Avram Davidson - Rogue Dragon

They came out blinking into the sunlight and went to the rampart. The dragon presently came into view, glanced at them, paced onward. With hands which trembled at first, but soon fell into habitual and pacifying actions, the Old Man fell to rattling and clicking and rustling his artificial but quite intelligible reproduction of the Kar-chee language. And the dragon paused and looked and it was plain that the dragon listened.

And then, up from where? No matter. Up from wherever it had been, the Kar-chee came.

“‘Message. If he the man inquires if we the Kar-chee desire to depart, then he the man understands that we the Kar-chee desire to depart and his the man’s question is no proper question.’”

“‘Always they the proper men offer future-when to depart we the Kar-chee to the proper place of we the Kar-chee but never from first-when to present-when have they the proper men done so.’”

“‘If the message of he the man is properly communicated and properly understood, is it that he the man declares that the proper men are not the proper men, but that he the man and his fellows are the proper proper men and that the never-kept promise will in present-when be kept? These the before-when declared being the Overlords?’”

And Jon-Joras reiterated that those selected by all the worlds and stars of men to run their common affairs were indeed, through him, offering to return the Kar-chee to their Ring Star lairs; and this to be done as near to immediately as could be managed. “Only,” he said, firmly, and reassuringly, “that this man who communicates messages is not to depart with the Kar-chee but is to remain here with us his fellows.” And he emphasized this with gestures and at length he put his arm around the Old Man’s trembling shoulders, and added, “For when the Kar-chee are in their own and proper places they need never and will never communicate with men again, and so will have no need of him.”

The Kar-chee’s dull eyes showed nothing. And then, in an abrupt and shocking change of pronoun and of phrase, it said, “I must consult with my other self. Await.”

There was a silence, and a long silence. The Kar-chee above did not move and the dragon below did not move. The Old Man trembled and trembled. The dragon hissed. The Kar-chee lifted its tiny head. Overhead a flyer shot into view. Jon-Joras started, stared.

“‘He the man is at this present-when to go below and there remain.’”

Jon-Joras moved as quickly as his legs would let him, and as he ran he called out, “Don’t tell them anything and don’t worry. Don’t worry!”

He made his way towards the Old Man’s room, but recollection of its dirt and disorder dissuaded him, so he went to wandering in an off-corridor. A wink of light caught his eye as he passed one of the chambers, and he turned to look. It was a mirror, of the quaint hour-glass shape once so popular… how long ago? On his own distant and orderly world, the beta -planet of Moussorgsky Minor, perhaps more than a century ago. Allowing for the lag in time and transport and fashion… here?… who could say how less long ago. Fashionable, yes. But only among women. He entered the room.

Dust had almost deprived the old mirror of reflective capacity, and dust cloaked and choked everything in here. Yet, despite and underneath the dust, things were all arranged in order. A bed was neatly made. Clothes hung in orderly rows. An antique desk still bore a scripter set with all as it had been left, well-readied to use. It came to Jon-Joras with a shock and pang of pity that here had been the room of the previous interpreter, “the Poor Woman.” He opened the scripter, slowly, delicately, with even a slight touch of fear.

it should make no difference to me how things will go here, for well or ill, but as this unfortunate young man must probably remain here for his own forever, it’s well that he has learned as much as I can teach him. And now there is no more reason I should delay Death, that importunate suitor, any longer. He does but carry me across this dim horizon, and I hope it will be brighter there.

He had no time to reflect on this. Somewhere up above someone was calling his name. It sounded vaguely familiar, and a wild surge of hope brought him almost to the door — Delegate Anse? — Delegate Anse’s voice would not sound familiar, he had heard it only twice and was sure this wasn’t it — Por-Paulo? It was not that voice at all, the thought made a wave of longing for his still-absent king sweep over him, but it was not his voice — a prickle of unease slowed him up and kept him inside. Who had been in the flyer and knew that he was Jon-Joras and knew that he was here? Aëlorix? It was not the Gentleman’s voice, but it might still be that of one of his associates. But why did it sound so familiar?

Perhaps, though, whoever it was did not know that he was here at all. He might be guessing, trying… trapping. Well. If friend he was, then some delay would little matter. And if he were no friend…

Jon-Joras flitted through the back of the room and into the next one and thence to the next. The voice seemed to be rather nearer, but he was sure it was still in the main corridor. His intention was to get behind it and have a look at whomever it belonged to.

“Jon-Joras?”

“Jon-Jo-o-o-r-as…”

“Jon-Jor-as … ?”

If it were a friend, why did he not announce and identify himself?

He was about to peer with considerable caution out into the corridor, when a voice, and not that voice, said, close by and with disgust, “It sure stinks in here.” Jon-Joras hugged the webby wall.

“‘Money never stinks,’” a second voice quoted.

“Freaky vermin,” the first one commented, unappeased. And then, “I always hate coming here…Where is that son of a karche’s egg?”

The voices ebbed away. Now Jon-Joras did peer out. The two men met the third one, presumably the first one, the one who had been calling, at the turn of the corridor. They shook their heads. There seemed, certainly, something familiar about his stance and movement, as there had been about his voice. But he was friend to these other two, and they were no friends to Jon-Joras. Friends do not come seeking friends with drawn weapons in their hands. And besides — I always hate coming here, one had said. So. These were the “proper men,” the men whose coming was regular and by arrangement, and who had been coming here for decades. At least for decades. Who had provided at least two wretched devils of interpreters. Had allied themselves with the alien Kar-chees and with their murderous dragons. Who?

I must consult with my other self. What of that, for a conundrum?

Nothing of that, for now. For now there was only the matter of keeping out of the way. Had the Kar-chee, after consulting with its “other self,” decided not to trust Jon-Joras? Decided to turn the matter over to the familiar, the “proper men”? Certainly it did seem so.

He came to another slit-window and looked out. There was no one and nothing to be seen. From the slant rays of the declining sun it appeared that he was now on the other side of the castle from where the Kar-chee (was there only one Kar-chee? Did not its curious reference to the “other self” plainly indicate there was at least one other?) and its domestic dragon were. Jon-Joras sighed. Let him but once get off this troubled world, he would take good care never to return to it. Now, how wide was this window?

It was wide enough.

There were foot-holds enough, too, and a conveniently canting, slanting tree. He made his way to the ground with no more difficulty than that provided by the constant fear of death, and then he crept into the underbrush like a lizard. He had gotten a good ways off and had raised himself from all fours to that same crouching or rather, stooped, walk, which had stood him in such good stead so early this morning, when a shout came from behind him and a tussock beside him exploded into a gout of dust and earth.