*13*
SILVER AND GOLD
[Good morning, heroes, how are y - what's wrong with the screen?]
-BLINK- -BLINK- -BLINK- *pfft*
"God bless healing potions," Ringo intoned solemnly.
With a glorious summer morning surrounding them, the four sat at a table on the tree-shaded patio of a small restaurant called "Delicious Food," waiting for breakfast. Thirty minutes ago they'd arisen, groaning and nauseated; forty gold coins later, food was a good idea. Indeed, they all felt terrific: truly clear-brained and well-rested for the first time on this adventure. They were still rather nervous about all the armed people around them, but it was becoming increasingly clear that they would have to do something pretty drastic to invite Ta'akanian wrath. Not so much as a hand went to a hilt when the four rebuffed a hopeful customer; quite the opposite, in fact; it was if the four ceased to exist for the person.
George rolled an empty vial between his fingers, held it up to his eyes. "This stuff is amazing, just miraculous. I wonder what's in it?"
"Let's try to get the recipe," said John as he shifted position on his backwards chair. "We'd make a few billion on it." (He hadn't needed the potion for any old hangover, but boy, had he been stiff! And in funny places, too.)
"You could get addicted to it." Ringo tilted a leftover drop onto his tongue. "Come on, let's get drunk again so we can cure it."
He grinned as he said it, but he sounded serious enough for Paul to shake his head and say, "Once is enough. We do want to start thinking about rescuing Lyndess and getting home."
"What exactly is it we're supposed to do to rescue her, then?" asked George, putting down the vial. "I mean, I remember you told me she's cursed and all that, but what can we do?"
"Well, she said we should find her friends and tell them she needs help."
"Who are they? Do they live around here? Do we have some kind of address?"
Paul opened his mouth to reply, then paused in astonishment and dismay. "She didn't tell us their names!"
"Yeah, she did," said John, "she told us just before she zapped us over here, but I don't remember any of them. One might be Ralph, and I think another's Janice."
"Is that what she was sayin'?" asked Ringo, balancing all the vials on their ends. "I was so scared I hardly heard her."
"Right, what are we supposed to do," George said in annoyance, "go up to everyone and ask 'Excuse me, is your name kind of like Ralph and do you happen to know Lyndess?'"
Their food came, freshly baked small loaves of bread, bowls of cut-up fruit, and water. John had a triple portion, of course. "Do you happen to know a woman named Lyndess?" Paul asked the man who served them. He didn't, so the four ate gloomily, trying to figure out what to do. "Maybe there's a Hall of Records somewhere," Paul suggested, spearing pieces of pear and melon with his fork.
John chewed busily on a loaf, swallowed. "Right, we'll just look in the file marked 'Friends of Lyndess'."
"There might be some legal form with their names on it."
"If there's a newspaper we could put an advert in it," offered George. "Full-page spread or something."
"That's too small," said Ringo. "Let's make a commercial with dancin' bears and a thousand people all chantin' 'Lyndess! Lyndess!'" He waved his fork like a conductor's baton.
"Or cut a record called `Do You Know Lyndess'," John said. He broke into a bastardized "Strawberry Fields Forever": "Let me ask your help, 'cause I'm tryin' to, find my friend's friends; Lyndess is her name; she's cursed to stay in Ke-ta-faaa... do you know her she is desp'rate."
Paul rapped on the table to restore order. "Right, I think George had a brainstorm. When we're done, let's go out and see if they've got a paper."
Then a man walked onto the patio and up to them and said "Nama, olyrr-sars!"
"We're not selling anything!" the four chorused.
"I know," he said, pulling up a chair and sitting at the corner of the table between John and Ringo. "I have some questions to ask and an invitation to give."
Well, that was different; they gave him their attention.
An older fellow, perhaps in his mid-50's to early 60's, he was Ringo's size, though stockier of limb and broader of chest, with skin of light mahogany, slightly darker than the standard Ta'akanian. He wore a short brown hooded cape that made him resemble Little Red Riding Hood, but he didn't look like he would mind the comparison; he had the round face and the wrinkles of a nice guy who laughed a lot. His nose was stubby, and his big brown eyes were sleepy but penetrating. His shirt and pants, though silky, were of a sober dark green/brown, and he wore no jewelry or other ornamentation.
Something about him nagged at John; where had he seen him before? Not on Earth, surely. "Do I know you?" he asked.
"Only if your memory extends as far as yesterday," the man said cheerfully.
The light dawned. "Right! I saved your life last night."
"Huh?" said the others.
John sketched a picture of his evening, careful not to mention how sober he'd been.
"I apologize for not thanking you then," the man said, helping himself to one of John's small loaves, "but I was distracted by my skif teb. When I returned, you had left."
"That's okay. Uh—you didn't kill that woman, did you?"
"No. Sar wasn't an enemy, just a rival."
"Excuse me," Paul interrupted gently. "After we've answered your questions, could we ask you a few things? We've a bit of a problem."
"Certainly," the man said. "Er-ho, olyrr-sars, introductions. I am Grunnel the Drinker." After the four introduced themselves, Grunnel continued: "Will you be here when the 245th of Nesa is born?"
"Who's Nesa?" said Ringo. "She must be Catholic," John added.
The man grinned. "Nesa isn't a sar, it's a fortyday—the seventh of the year. Today is the 203rd day of Pola, the sixth fortyday. Will you still be on C'hou in 42 days?"
Faces at the table went grim. "I hope not," said George.
"We really don't know," Paul explained. "See, we've no idea why we're here. We didn't come here voluntarily; for all we know, whoever sent us here will move us away tomorrow."
Grunnel took a long pull from Ringo's mug of water. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, "If you're still here, will you come to the Festival of Magic in Zagesevregar? We want olyrr-sars from many different worlds to attend."
Ringo beamed. "Festival of magic? I'll stay for that!"
But the others were more ambivalent, if no less intrigued. "Hang on, let's not make any hasty decisions," murmured Paul. And John, for obvious reasons, was downright suspicious. "Why?" he asked Grunnel. "We don't know any magic." He shifted uncomfortably as he said this, wondering if the man had guessed why he was sitting funny in his chair.
"Baravada has problems that the gods can't solve." Grunnel drew a slender dagger, speared a couple of chunks of fruit in John's very large bowl, popped them in his mouth, chewed with his eyes closed, swallowed, opened his eyes, and grinned. "We hope that olyrr-sars can provide us with solutions, or even just ideas." He licked the fruit juice off the dagger, then wiped the dagger on Ringo's napkin and sheathed it again.
The Earthmen exchanged glances. All had roughly the same thought: Rather nasty gods they seem to have out here, and why are we expected to take up the slack?
"Oh, well, if the gods can't solve them, I don't think we'll be of much use," John said dryly. He pushed his glasses up his nose.
Paul waved his hands frantically. "No, no, wait a sec! Maybe that's why we're here—to solve the problems here, not in Ketafa."
"Then why were we in Ketafa?" asked George, not hostile, just trying to be logical. "And what about Lyndess?"
"How should I know? Maybe something we learned there will be useful here. Maybe solving one problem will solve the other." To Grunnel: "What sorts of problems are they?"
Burping contentedly, the old man leaned his chair back against a tree and crossed his legs. "The skahs have nothing left to do."
"The what?" said the four in unison.
"The skahs. The sars who fight and protect the tirin, the sars who provide. You have neither in your world?"
"You mean like soldiers and civilians?" said Ringo, scratching his head.
"I don't know those words. Arh—let me add gems to this bracelet." And Grunnel launched into a narrative, the gist of which was as follows:
It seemed that for hundreds of years Baravada had been overrun by monsters and lizard-like humanoids called Tahil [TAY-hill]. The remaining free Baravadans divided into two groups: the skahs, who fought the Tahil and the monsters, and the tirin, who farmed and healed wounds and made it possible for the skahs to concentrate solely on combat and strategy. Armed with magic and weapons, the skahs were quite good at what they did—so effective, in fact, that to the best of anyone's knowledge, there were no Tahil or monsters left anywhere on Baravada today. Ta'akan was the last city to be liberated—some 30 years ago—and the last known Tahil settlement fell more than three years ago. Since then, the skahs had been scouring Baravada for pockets of resistance, tracking down even the most suspect rumors of solitary Tahil and monsters in remote mountain caves. But no one had reported a genuine encounter in more than a year. And the skahs, addicted to adventure, devoid of purpose, were getting antsy.
"Some are sailing towards Birth—in the direction of Seopia, our sun goddess, as she is born anew each morning," Grunnel explained to his fascinated audience. "None have ever found any lands beyond the Garden Isles, but rumors persist of a great fleet of Tahil having fled in that direction. Following similar rumors, other skahs have disappeared into the Ah'di, the desert at the center of Baravada, or into the Falora I'c'herma, the Corpse at the Top of the World, where the Tahil first appeared. If these skahs have found anything, they haven't told the rest of the sars.
"Many skahs, preferring more substantial information on which to base an expedition, are waiting in the cities: Ta'akan, Coss, and Endris on the Shining Coast, and Zagesevregar on the edge of the Ah'di." Leaning forward without disturbing his precariously balanced chair, Grunnel took a long pull of a beer he'd ordered, wiped the greenish liquid off his whiskers with the back of his hand, and belched, then settled back. "Ta'akan is especially crowded because it is nearer the Falora than the others."
Considering how empty the four had found the outskirts of the city, they figured "crowded" was relative. "Is that why there are street fights?" asked Paul. "I mean, the skahs are getting restless and bored, and there are a lot of them all bunged together—sorry, all stuck in the same place together—so they fight each other?"
The old man looked at Paul in approval. "There have always been street fights. Sars must keep their skills sharp. But yes, in the last year there have been many more such fights. We prefer to fight nonsars, but what else have we to do?" He grinned and let his chair fall forward so that the front legs slapped against the patio's wooden floor. "That's why we're holding a conference." He pronounced the word with great precision, as if it were a foreign term. "Do you know what a conference is, sars?" The four agreed that they did. "Sharp! Some of the skahs, led by Brox and myself and a few others, prefer to find our own solutions rather than wait for the Tahil to reappear or the gods to help. The gods say they can do nothing to restore our opponents. They could only tell us how to hold a conference, and they promised to alert the olyrr-sars who come for the Festival of Magic each year."
"So the reason you want us at the Festival, then," said John, "is that you hope we can help you find things to fight?"
Grunnel held up a finger. "We have two questions that we ask you to help answer: 'What can skahs fight instead of Tahil and monsters?' And 'What are skahs to do if there never are any more nonsars to fight?' Brox and I developed these questions," he added proudly. "We hope that olyrr-sars have solved these problems on their worlds and can help us do the same."
The four looked at one another again. This was turning into the Planet of Peculiar Problems. At least Grunnel didn't expect them to actually solve this one, just offer input and the like. "Well, I don't know how much use we'll be," said Paul, "but if we're still around when the Festival comes up, we'll try to help." The others agreed, with Ringo adding, "I hope you'll let us wander round the Festival a bit too?"
The old man beamed. "Certainly, sar. Why would I stop you? Er-h'o, I have another question. You're selling nothing; you're not olyrr-skahs, come to fight Tahil; why are you here? And why, by all the gods, were you in that rusted Ketafa?" He spat on the floor.
The four were more than happy to fill his ear with their plight (John thought it prudent not to mention certain details), to complain bitterly about the Idris, and to solicit his help with their Lyndess problem.
When they were done, Grunnel said, "Do you have anything that sar's friends owned?"
They didn't, of course. "Why, would a shoe or something have an aura that you could use to find them?" asked George.
"I couldn't; I'm an illusion-wizard. A knowledge-wizard could, but as you don't have anything…." Rubbing his chin, the old man thought for a moment. "A mind-wizard could retrieve the names from your minds. Then you could buy location spells. Or you could hire criers to yell 'I seek the friends of Lyndess'; or you could hang posters with the same message."
"How about an advert in a newspaper?" asked Paul, but Grunnel didn't know what either thing was, so that was out. Still, the four were pleased that they at least had some options within the context of Ta'akan. But… "How much d'ye think it'd cost?" asked John. "We don't have much money."
Grunnel shrugged. "I never bought posters. Location spells start at fifty golds, and all but the most powerful will fail if the sars are Protected. A crier costs from five to ten golds a day. Mind-wizards vary."
"Oh." The enthusiasm dampened as the four cast wistful looked at their much-depleted money pouch. Thanks mostly to the healing potions, three-fourths of their money was already gone, and with their only source of income Paul's guitar—assuming they could find someone to pay them in coin instead of beer—they were going to have an interesting time simply surviving, never mind finding Lyndess's friends. "Did any of you lads keep any of the money the Idris gave us?" Paul said to the others.
Ringo indicated the pouch. "I put mine in there already."
George dug in his pockets and came up with a few copper and silver coins, which he put in the pouch. "I forgot about it. I wasn't really focused on taking it," he said.
"Mine were in me old pants when—you know." John stared at the shiny drops of fruit juice at the bottom of his empty bowl. "Lyndess may've put it in the pouch."
With a little despairing laugh, Paul spread his empty hands. "Grynun gave me a carved wooden box to put me money in. It's very safe in her bedroom. Oh, Jesus." He turned to Grunnel. "Do they pay people to play music here?"
The wizard didn't say anything for a few moments, but he looked intently at Paul, as if trying to see into his soul. He seemed to be mulling something over. Finally he said to John, "Sar, why did you stop that knife?"
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time," John replied, nonplused. "Why, shouldn't I have?"
"You wanted nothing in return? Only to shield my life?"
Something in the man's tone made John bite off the funny comment he was about to make, and he simply said "No. I mean, no, I didn't want anything, and yes, I wanted to shield your life."
"Would you sars—" Grunnel looked at Ringo, Paul, and George in turn "—have done the same for the same reason?"
Wondering where the man was going with this line of conversation, they said yes, they were exactly like John in that respect.
"Do any of you follow Ardav the Silver God?"
"Never heard of him," said John.
Abruptly Grunnel pushed his hood back, revealing close-cut silver-gray hair, and grinned broadly. He seemed to wilt a bit when the four did not make a fuss over what was clearly supposed to have been a big dramatic revelation, but he quickly regained his good humor. "Sars, if you need money, I have a job for you."
"A job?" Paul repeated, not sure whether to be pleased or wary, especially considering how Grunnel had led up to this announcement. "Well, that's really awfully nice of you…."
"What kind of a job, then?" John interrupted. "Does it have something to do with my saving your life?"
"Yes," said the old wizard. "You proved yourselves trustworthy, or I wouldn't make this offer. I told you that I was looking for participants for the conference. While I do this, Brox is in Zagesevregar, planning. Sar left sar's son As'taris here so As wouldn't pester Brox or vanish into the desert chasing wind-Tahil. I've been living with As in our house outside Ta'akan, but sar has been pestering me. I want to live in the city by myself until Brox returns, but I don't want to leave As alone. I'll pay you sars to live with As."
"You want us to be nannies?" said Ringo incredulously.
Grunnel stared back at him, equally incredulous. "You're going to turn yourselves into goats?"
While the two of them laughingly straightened this out, John said to Paul and George in a low voice, "Sounds like we'd be nanny to Dennis the Menace."
"Right expensive lot of nannies we'd be," said George with a faint smile. "I do hope this isn't really why we're here."
Paul fingered the nearly empty money pouch. "I'm not sure we have a choice about this."
"Of course we have a choice!" John hissed. "Why the fuck can't we dig ditches or something?"
"Because they probably do it by magic round here," Paul retorted. "Anyway, I'd much rather change nappies than dig ditches."
"Why can't they do that by magic? I know if I could do magic I'd invent some—"
"As'taris is eighteen," Grunnel interrupted, grinning broadly, as was Ringo. "Sar probably won't even talk to you. I want you to live with sar merely because I don't want sar to die where no one can see."
That sobered up Ringo in a hurry. "He's suicidal?"
"As is under a curse to stay in Ta'akan until Brox returns or As dies. I doubt As will die—sar is too proud to suicide, and part of the curse says that sar can't initiate a fight—but if sar does die, I want someone to be there to tell me." The wizard said this very matter-of-factly, as if he didn't really care whether As'taris lived or died. "Will you do this job for me, sars? I'll give you as much money as you need to buy food and posters or spells, and you can stop when Brox returns, which should be in twenty days."
"Well…" Paul began doubtfully, glancing at John, who shook his head; at George, who shrugged; at Ringo, who jerked his head in the direction of an empty table across the patio. Paul smiled and gave Ringo a little nod. To Grunnel: "D'ye mind if we talk this over privately?"
"I won't eavesdrop," said the wizard, who ordered and consumed two-and-a-half beers in the time it took the four to retire to the other table and argue at each other. When they returned, John slouched sullenly back to his reversed chair, and Paul said,
"We can't guarantee we won't be whisked away somewhere else, but if that doesn't worry you, we'll take the job."
"Sharp!" beamed Grunnel. "I'll summon As'taris." From his pocket he took a pinkish gem about the size and shape of a quarter, which he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger. "As is probably in the Open Market, watching fights. If so, sar won't be here immediately." Then he looked at the gem. "I should give this to you." He pressed the gem to his forehead and covered it with his palm. Crack! A flash of light made the four jump. Grunnel took the gem off, wiped it on his shirt, and handed it to Ringo. "It's keyed to me now. Rub it as I did, and I'll know where you are."
Ringo immediately rubbed it, and Grunnel jerked as if stung. "Not now, deadbrain!" the wizard laughed, rubbing his left shoulder. So Ringo put the gem in his pocket, and the five of them spent the next fifteen minutes or so talking about Earth, as Grunnel was quite curious about their world.
Until a young male elf walked onto the patio, cleaning his fingernails with a jeweled dagger. Grunnel's round face lit up. "As!" he called, waving, and the elf sauntered over. As he approached, Grunnel muttered to the four, "Say nothing of the job. As would be offended."
"How do we explain why we're there, then?" asked Ringo.
"I have a reason."
As'taris arrived. He was the first blonde the four had seen in C'hou; his hair was a rich, deep, golden yellow, but cut so short that he looked like a Marine. His eyes, narrow and slightly slanted, were exactly the same color as his hair. His face—thin, delicate, and rather pinched, with a sharp chin and high cheekbones—was full of impatience and pride; he looked much older than eighteen. Over his fine blue shirt he wore a silver brooch and a silver necklace with a round diamond pendant; gem-studded gold and silver rings flashed on his fingers; a silver chain with large links served as a belt over his black pants. Altogether, he looked strong and fit and graceful and ever so prepared for life in Ta'akan.
"What do you want?" he demanded of Grunnel in a deep baritone, flipping the dagger end-over-end without even looking at it, and catching it by the hilt each time. "Why did you drag me from the skif tebs?"
Grunnel smiled mischievously. "Introduce yourself to the tirin olyrr-sars."
The elf threw them the briefest, most condescending of glances. "I am As'taris Farbound. Grun, why are you coloring my and your life with this rust?"
"Because I want these olyrr-sars to participate in the conference," the wizard said in the soothing tones one reserves for angry animals.
Suddenly the elf jammed the dagger in the table. The four Earthmen jerked back. As'taris laughed and yanked the dagger out again. "What could these—these olyrr-tirin know of skahs problems?" Sliding the dagger into the sheath on his belt, he tugged on the wizard's sleeve. "Er-h'o, Grun, leave them and watch the skif tebs with me. Mebben Twoknife agreed to fight Masta'is Skytoucher at sundeath!"
Grunnel gently pulled the elf's hand from his sleeve. "No, As. I'm busy finding sars to join the conference."
"You found some," As'taris whined, his thin lips pursing. "And I didn't need to meet them. I'm leaving!" He started to stride away.
Grunnel just sat where he was, watching his young charge leave. He took a swig of his latest beer, and, when the elf was about to step off the patio, called out, "I wanted to alert you that these olyrr-sars will be at the house when you return."
As'taris froze very nicely in mid-step. He turned slowly—uncomfortably like a gunfighter to the eyes of the four—walked back to the table, and stared down accusingly at Grunnel. "This is the reward you spoke of for your life-preserver."
"Yes," said the wizard. "They need money and beds. We have both. And I'll learn about their world. I've never spoken to an olyrr-sar except to buy something."
"What use is learning about their world?" the elf muttered, deflated. More loudly: "I do not befriend tirin, even olyrr-tirin."
"You don't have to befriend them. You can ignore them."
As'taris stuck his chin out stubbornly. "I will."
"Sharp!" said Grunnel. He waved his latest mug of beer in salute to the four and the elf. "You'll never be friends, but you'll never be enemies either."
No one, human or elf, was particularly reassured by this. Still, the four were committed, and it wasn't like they had anywhere better to go.
Putting his empty mug on the table with a clunk, Grunnel stood up. "As, take the olyrr-sars to the house. I'll be living in the Temple for some time, so you have to do this. Key them to the house's Protections. Give them rooms and show them where to catch the naba-aban. Let them draw freely from the treasure."
The elf had been growing more and more sullen as this list was aired, but on the last statement he perked up a bit, though he gave no indication as to why. He favored the four with a glance. "Tirin, do you have all your possessions with you?" he asked curtly.
They didn't—Paul's guitar was back at the inn. So John was dispatched to gather it up, and As'taris waited impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot, until John came racing back with the instrument. Then, barely giving the four time to say "Goodbye and thanks" to Grunnel, the elf led them off the patio and through a bewildering series of twists and turns past fascinating shops, across a bridge over a sluggish river, through a bustling open market full of stalls and interesting smells, and down to the docks. With John hugging his cloak tightly around himself, they threaded through the biggest crowd they'd yet seen in Ta'akan: sailors, fishers, merchants, dock workers, and skahs (in this traditionally male-oriented setting, the four did not fail to notice that the sexes were evenly mixed in all cases) until they arrived at As'taris's small blue boat. It had neither sails nor oars, and seemed to have been looted from an amusement park. When the four were seated he cast off the line, stepped gracefully into the stern, crossed his arms, looked towards the horizon, and murmured "Ho."
The boat moved soundlessly away from the dock and accelerated as it headed for open water, leveled off at about thirty miles per hour. The four made impressed noises; after the healing potions, this was the best magic they'd struck. As'taris stood with the wind ruffling his short hair, silent, unsmiling, proud, and noble. He never once wobbled.
For ten minutes or so they sped through the water with the coast on their left, which grew steadily higher, then pulled into a cove at the bottom of a cliff. "Er," said As'taris, and the boat ground onto the short strip of pebbly beach at the base of the cliff. To his passengers: "Out." They got, and, curtly refusing their help, the elf dragged the boat to the back of the beach and tied it to a stake sticking out of the cliff face.
Then up a hundred feet of rough-hewn, wood-covered steps; the elf ran all the way, and fingered his dagger-hilt impatiently as the four huffed their way to the top. He did notice that John wasn't nearly as tired as the other three, but what he made of that fact John couldn't tell.
Whatever the four had expected Grunnel and As'taris to live in, it wasn't this pleasant white house with shuttered windows. It faced a long, wide lawn rather than the ocean, which was a shame, for the view was magnificent: the great sprawling Ta'akan to the right, sparkling blue water, ships with their sails puffed out whitely, and a sky that went on forever. Surrounding the entire house and grounds was forest, and a weathered shed sat some feet from the house.
"So how could such a schmuck live here?" George muttered as they caught their breath from the climb. (John panted heavily and pretended he was as exhausted as the others.)
"Don't stop," snapped the elf, now at the front door. Naturally he wasn't tired. "See the house, then rest."
Muttering complaints, they trudged after him.
The ground floor consisted of two rooms: an enormous living/dining room dominated by a table and eight chairs, and a kitchen with hams and strings of onions hanging from the ceiling. Upstairs were eight small bedrooms, four dusty and furnished, four locked and mysterious. Then the elf took his guests back to the kitchen and pulled on the ring of a trapdoor in the corner. It opened onto a lit flight of stairs. The sharp smell of metal drifted up. They descended—
—and emerged into Aladdin's Cave. Copper, silver, and gold coins covered the floor to a depth of a foot. Chests stuffed with gems and jewelry lined the walls, gleaming under a layer of dust.
The four just stared.
"Spend as much of this as you can," As'taris informed them curtly. "Stay out of the locked bedrooms and the aliser shed." He went upstairs.
Coins clinked, sliding into the depressions left by the elf's feet.
"Well, I don't think we're gonna have any money problems for a few days," Paul said at last.
"I hope this aylisser thingy isn't the toilet," said Ringo.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form (AND THAT INCLUDES DOWNLOADING) or by any means, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the author. Permission may be obtained by e-mail from D. Aviva Rothschild.
E-mail comments or suggestions to
kwwayne@sprynet.com
Get your own Free Home Page