Lloyd Biggle Jr. - The World Menders

“There isn’t any. He works until he drops, and no one pays any attention to him until the end of the day. Then they carry him back to the village. Dead or alive.”

“Then it’s time someone created a precedence.”

He helped Bran over the stiles. Neither the olz in their field nor in the field they had to cross seemed to notice. They gained the lane, turned away from the village, and a short distance further on sought refuge in the zrilm. Bran was dehydrated and in an agony of thirst, but he insisted that they both remain in hiding until dark. “Can’t risk it,” he muttered. “Running off like that, we’ll be missed if they check the field again.”

“Again?” Farrari repeated blankly.

“Durrl’s assistant looked in this morning.”

“He just climbed the stile, looked, and went away. That’s as much checking as they’re likely to do this time of year, but he may look again on his way back. A durrl’s assistant is trained to notice things like too few oiz working a field.” He panted for a few minutes and then croaked with parched lips “I’m getting old.”

“How frequently does the durrl himself come around?” Farrari asked.

“This time of year, maybe not at all. There’s no close supervision like at planting time, when the olz might eat the seed stock instead of planting it, or at harvest time, when the olz might eat in the field instead of waiting to have some of the food they’ve just harvested rationed out to them.”

“How frequently does the durrl inspect a village?”

“He doesn’t, not unless something unusual happens. Not during the warm months. If so many olz got sick that the cultivating was neglected, he might look in to make certain that they weren’t shirking.”

“Olz never shirk,” Farrari said. “No, but the durrl looks at it from the point of view of the rascz, and if the rascz were slaves they’d shirk so he figures the olz will shirk if he lets them get away with it. During the winter he’ll visit the villages once in a while to check the death rate and try to figure out whether the olz can last until spring planting without special rations.” He turned slowly. “Now I see what you’re driving at. We want to embarrass a durrl in front of the olz and we can’t. When they’re at work there are too few of them in one field to matter, it’d be a waste of time to embarrass a durrl with less than a whole village looking on, and the only time that could happen is during the winter when the olz are too hungry and sick to care whether a durrl is embarrassed or not. I’m getting old.” He sighed. “I should have thought of that.”

“We’ll contrive something,” Farrari said confidently.

Bran shook his head. “No. It was a silly idea.”

“What would happen if an aristocrat walked into a village at dawn and told the olz to take the day off?”

“They’d stay in the village. Something like that does happen now and then, usually when the ground is so wet that cultivation might damage the crops. It isn’t thought of as giving the olz a day off, but as letting the fields rest, and no aristocrat would set foot in an ol village. I’ve never heard of one being able to speak ol. The durrl’s assistants would take care of it.”

“You dressed as an aristocrat and ordered olz about.”

Bran shrugged. “The olz don’t know that an aristocrat isn’t supposed to speak ol. They don’t know one rasc from another. They’d obey anyone dressed in any kind of rasc costume. I just happen to have some aristocrat robes.”

“What would a durrl do if one of his olz ran up and told him that a strange rasc demanded his presence at the village?”

Bran chuckled. “You can’t say that in ol, but you can say enough to make the durrl think someone important wants him. He’d kill his gril getting there.”

“Would he send an assistant?” “Not a chance.”

“And if he arrived and found no rasc but a whole village of loafing olz?”

“He’d be incensed,” Bran said.

“I hope so, because it’s the mood that’ll make him the most vulnerable. That’s what we’ll do—use your aristocrat robes, order the olz to let the fields rest, and send one of them for the durrl.”

“It might work,” Bran admitted. “We’ll try it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow you’re going to rest, and then we’ll work out some practical jokes. And then we’ll go far enough away so that the village we choose won’t have heard about our” peculiar conduct today.”

Again they reached a village at dawn. The olz reacted as Bran had predicted: a few grunted words from a pseudo-aristocrat, which they heard with heads bowed, and they immediately returned to the fire pit. The fire had gone out, but they grouped about the cold ashes just as they crowded about a night-fire. That was, seemingly, the only thing they had to do on a day of leisure.

A young ol was chosen, and after a grunted instruction he whirled obediently and ran off. Farrari and Bran left in the opposite direction, cached their costumes with the platform, and returned to the village as olz. They took their places by the dead fire and waited.

The durrl arrived on a racing, panting gril and when he saw no aristocrat, only his olz huddled about a nonexistent fire, he leaped. from his gril in a thunderous rage and began to berate them. The ol language was unequal to his anger, and most of what he said was in Rasczian.

Farrari edged away, gained a position behind the durrl, and began to mimic him. The durrl gestured, tamped a foot, waved his arms. Farrari did the same. Bran had made his way to the gril, and he quickly tied a cord to a front foot and the opposite hind foot. Even if their scenario failed, the durrl’s departure was certain to be less than dignified.

As the olz became aware of what was happening, one after another raised his head in appalling disrespect to stare past the durrl at Farrari. Their expressionless faces provided no clue to their thoughts, but the fact that they dared to look seemed promising.

The durrl finally became aware that he had less than their complete attention. He pivoted slowly; Farrari pivoted slowly. He turned again; Farrari turned again. That happened twice before the durrl understood what was happening. With a bellow of rage he confronted Farrari.

Bran scurried into position behind the durrl. Farrari delivered a vigorous push, and the durrl went over backward in a tumultuous flutter of robes. He scrambled to his feet bellowing and raced to the gril to snatch his zrilm whip. Farrari faced him calmly as he raised the branch for a flesh-tearing stroke. Bran was in position again, and he adroitly jerked the zrilm from the durrl’s hand and flung it aside.

The durrl, his rage beyond containment, leaped onto his gril and kicked at the beast’s flanks. The gril attempted to leap forward and fell heavily, and the durrl pitched over its head and landed with a sickening thud.

Bran quickly removed the chord from the gril’s legs, and the beast scrambled to its feet and stood trembling. The watching olz did not move.

Neither did the durrl. When Farrari went to him he found him dead, his neck broken.

Farrari beckoned Bran to his side and hissed, “Some joke. What happens now?”