Cosmonaut Keep (34 page)

Before Gregor could collect his confused thoughts, let alone say anything, Marcus turned sharply left, leading them up a narrow stairway of worn, wet stone. The doorways of small taverns and shops interrupted the mossy walls every ten or so steps. Gregor concentrated on keeping his footing and following Lydia's heels; an upward glance, dangerous but interesting, showed the walls going up like the sides of a canyon, the street- and window-lighting obscuring any strip of sky above.

After about a hundred steps they reached a final flight, broader and less slippery but no less worn, which ended at a street. Halfway up that flight, Marcus stopped. He indicated a door to their left, a few steps farther up.

"This is the place," he said. The door was half-glazed, the windows dim, the sign brightly lit but indecipherable. It might have made sense, to other eyes; Gregor could see only swirls and blocks.

"What kind of place is it?" Elizabeth asked.

Marcus grimaced. "The saur equivalent of a tavern, or a ... place of assignation. Been in one before?"

Gregor and Elizabeth hadn't.

"It's quite safe to go in, but it is very important to be polite, not to stare, and not to make loud noises or sudden movements. Otherwise we may be thrown out. Clear? Right. Elizabeth, maybe you should stay beside me, and Gregor with Lydia. If there's any trouble, let us do the protecting. Follow me."

Marcus held the door open until they were all crowded behind him, and Gregor let it swing back behind them as they went in. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low lighting. The air was rank with fish and meat; the sweetish whiff of hemp only made it more sickly.

It was the eyes he saw first, slanted obsidian ellipses reflecting the faint glow of the suspended lamps. Then he made out the shadowy shapes of saurs, sitting on chairs at wide circular tables. There was no bar, just a darker opening at the back, a source of clattering noises and strong smells. In front of that opening two saurs in belted robes faced each other, hands raised, in crooked, edgy postures. They were moving very slowly, as though in dance or ritual combat. Dishes and cups lay on the tables. Glowing pipe-bowls moved up and down and about, like mysterious lights in a dark sky. Saur conversations went on quietly, a background hiss rather than a murmur. Above it and behind it, some rhythmic sound he couldn't quite hear worried at the sockets of his teeth.

Lydia clutched his hand. Together they followed Elizabeth and Marcus -- also holding hands, he noticed -- toward a corner table at the back. From behind the table, five pairs of eyes observed their approach. As he got closer he recognized Salasso, who nodded. He was sitting beside a saur who wore a dark but shiny gown. One of the other saurs stood up and indicated four vacant chairs on the near side of the table. Following Marcus's lead, the humans sat down. The chairs were of the same corky substance as they'd seen in Saur City One. The table, made of a single block of the same stuff, had a sharp inward curve from the top to the base to make room for knees, though not quite enough for human knees.

"Bishlayan," said Marcus. The saur in the black gown ducked her head briefly.

"Salasso," said Gregor. "Are you all right?"

"For now."

Of the other saurs, the two to Salasso's right were in the familiar one-piece coveralls, the one to Bishlayan's left in what looked curiously like one of the bulky leather jackets favored by airplane pilots; almost comical on his -- or her -- slender frame. A fur collar added to the impression, and the incongruity.

"Let us introduce ourselves," said the saur at the opposite end of the group. "Gregor, Lydia, Elizabeth, Marcus, your names and sexes and occupations are known to us. Salasso and Bishlayan you know. The one beside them is Delavar; he is, as you may surmise, a local skiff pilot. My name is Tharanack, and I am of the male sex. My female comrade is called Mavikson. We are citizens of New Lisbon and are employed as what the humans call 'peacekeepers,' and what we call 'fighters.' "

He spread his hands, splaying the four digits on each. "You may ask for our documents, or you may call for peacekeepers of another species if you wish. No? Very well. I cannot ask Marcus and Lydia, but I must ask you, Gregor and Elizabeth -- are you armed?"

Gregor turned to Elizabeth and felt heartened by her wry smile.

"No," she said. "Apart from our knives, of course."

"You are well-armed," said Tharanack. "That is good. We would not want you to feel intimidated."

Gregor didn't believe for a second that the sturdy, sharp lock-knife in his pocket would make much difference in a fight with saurs, but he reckoned the whole significance of the question was symbolic anyway. This preliminary palaver probably wasn't even saur custom, just police procedure in the multispecies municipality of New Lisbon. He realized that his companions were looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

He laid his hands on the table and rolled them, palms up. As a gesture of peace and open-mindedness it probably came across as theatrical to the saurs, but he was acutely conscious of the need to err on the side of caution. If that meant doing the equivalent of throwing himself on his knees and baring his chest, so be it.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Marcus's slight nod of approval. The pilot Delavar leaned forward sharply, hissing some epithet; Mavikson silenced him with a glance.

"The problem is this," the female peacekeeper said. "Delavar, Salasso, and Bishlayan have a relationship of long standing. Salasso and Bishlayan, of course, have most recently met in Kyohvic. A certain tension arose when Salasso turned up here, while Bishlayan was with Delavar. In order to reassure Delavar that he was not here in competition for Bishlayan's attention, or some other ulterior motive, Salasso explained his real purpose. Delavar, and others here who, ah, quickly became aware of the conversation, were even more disturbed by this than by his initial jealous suspicion. Assistance was called for. So here we are."

The irritating background rhythm stopped. Behind him, Gregor heard four bare saur feet slap into a different position. A different, but still subtly annoying rhythmic sound began. Off to the side, he could see a lot of black eyes watching him, and a few, apparently, on the dancers. The sight brought him out of his astonishment at the idea of a relationship, or a rivalry, that had spanned centuries.

"Ah," he said, fixing his gaze on Mavikson. "And what would you say was Salasso's true purpose?"

"You know that as well as I do, Cosmonaut Gregor Cairns."

Gregor bowed slightly, acknowledging his error. The saurs weren't given to verbal games.

"Very well," he said. "But what I truly am not certain of, and what I ask your indulgence to explain, is what the objection is to this purpose."

Delavar's right hand shot forward and down, clawing into the table. The two peacekeepers hissed sharply. Bishlayan laid a hand on his forearm, and stroked it, and said something in his ear. Slowly, and with a body-language of bad grace that easily jumped the species barrier, the pilot sat back.

"He understands your language," said Bishlayan, still stroking his arm. "But he is too angry to speak it. I will speak for him, though I do not have an opinion on the matter, myself."

Her other hand was plucking and stroking her chest, claws now and then snagging the gown's fabric. Gregor had a strong impression that for a saur this indicated almost unbearable distraction and distress. He raised his hands, palms open and bent back, as though offering her his wrists to slit.

"Please," he said.

She seemed to recover some composure.

"My lover Salasso has angered my lover Delavar, and others here, with his idea of helping you, the ... " She said something he couldn't catch.

"Hominidae," said Salasso.

" 'Monkey-fuckers,' " translated Mavikson, in a tone of weary honesty.

" ... to become navigators," Bishlayan continued. "He believes that this will anger the gods. Salasso was surprised at his opinion, which he referred to as ... "

Another saur phrase.

" 'Perhaps irrationally conservative.' "

" 'A steaming pile of stinking dinosaur shit.' "

" ... because they have long been friends, and he had thought they were of similar views. The argument became extremely heated. They were both doing
this."

She drummed her fingers on the table, then made quick flopping gestures with her hands to emphasize that she hadn't really meant it.

"When that happened I asked the keeper of the house to call the keepers of the peace, and called up my shipmate Lydia, and let Salasso speak to her on the radio to fetch you."

She sat back, sliding her hands into her wide sleeves, Gregor could see under the cloth each hand's fierce grip on the opposite elbow.

Salasso leaned forward and turned to Mavikson.

"I do wish," he said, "that you would not translate our idioms so literally. And I urge our human friends not to take offense."

"None taken," said Lydia, speaking up for the first time. "Apart from that, would you both say that Bishlayan has given a true account of your quarrel?"

Salasso and Delavar glanced at each other, turned sharply away, and nodded.

"Good," said Lydia. "Gregor, Elizabeth, I have a suggestion to make. May I?"

Elizabeth shrugged; Gregor, who had no idea what do next in any case, nodded. Lydia smiled at them both and turned back to the saurs. She turned her head farther, turning her shoulders with it, then put her hand under her ponytail and lifted it to display to the saurs the back of her neck. Gregor stared, fascinated by the fine wispy curls on her nape. The saurs all inhaled at the same moment.

"As you see," she said, facing them again, "I am very young. I have little experience and no wisdom. How could I know what may or may not anger or please the gods? And I see that you yourselves, who are so much older and wiser than I, cannot agree. So I ask you to consider for a moment taking your disagreement to someone who was old and wise when everyone here was less than an egg. One who has talked to gods. Would you accept such a judgement, and remain friends whichever way that judgement fell?"

As though unconsciously, artlessly, her hand had crept again to the back of her neck, lifting the tuft of the ponytail to the top of her head. She held the pose for a moment.

"I only ask," she said.

Her hair fell back.

Gregor realized that his fingernails were digging into the table. He relaxed them hurriedly and rolled his hands over again, but no one had noticed. They were all staring at Lydia.

Delavar reached across in front of Bishlayan and took Salasso's hand, tentatively at first, then in a firm mutual grasp.

"We would," he said.

"Good," said Lydia briskly. "Let us go to the ship, and consult the navigator."

For a giddy moment Gregor misunderstood her, then realized she was referring to the kraken.

Delavar was willing to accept one of the peacekeepers as a fair witness, and was in any case anxious to resume his interrupted tryst with Bishlayan, so it was only Salasso and Tharanack who left with the four humans. Salasso, very conscientiously, stayed close to the peacekeeper and said nothing. Lydia and Marcus led the way. Rather than go back down the steps, they turned into the street at the top, which, like most streets in the city, sloped down to the shore and ended at a convenient quay. Gregor and Elizabeth brought up the rear.

Gregor drew a deep breath, trying to drive the smell of the saur dive from his nostrils. People streamed up and down the street, free of any traffic but the overhead cable cars.

"It's good to be out of there," he said.

"What the hell's going on?" said Elizabeth.

"I still have no idea why Marcus was after -- "

"That's not what I'm talking about. What's going on between you and Lydia?"

"I don't know."

"I saw her walking along, holding your hand and chatting blithely as if she'd never seen us back in the bar. I didn't like that -- it was as if I didn't exist."

"She saw us, all right. She didn't mind; in fact she seemed quite pleased about it."

"Did she indeed? How very enlightened of her. How philosophical. I'm sure she's very happy that you have someone to ease the pain of love with until you and your family have got your bloody ship up there ready to go haring off after her."

She stared straight ahead as she said this. Gregor felt himself actually trembling as he walked beside her. Their kiss in the bar had made what Elizabeth felt for him real in a way that Salasso's report of it had not. It had shaken him, and Lydia's arrival before they'd had time to talk had left his own feelings in upheaval. His conversation with Lydia had only made it worse. The tense minutes in the saur hostelry had come as a relief and distraction.

There, he'd admired Lydia with a curious detachment, unclouded by adoration; her tactical, tactful skill in talking to the saurs was, perhaps, what he should have expected of a space-merchant's daughter but it had astonished him nonetheless. It recalled the unexpected understanding she'd shown of the deep questions about the kraken, when she had visited the lab, although then he'd suspected she was showing off. This time she'd shown herself capable of thinking on her feet.

"Elizabeth ... "

"What?"

Still looking straight ahead and walking fast.

"Can we stop for a moment?"

She stopped and faced him. He had a second of sharp and clear perception of her, a sudden sum of his knowledge of her. She was taller and stronger and older than Lydia, and not as pretty, but at that moment she looked far more vulnerable and far more beautiful. It stung him and stunned him that he had not seen her like this from the beginning.

He held her shoulders, as before.

"I love you," he said. And as he said it, it became true, all his tension and confusion resolved, became sharp and straight and singing, a bowstring that still twanged from sending an arrow on its flight.

"I've always loved you," she said.

When they unlocked from the embrace he was still shaking, and they had to run.