Silence is Deadly (20 page)

Darzek began to run even before his mind completely grasped what was happening. The whip snapped past him again, and a male’s purple hat sailed to the ground at Darzek’s feet. Beyond him, a child looked up bewilderedly with a bloody face. Darzek’s mind thundered angrily about the vermin who would use a whip in a crowd, but he ran on without breaking his stride.

By the time he reached the last row of vendor’s carts, he had outdistanced the pursuit. Both knights and lackeys, running laboriously in their ornamental footgear, floundered far behind him. The whips continued to snap, even though Darzek was far out of range, sending the vendors to cover inside and under their carts. Darzek hurdled a low stone wall and found himself on the wide pavement that ran along the docks—empty except for a scattering of huge, weather-worn warehouses. It was a dead end; there was no hiding place.

Darzek did not hesitate. He ducked into the sheltering shadow of a warehouse, crossed the pavement in three leaping strides, darted along a dock, and took a soaring leap to the deck of a ship. He quickly crept behind the stubby cabin.

It was a namafj boat, a boat that fished for the commonest sea food on Kamm, and it smelled as though last week’s cargo was still aboard. The stench was overwhelming. “Better a stinking boat than a place of honor strapped under the Winged Beast,” Darzek told himself.

He opened a door. Clothing hung on pegs. Quickly he ripped off his own clothing and pulled on what came to hand: rough trousers, a long smock with ties, a sailor’s green cape and hat. He transferred his belongings and took a moment to check the setting on his Winged Beast amulet. Then he grabbed at the handle of a tool and decided it was a broom. He hid his peddler’s clothing under a pile of cushions and stepped back onto the deck. The clothing stank as badly as the ship, but Darzek reminded himself that at this moment social acceptability wasn’t his objective.

The docks swarmed with black-capes. For the moment they were ignoring the ships, so Darzek ignored them. Deliberately he turned his back on the docks and began to sweep the deck—which needed it badly. When they came, as they certainly would, his only chance for escape lay in his assuming the guise of indignant innocence. He concentrated on that, and by the time the first black-cape landed on the deck with a thud, Darzek had talked himself into the mood of a furious sailor whose status and League were being insulted.

He whirled, jammed the broom handle into the black-caped lackey’s stomach, and then brought the other end down on his head. As the lackey reeled backward, Darzek flung the broom down.
Off! How dare you board without permission? Off!

He knew nothing about the authority of a priest over a ship in the OO harbor; but fortunately this novice priest seemed to know even less. He backed away.

Where is the peddler?
his hands signaled.

Darzek glared at him insultingly and made his hands speak as though to a child.
A seagoing peddler?

He took a menacing step toward the priest, who backed up and asked, almost politely,
Have you seen a peddler?

Over there,
Darzek said, gesturing toward the fair,
I saw a thousand. Here there are none.

The priest stood looking at him uncertainly.

This outrage will he reported,
Darzek’s fingers snapped.
Off!

The priest turned, made the leap back to the dock, and joined his fellows. Darzek picked up his broom and resumed sweeping. When he tired of that, he entered the cabin, arranged some cushions, and lay down. He thought he might as well rest while he could. He was likely to need the energy before the day was over.

Also, he needed to think.

The Duke of OO’s companion had been an alien from outer space. This could only mean that an Uncertified World—a non-member world—had developed interstellar travel without the knowledge of the Galactic Synthesis.

“The true measure of intelligence,” Darzek muttered, “is one’s ability to adapt to the impossible. I know this is absolutely impossible, but I saw it, and I’m going to believe it. I know that creature did not come from a member world of the Synthesis. Therefore a non-member world has somehow achieved interstellar travel right under the collective noses of agents of Rok Wllon’s Department of Uncertified Worlds without anyone noticing. Rok Wllon will have conniptions when he hears about it, and I sincerely hope we’ll both survive long enough so I can have the pleasure of telling him.”

The presence of an alien in the carriage of the Duke of OO gave Darzek an instant solution to half of his problems. It was all the explanation he needed for the strange metal detector, and for the pazul—whatever that might be—and even for the electrical generator, though why an alien would go to the trouble of disguising it in the technology of Kamm would probably remain a mystery.

For all of five minutes Darzek felt elated. Then he began to consider the new problems raised by the presence of the one-eared alien, and for the next hour he felt increasingly depressed. What could aliens possibly want on the world of Kamm? And why would they be passing out pazuls to the decrepit nobility of this small island?

When finally he looked out at the docks again, the black-capes were still prowling there. Watching them through a half-open square port, he wondered what had gone wrong. The knight had taken one glance at him and instantly turned in pursuit. As far as he knew he had done nothing, committed no action that had not been readily accepted elsewhere, but in some way he had betrayed himself.

It would be safer to stay where he was until dark; except that the members of the crew might return at any moment, and he couldn’t predict how that complication would work out. Also, he was deeply concerned about Sajjo.

“Sailors,” he told himself, “do go ashore occasionally. Why shouldn’t I?”

He left the cabin, pretended to fuss about the deck until the patrolling black-capes were as far from the ship as they were likely to get, and then he leaped ashore and strode boldly along the harbor. He passed a black-caped lackey without a glance; the young priest seemed to pay no attention to him. Darzek exchanged the traditional crossed thumbs greeting with a passing sailor and turned into the fairgrounds through a break in the stone wall.

The duke’s free entertainment had ruined the day’s business. Many vendors had closed, but a few of them were still trying to salvage something from the sparse crowd that remained. Darzek threaded his way among the rows, looking for his own cart. He saw it and started toward it; and then he whirled and pretended to interest himself in an innocuous pile of wood ornaments amid a cluttered peddler’s display.

Black-capes swarmed about the cart. Stealing an occasional sidelong glance, Darzek saw them bring up his tandem of nabrula, kick the beasts into position, harness them, and lead the cart away. There was no sign of Sajjo.

He turned his back on the pleading peddler and walked toward the harbor. There, ten meters from a stony-faced, black-caped lackey, he sat down and dangled his feet over the edge of a dock.

Something had to be done, and at once. And he hadn’t the faintest notion of what it could be.

CHAPTER 13

Twice Darzek got to his feet. Each time sober reflection convinced him, before he had taken a step, that his best course was to wait for darkness. He could not rescue Sajjo without first finding out where they had taken her. If he, already a fugitive, drew attention to himself by making inquiries in that seething fair, the black-capes would instantly invite him to join her.

And his tiny amulet stun weapon could not cope with the army of priests that continued to rampage through the fair and around the docks. He should have no trouble in learning where the black-capes took their prisoners, and in darkness he could even invade the duke’s castle, if that were necessary.

He sat down again, and dangled his feet, and tried to figure out what had gone wrong so suddenly. One glance, and a knight had taken after him. The seizure of his cart was even more unaccountable. On the other hand, two black-caped lackeys were at that moment standing watch within thirty strides of him, and neither showed the slightest suspicion of this idle sailor. Had the priests been warned about a peddler and his daughter? And who could have given such a warning?

All of Darzek’s special equipment was with the cart. He doubted that the black-capes would discover the secret compartments, but for the moment it was lost to him. He had only his amulet.

Out in the harbor a ship was approaching, clumsily tacking toward the docks. Darzek watched it idly for a few minutes, and then he returned his thoughts to the question of what to do about Sajjo. When he glanced up again, the ship was drifting some eight or ten meters from the dock, and the captain, standing atop the low cabin, was pointing insults at Darzek with flickering fingers.

Look away, you sniveling dirt digger! On your feet, you depraved offspring of a hornless nabrulk! Look away!

Startled, Darzek scrambled to his feet. A deck hand swung an arm deftly, and a thick rope shot at Darzek. He ducked out of the way, stumbled, fell on his back on the muddy cobblestones. The heavy rope landed across his chest with a thud, and he lay there for a moment, temporarily stunned. Two passing sailors seized the rope and hauled lustily. They were joined by others, and the ship was slowly drawn toward the dock.

Darzek got to his feet confusedly and started to walk away. The ship’s captain took a long leap from the top of the cabin to the dock, seized Darzek’s shoulders, and spun him around. He towered over Darzek, brawny, red-faced, unusually large for a Kammian, and his hands shook with anger as he flashed insults under Darzek’s nose.

Dirt digger! Sniveling dirt digger! When does a sailor refuse to look away? Don’t think I won’t report this! I’ll have you hack digging before your ship sails! He gave Darzek a searching scrutiny.
I’ve never seen you before. You’re too old to be an apprentice. Who’s your master?
Darzek made no response.
Let’s see your chip,
the captain demanded.

Darzek’s only recourse was to bluff. He drew himself up and demanded,
Who do you think you are?

It was the wrong question. The captain reared back in rage.
Who do I think I am? Why, you sniveling dirt digger, I’ll show you!

His hands clamped on Darzek’s throat. Sailors were gathering around them, and Darzek saw a black-cape edging closer. As he struggled dizzily, fighting for breath, he knew that only his amulet could save him—his hands were clutching it—and to use it would be fatal.

Suddenly the captain’s hands relaxed. He backed away and stood looking past Darzek respectfully. Darzek, rubbing his throat, felt a hand on his shoulder. As he turned he gripped his amulet again, expecting to find himself face to face with a black knight; but it was another sea captain who confronted him, an older man, obviously a veteran of distinction, for he wore a special, multiply tiered captain’s hat.

For a moment he scrutinized Darzek. Then, without a word, he motioned Darzek to follow him and turned away. As Darzek set out after him his one thought was to escape, and he looked about vainly for a hiding place. Then two black-capes halted and saluted when this captain approached them, and Darzek decided that the situation had complexities that might work to his advantage.

The captain led Darzek to the far end of the harbor and aboard a large ship. Without a word he opened a door, stepped aside to let Darzek enter the cabin, and then followed him. Then he barred the door. Compared with Darzek’s previous ship, this one was designed for luxury cruises. The furnishings were opulent. The captain pulled out a polished, elaborately carved chair for Darzek, arranged another for himself across a polished, elaborately carved table, and from a tall jug poured cider into two tumblers. He pushed one at Darzek.

Then, before Darzek could lift the tumbler, the captain’s hands spoke.
I’m Captain Wanulzk. What is your name?

He was slim, almost fragile-looking, and as small for a Kammian as the other captain had been oversized, but Darzek sensed the toughness his slight frame concealed. His bronzed face was calm and confident, his dark eyes alert and penetrating. It was, Darzek thought, searching his recollections of Kammians he had known, an honest face. This captain was intelligent, rather than cunning. He would outmaneuver an enemy, but he would not deceive him.

Needing time to think, Darzek raised the tumbler and sipped. It was a sailor’s cider—the sip burned his throat.

Obviously this captain was a personage. Sailors and black-capes alike respected his importance. He had saved Darzek from a tense situation that could have ended disastrously.

Darzek wanted to know why.

He sipped again. The captain kept his eyes on him, waiting, and finally he said,
I understand that your real name would have no meaning for me, but I must call you something. What name are you using?

Darzek almost dropped the tumbler.

He set it down carefully and replied,
I am Lazk.
He was about to add,
A humble peddler,
when he remembered the stolen sailor’s clothing he was wearing. At the moment there was no possible way he could account for himself, in any respect.