The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid (19 page)

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Anthony Fallon awakened stiff and uncomfortable, with a vile taste in his mouth. His neck felt as if it had acquired a permanent kink from last night’s fall. Gradually, as he pulled himself together, he remembered finding Gazi not yet returned . . .

Where was she now?

He sat up, and called. No answer.

Fallon sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and jerking his head this way and that to exercise his wrenched neck. Then he got up and searched the house. Still no Gazi. Not only was she gone; she had taken her clothes and minor possessions with her.

As he prepared breakfast with shaking hands, his mind wandered over the various possibilities. Fallon might have reflected that, after all, in Balhib, women were free to change their jagains whenever they pleased. But just now, the mere thought that Gazi might have deserted him for Kordaq roused such rage as to sweep all other considerations aside.

He choked down a cold breakfast, pulled on his boots, hitched up his sword and, without bothering to shave, set out for the barracks at the east side of the town. The sun had been up less than a Krishnan hour, and the breeze was beginning to make the dust whirls dance.

A half-hour’s ride on the aya-drawn bus brought him to the barracks, where a surly soldier at the reception desk gave him the address of Kordaq’s suite of rooms. Another half-hour brought his search to a close.

The apartment house which Kordaq lived in stood at the northern end of the Kharju, where the shops and banks of that district gave way to the middle-class residences of the Zardu to the north. Fallon read the names of the tenants on the plaque affixed to the wall beside the door, and stamped up the stairs to the third floor. He made sure of the right door and struck the gong beside it.

When there was no response, he struck it again, harder, and finally knocked on the door, which the Balhibuma seldom did. At length he heard movement inside, and the door opened to reveal an extremely sleepy and confused-looking Kordaq. His green hair was awry; a blanket protected his bony shoulders against the early-morning chill; and he carried a naked sword in his hand. It was normal for a Krishnan thus to answer a knock at so untoward an hour, for Fallon might as well have been a robber.

Kordaq asked, “What in the name of Hoi’s green eyes—oh, ’tis Master Antané! What brings you hither to shatter my slumber, sir? Some gross emergency dire, I trust?”

“Where’s Gazi?” said Fallon, his hand straying behind him toward his own hilt.

Kordaq blinked some more sleep out of his eyes. “Why,” he replied innocently, “having done me the honor to take me as her new jagain—in consequence of your folly of yestereve, whereby, despite all I could do, your deception of her revealed itself—the girl’s with me. Where else?”

“You . . . you mean you admit . . .”

“Admit what? I’m telling you straight. Now get you hence, good my sir, and let me resume my disjoined doze. Next time, I pray, call upon a night-working man at some more seemly hour.”

Fallon choked with rage. “You think you can walk off with my woman, and then tell me to go away and let you sleep?”

“What ails you, Earthman? This is not barbarous Qaath, where women are property. Now get out, ere I teach you a lesson in manners . . .”

“Oh, yes?” snarled Fallon. “I’ll teach you a manner!”

He stepped back, whipped out his sword in a behind-the-back draw, and bored in.

Still somewhat fogged with sleep, Kordaq hesitated for a fraction of a second before deciding whether to meet the attack or to slam the door shut; thus, Fallon’s blade was lunging toward his chest before he moved. By a hasty parry, combined with a backwards leap, he barely saved himself from being spitted.

In so doing, however, he relinquished control over the door; Fallon plunged through and kicked the door shut behind him.

“Madman!” said Kordaq, whipping off his blanket and whirling it around his right arm for a shield. “Your imminent doom’s upon your own head.” And he rushed in his turn.

Tick-zing-clang
went the heavy blades. Fallon beat off the attack, but his ripostes and counters were stopped with ease by Kordaq, either with his blade or with his blanketed arm. Fallon was too full of the urge to kill to notice what an odd spectacle his opponent made, nude but for the sword and the blanket.

“Antané!” cried Gazi’s voice.

Fallon and Kordaq both let their eyes stray for a fleeting instant toward the door, in which Gazi stood with her hands pressed to her cheeks. But instantly each brought back his attention to his opponent before the other could take advantage of the distraction.

Tsing-click-swish!

The fighters circled, warier now. Fallon knew from the first few passages that they were well-matched. While he was heavier and (being an Earthman) basically stronger, Kordaq was younger and had the longer reach. Kordaq’s blanket offset Fallon’s superior fencing technique.

Tick-tick-clang!

Fallon knocked over a small table, kicked it out of the way.

Swish-chunk!

Kordaq feinted, then aimed a vicious cut at Fallon’s head. Fallon ducked; the slash sheared through the bronze stem of the floor-lamp and set its top bouncing across the floor, while the remainder of the standard toppled over with a crash.

Clang-dzing!

Round and round they went. Once, when Fallon found himself facing Gazi in the doorway, he took the occasion to shout, “I say, Gazi, go away! You’re distracting us!”

She paid no attention, and the duel continued. By a sudden flurry of thrusts and lunges, Kordaq backed Fallon against a wall. A final lunge would have nailed him to the wall, but Fallon jumped aside and Kordaq’s point pierced the room’s one picture, a cheap copy of Ma’shir’s well-known painting
Dawn Over Majbur.
While Kordaq’s blade was stuck in the plaster, Fallon gave a quick forehand cut at his foe, who caught the blow on his blanket, jerked out his sword, and faced his opponent again.

Tink-swish!

Fallon threw another cut at Kordaq, who parried slantwise so that Fallon’s blade bit into the little overturned table. Fallon felt his blood pound in his ears. He moved slowly, it seemed to him as if wading through tar. But Kordaq, he could see, was getting just as tired.

Tick-clank!

The fight went on and on until both fighters were so exhausted that they could do little more than stand on guard, glaring at one another. Every ten seconds or so one or the other would summon up energy to make a feint or a lunge, which the other’s unpierceable defense always stopped.

Ding-zang!

Fallon grated, “We’re too—damned even!”

Gazi’s voice proclaimed, “What ails you is that you’re both cowards at liver, fearing to close each upon the other.”

Kordaq shouted in a strangled voice, “Madam, would you like to trade places with me—to see how easy this is?”

“Ye are ridiculous,” said Gazi. “I thought one or the other would be slain, so that my problem should be solved by choosing the survivor. But if ye’ll merely caper and mow all day . . .”

Fallon panted, “Kordaq, I think—she’s urging us on—so she can enjoy—the sight of gore—at our expense.”

“Methinks—you speak sooth—Master Antané.”

They puffed for a few seconds more, like a pair of idling steam locomotives. Then Fallon said, “Well, how about calling it off? It doesn’t look—as if either of us—could best the other in a fair fight.”

“You started it, sir, but if you wish to terminate it, I—as a reasonable man—will gladly entertain the proposal.”

“So moved.”

Fallon stepped back and half-sheathed his sword, watching Kordaq against any treacherous attack. Kordaq stepped into the alcove inside the door and sheathed his sword in the empty scabbard that hung from one of the coat hooks. He looked at Fallon to be sure that the latter’s blade was all the way in and his hand was off the hilt before he released his own hilt. Then he carried sword and scabbard towards the bedroom.

Before he reached the entrance, Gazi turned her back and preceded him. Fallon fell into a chair. From the bedroom came sounds of recrimination. Then Gazi reappeared in shawl, skirt, and sandals, lugging a cloth bag containing her gear. Behind her came Kordaq, also clad and buckling on his scabbard.

“Men,” said Gazi, “whether Krishnan or Terran, are the most sorry, loathly, despicable, fribbling creatures in the animal kingdom. Seek not to find me, either of you, for I’m through with you both. Farewell and good riddance!”

She slammed the door behind her. Kordaq laughed and dropped into another chair, sprawling exhaustedly.

“That was my hardiest battle since I fought the Jungava at Tajrosh,” he said. “I wonder what raised up yon wench’s ire so? She boiled up like a summer thundershower over Qe’ba’s crags.”

Fallon shrugged. “Sometimes I doubt if I understand females either.”

“Have you breakfasted?”

“Yes.”

“Ha, that explains your success. Had I fought upon a stomach full, ’twould have been another story. Come into the kitchen whilst I scramble a deyé egg.”

Fallon grunted and got to his feet. He found Kordaq assembling comestibles from the shelves of the kitchen, including a big jug of falat-wine.

“ ’Tis a trifle early in the day to start on kvad,” said the captain, “but fighting’s a thirsty game, and a drop of this to replace that which we’ve sweated forth will harm us not.”

Several mugs of wine later, Fallon, feeling mellow, said, “Kordaq old fellow, I can’t tell you how glad I am you didn’t get hurt. You’re my idea of what a man should be.”

“Forsooth, friend Antané, my sentiments toward you exactly. I’d rate you even with my dearest friends of my own species, than which I know of no more liver-felt compliment.”

“Let’s drink to friendship.”

“Hail friendship!” cried Kordaq, raising his mug.

“To stand or fall together!” said Fallon.

Kordaq, having drunk, set down his mug and looked sharply at Fallon. “Speaking of which, my good bawcock, as you seem—when not inflamed by barbarous jealousy—to be a wight of sense and discretion, and serve under me in the Guard, I feel I should cast a hint of warning in your direction, to do with as you will.”

“What’s this?”

“The news is that the barbarian conqueror, Ghuur of Qaath, marches at last. Word arrived by bijar post yestereve shortly ere I left the barracks to visit your house. He had not then yet crossed the frontier, but news of that impious introgression may have come by now.”

“I suppose that means that the Guard . . .?”

“You divine my very thought, sir. Get your affairs in order, as you may be called out any day. And now I must report to the barracks, to spend the day, no doubt, composing commands and filling forms. Another horrid institution! Would I’d been born some centuries back, when the art of writing was so rare that soldiers carried all they needed to know in their heads.”

“Who’ll guard the city if the whole Guard’s called out?”

“They’ll not all be summoned. The probationaries, the incapacitated, and the retired members shall remain to fill the duties of those who leave. We captains of the watch-companies do struggle with the minister, who wishes to keep hale and blooming guardsmen for special watch duty in . . .”

“In the Safq?” asked Fallon as Kordaq hesitated.

The captain belched. “I’d not so state, save that you seem apprised of this circumstance already. How heard you?”

“Oh, you know. Rumors. But what’s
in
the thing?”

“That I truly may not divulge. I’ll say this: that this ancient pile harbors something so new and deadly as to make the shafts of Ghuur’s bowmen seem harmless as a vernal shower.”

Fallon said, “The Yeshtites have certainly done an amazing job of keeping the interior of the Safq secret. I don’t know of a single plan of the place in circulation.”

Kordaq smiled and wiggled one antenna in the Krishnan equivalent of a wink. “Not so secret as they like to think. This mystery has leaked a bit, as such mummeries are wont to do.”

“You mean somebody outside the cult does know?”

“Aye, sir. Or at least we have a suspicion.” Kordaq drank down another mug of falat-wine.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“A learned fraternity whereto I belong, yclept the Mejraf Janjira. Hast heard of us?”

“The Neophilosophical Society,” murmured Fallon. “I know a little about their tenets. You mean that
you
. . .” Fallon checked himself in time to keep from saying that he deemed these tenets an egregious example of interstellar damnfoolishness.

Kordaq, however, caught the scorn in the closing words and looked severely at Fallon. “There are those who condemn our principles unheard, proving thereby their ignorance in rejecting wisdom without making fair trial thereof. Now, I’ll explain them in three words, as best I can in my poor tongue-tied fashion—and if you’re interested I can refer you to others more adept in exposition than I. Hast heard of Pyatsmif?”

“Of
what?”

“Pyatsmif . . . That proves the ignorance of Earthmen, who have not heard of some of their planet’s greatest men.”

“You mean that’s an Earthman?” Fallon had never heard of Charles Piazzi Smith, the eccentric Scottish nineteenth-century astronomer who founded the pseudoscientific cult of pyramidology; but even if he had, it is doubtful whether he would have recognized the name as Kordaq pronounced it.

“Well,” said the captain, “this Pyatsmif was the first to realize that a great and ancient monument upon your planet’s face—ancient, that is, as upstart Terrans reckon age—was more than it seemed. Truly, it incorporated in its moldering structure clues to the wisdom of ages and the secrets of the universe . . .”

For the next half-hour Fallon squirmed while Kordaq lectured. He did not dare to break off the audience, because he thought that Kordaq might have some useful information.

At the end of that time, however, the falat-wine was having a definite effect upon the captain’s discourse, causing him to ramble and to lose the thread of his argument.

He finally got himself so confused that he broke off: “. . . nay, good Antané, I’m a simple tashiturn soldier, no ph’los’pher. Had I the eloquence of . . . of . . .”