permitted?”
The priest looked to Lalfarns and after a moment nodded. “It is permitted. Let this one,” he turned to me, “lay aside his weapon.”
He held out his hand for the stunner in my holster. But Foss’s fingers had already closed about its butt and the captain drew it.
“His weapon is no longer his. It remains here—as is custom.”
I thought for a moment that the priest was going to protest, but by custom the captain was right. For, by Yiktor reckoning, all weapons worn by an underling were legally the property of the lord and could be reclaimed at any time, especially if the lord considered that his sword-sworn had transgressed some ruling.