Haydn of Mars (11 page)

He stopped, but I said nothing so he went on, now looking directly at me.
 
“When I found you, you were with another man's kit and I had no right of design on you.
 
This was a matter of honor and law.
 
When you lost your kit...”

He had continued to grip my arm but now he let go.
 
“It was a grave matter of lost honor when your kit was taken from you under my protection.
 
Ordinarily I would have no right to approach you like this, but I have prayed to the sun for three months and the moons for two and our shaman has said that I have atoned for my loss of honor and so might ask you to be my Queen.
 
I have noticed that you never spoke of whose kit it was you bore, and I never sought to ask.”

“It was my husband.
 
He is dead, murdered by the F'rar.”

“I see.
 
But you never spoke of him.”

I looked at the horizon and tears began to form in my eyes.
 
“That was because I did not love him.”

I could feel his hope swell beside me so I quickly went on: “But I loved his brother, and still do.
 
My husband was the firstborn.
 
It was a marriage of politics.”

I turned to him with tears in my eyes and said, “I am so sorry.”

There was still a strange look on his face.
 
It was as if he had closed off one room and opened another.
 
He nodded and said, “It is good that you tell me these things.
 
It makes much clear.
 
And it makes my decision clear, too.”

He held up his hand before I could speak.
 
“Please let me finish.
 
I had my hopes, but they are not to be.”
 
He smiled.
 
“I will be foolish with my harem for a bit longer, it seems.
 
If you had consented to become my Queen our path would have been strewn with rocks, but I would have cleared it for you.
 
It would have meant danger for my clan but I would have endured it.
 
Now that this is not to be, you must leave us in the morning.
 
We will head south, to the Meridiani Pass, and you will head north with Hermes the fat cook, who will lead you to others of my brethren.
 
They will keep you safe.
 
There will be no repeats of what happened with Hera.”

He looked at me, waiting for me to speak, and finally I said, “Why?”

“Because you are a great danger to us.
 
The F'rar, and others, have been looking for you for months.
 
Almost from the beginning I put whispers out, which eventually became shouts.
 
I did not call you Ransom for nothing, Haydn of Argyre.”

“So you know who I am.”

“Tell me: were you named after that
composer
from the Jakra game?”

“Yes.
 
My mother was a great lover of music.
 
How long have you known?”

“From your third week with me.
 
But those who would buy you back from me I do not trust.
 
If I had handed you over to them you would have been dead by sunset of the day I did so.
 
Nothing has changed.
 
You have many enemies, it seems.”

“Yes.”

“And friends?”

“I don't know.
 
I still don't know what happened that day the F'rar attacked my people down south.”

He laughed bitterly.
 
“What is it you don't understand?
 
Your friends were beaten.
 
The F'rar were there to kill you, and they failed.
 
They will continue to try.”

“Yes.”

“That is why I send you north, where no one will know you.
 
I release you from ransom.
 
I would not have your blood on my hands.”

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps someday you will meet up with your people again, and put the F'rar in their place.
 
I would send you to them now, but they stay well hidden, even from me.
 
There is F'rar treachery everywhere, these days.
 
Apparently you are to be queen of a planet, instead of my queen.
 
Your father Augustus never bothered us, and I trust you will do the same.”

“I would be as good as my father to you.”

“And if you had agreed to be my queen,” he said, standing up and letting his paw brush my neck, “I would have fought armies from pole to pole for you.”

I smiled up at him.
 
“I believe you.
 
And I will never forget you.”

“Bah,” he said.
 
“After spending a week with fat Hermes, who never shuts up and never stops laughing, you will wish you had never met me.”

“I doubt that.”

“We shall see!
 
In the meantime, sleep well, and I will take my leave of you before dawn.
 
I will miss our talks, Haydn of Argyre.
 
Even though I fear that this is best for both of us.”

“I will miss our talks, too.”

And then he was gone as quietly as he had appeared.

I sat a while longer staring at the western horizon, which had turned from purple to black.

I was awakened as the sky in the east began to purple again with dawn.
 
Myra shook me awake, and I rolled from my blankets and stood up to see a horse, a fine mare I had ridden many times, waiting for me nearby.
 
My personal things, including my precious book, had already been tied in a bundle and secured to the mount.
 
Straddling a second, larger beast was the cook, sound asleep in his saddle and snoring like a bellows.

I thought of what the Mighty had said about spending a week with this man, and thought he might be right.

The Mighty appeared, just as the first jewel of sunlight split open the eastern line of the sky.

“The sun greets you!” the Mighty said, slapping Hermes on the thigh.

The cook came awake with a snort loud enough to wake the rest of the camp, which, I saw, was already stirring.

The long caravan line of horses and carts was pointed south, while my mare, alone with Hermes's, pointed north.

The Mighty helped me up into my saddle, and then turned back to Hermes.

“Remember everything I said, cook!
 
If one whisker on her face is harmed I will boil you alive in one of your own soups!”

He blanched, and began to blubber, but the Mighty cut him off.

“Be quiet!”
 
To me he said, “I would not send you with him if he was not the best tracker and bodyguard I have.
 
You will be safe with him.”
 
He scowled at the cook.
 
“Or else.”

Hermes kicked his horse into a trot.

I made to follow, but the Mighty held my reins.
 
Myra, standing beside him, said, “Good-bye.”

I bent down and kissed her cheek, and as I was straightening up the Mighty put his lips on my own and kissed me hard.

“That is what you will be missing!” he laughed, and then smacked the mare on the rump, making it jump and then settle into a trot, and I was away north, following the cook.

I looked back once, and the Mighty had his one arm around his harem girl, holding her close, and the other held aloft in his sign of peace, four fingers splayed from the thumb, claws retracted.
 
At his feet was his dog Little One, panting.

I could not help it: tears welled up in my eyes.

I raised my own paw in farewell and duplicated the sign.

Hermes, a few paces in front of me, already began to complain: “Catch up, will you!
 
We've got to make Schiaparelli by Noon ceremony!

I kicked my pony gently to urge it on and was soon astride the fat cook.

Without warning, he broke out into song:

 
“
Oh!
 
The traveling road's for me,

A traveler's what I am,

I hunt for spice,

And play with the dice,

And see what I can see!

The road is ever wide

And so am
I
you see!

So if you meet up,

Please do share a cup!

The traveling road's for meeeeee!”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and grinned.
 
“You will find I cannot keep quiet,” he said, and laughed, a basso rumble.

“So I've been told.
 
Your voice is not bad.”

He managed to bow while moving hardly a muscle.
 
“Thank you.
 
My father and his father were singers.
 
I thought of singing but found I loved to cook.”

“Where are your people from?”

“Many of them are from Schiaparelli, which you will see later today.
 
It is a small city but has enough troubles for a large one.
 
It is an...interesting place.
 
It is always my first stop on my spice tour.
 
They serve an ale there which you will like.”

“What if I were to tell you I don't like ale?”

“Everyone likes ale!”

“We shall see.”

“You are a strange one.
 
The Mighty told me you love to talk back, and make jokes.”

“Only when jokes are appropriate.”

“Ah.”

He was silent for a few moments, but only a few.
 
“Tell me what you think of my cooking.”

“It was edible, what little of it I could keep down.”

He boomed a laugh.
 
“For breakfast, I shall make you something that will make you
sing
!”

We stopped when the sun was a paw's width above the horizon, and he made good his word.
 
His horse was packed all around with bundles and baskets, and they must have been in some sort of order because he went here and there among them, sometimes reaching an arm through one layer of packages to reach a parcel in the second layer.
 
He was a magician with pot and fire, and soon had a tidy little flame going that gave off very little smoke.

“One of my secrets,” he said, sprinkling a fine gray powder over the open flame which immediately reduced its smoke almost to nothing.
 

“Something else you wouldn't share with Myra?” I teased.

“Bah.
 
She was a charwoman at the stove.
 
I am an artist!”

“We'll see.”

And I did, for what he cooked for me was delicious, even though I could swear he removed it dry from a pouch and then softened it in water.

“What is this?” I asked, impressed and amazed.

“I will tell you what I tell anyone who asked – it is food!”

At the scowl on my face he added: “Food is a precious word, my dear.
 
Don't ever forget that.
 
Without it what would we eat – dust?”

He roared a laugh and sank his teeth into some of his own creation, bringing his bowl to his lips and using neither utensil nor paw.

I used my paw in the fashion the Mighty had taught me.

“Tell me more about the north,” I asked.

He lifted his fat jowls from his bowl and looked at me in surprise.
 
With one forearm he wiped his dripping lips.
 
“That is like asking me to tell you about the whole world!”

“I am from the south, another world.”

“Ah, then you know nothing about my land?”

“Only what I've read in books.”

“As I said, then you know nothing.”

He returned to his meal momentarily, and then wiped his lips again.
 
“It is a vast expanse of extremes,” he said, thoughtfully.
 
“The winters are longer and harsher than in the south.
 
The lakes often freeze, the, though never the Utopia Ocean, which is laden with salt.
 
A good sea salt, when I can get it.
 
It is colder at the cap than in the south, and there is more snow.
 
Then come the highlands, which are rugged and for the most part lush.
 
The city of Cassini is the grandest of cities in this part of the world.
 
It is where I trade much of my spice.
 
It is comparable to your southern city of Wells, only more... how do I say this,
rugged
.” He grinned, and once more ate.