Poul Anderson: A Circus of Hells

“Khr-r-r, they must be settling down there.” Ydwyr’s tailtip, peeking from beneath his robe, quivered, the single sign he gave of agitation. “What is their word?”

“He waits in the courtyard. Shall I give the datholch a direct line?”

“Do.” Djana thought that a man would have asked for a briefing first. Men had not the Merseian boldness.

She couldn’t follow the conversation between Ydwyr and the lutrine being who stood in the snow outside. The scientist used a vocalizer to speak the messenger’s language. When he had blanked the screen, he sat for a long period, scowling, tailtip flogging the floor.

“Can I help?” Djana finally ventured to ask. “Or should I go?”

“Shwai —” He noticed her. “Khr-r-r.” After pondering: “No, I can tell you now. You will soon hear in any case.” She contained herself. A Merseian aristocrat did not jitter. But her pulse thumped.

“A dispatch from the chief of that community,” Ydwyr said. “Puzzling: the Ruadrath aren’t in the habit of using ambiguous phrases, and the courier refuses to supplement what he has memorized. As nearly as I can discern, they have come on Dominic Flandry’s frozen corpse.”

Darkness crossed before her. Somehow she kept her feet.

“It has to be that,” he went on, glowering at a wall. “The description fits a human, and what other human could it be? For some reason, instead of begetting wonder, this seems to have made them wary of us—as if their finding something we haven’t told them about shows we may have designs on them. The chief demands I come explain.”

He shrugged. “So be it. I would want to give the matter my personal attention regardless. The trouble must be smoothed out, the effects on their society minimized; at the same time, observation of those effects may teach us something new. I’ll fly there tomorrow with—” He looked at her in surprise. “Why, Djana, you weep.”

“I’m sorry,” she said into her hands. The tears were salt on her tongue. “I can’t help it.”

“You knew he must be dead, the pure death to which you sent him.”

“Yes, but—but—” She raised her face. “Take me along,” she begged.

“Haadoch? No. Impossible. The Ruadrath would see you and—”

“And what?” She knelt before him and clutched at his.

“I want to say goodbye. And…and give him…what I can of a Christian burial. Don’t you understand, lord? He’ll lie here alone forever.”

“Let me think.” Ydwyr sat motionless and expressionless while she tried to control her sobbing. At last he smiled, stroked her hair again, and told her, “You may.”

She forgot to gesture gratitude. “Thank you, thank you,” she said in ragged Anglic.

“It would not be right to forbid your giving your dead their due. Besides, frankly, I see where it can be of help, showing the Ruadrath a live human. I must plan what we should tell them, and you must have your part learned before morning. Can you do that?”

“Certainly.” She lifted her chin. “Afterward, yes, I will work for Merseia.”

“Give no rash promises; yet I hope you will join our cause. That fugitive talent you have for making others want what you want—did you use it on me?’ Ydwyr blocked her denial with a lifted palm. “Hold. I realize you’d attempt no mind-intrusion consciously. But unconsciously— Khraich, I don’t suppose it makes any difference in this case. Go to your quarters, Djana daughter. Get some rest. I will be summoning you in a few hours.”

Where their ranges overlapped, Domrath and Ruadrath normally had no particular relationship. The former tended to regard the latter as supernatural; the latter, having had chances to examine hibemator dens, looked more matter-of-factly on the former. Most Domrath left Ruadrath things strictly undisturbed—after trespassing groups had been decimated in their sleep—whereas the Ruadrath found no utility in the primitive Domrath artifacts. The majority of their own societies were chalcolithic.

But around Seething Springs—Ktha-g-thek, Wirrda’s—a pattern of mutuality had developed. Its origins were lost in myth. Ydwyr had speculated that once an unusual sequence of weather caused the pack to arrive here while the tribe was still awake. The Ruadrath allowed summertime use of their sturdy buildings, fine tools, and intricate decorations, provided that the users were careful and left abundant food, hides, fabrics, and similar payment. To the Domrath, this had become the keystone of their religion. The Ruadrath had found ceremonial objects and deduced as much. It made Wirrda’s a proud band.

Flandry discovered he could play on that as readily as on territorial instinct. You may admit the skyswimmers can do tricks you can’t. Nevertheless, when you are accustomed to being a god, you will resent their not having told you about the real situation in heaven.

Rrinn and his councilors were soon persuaded to carry out the human’s suggestion: Send an obscurely worded message, which Flandry helped compose. Keep back the fact that he was alive. Have nearly everyone go to the hinterland during the time the Merseians were expected; they could do nothing against firearms, and a youngster might happen to give the show away.

Thus the village lay silent when the airbus appeared.

Domed with the snow that paved the spiderweb passages between them, buildings looked dwarfed. The winter sky was so huge and blue, the treeless winter horizon so remote. Steam from the springs and geysers dazzled Flandry when he glimpsed it, ungoggled; for a minute residual light-spots hid the whitened mass of Mt. Thunderbelow and die glacier gleam on the Hell-kettle peaks. Fast condensing out, vapors no longer smoked above the Neverfreeze River. But its rushing rang loud in today’s ice quiet.

A lookout yelled, “ Trreeann!” Flandry had learned that call. He peered upward and southward, located the glinting speck, and sprang into the house where he was to hide.

Its door had been left open, the entrance covered by a leather curtain—an ordinary practice which should not draw any Merseian heed. Within, among the strewn furs and stacked utensils of a prosperous owner, sunbeams straggled past cracks in the shutters to pick out of dimness the arsenal Flandry had taken from the vehicle he stole. He carried two handguns, blaster and stunner, plus a war knife, extra ammunition, and energy charges. That was about the practical limit. The rest Wirrda’s could inherit, maybe.

The house fronted on the central plaza. Directly opposite stood Rrinn’s, where the meeting was to take place. Thus the Ruad could step out and beckon the human to make a dramatic appearance if and when needed. (That’s what Rrinn thinks.) Through a minute hole in the curtain, Flandry saw the nine males who remained. They were armed. Ydwyr had never given them guns, which would have affected their culture too radically for his liking. But those bronze swords and tomahawks could do ample damage.

Rrinn spoke grimly into his short-range transceiver. Flandry knew the words he did not understand: “Set down at the edge of our village, next to the tannery. Enter afoot and weaponless.”

Ydwyr should obey. It’s either that or stop xenologizing this pack. And why should he fear? He’ll leave a few lads in the bus, monitoring by radio, ready to bail him out of any trouble.

That’s what Ydwyr thinks.

Some minutes later the Merseians showed up. They numbered four. Despite their muffling coldsuits, Flandry recognized the boss and three who had been on that previous trip to this country—how many years of weeks ago—

A small shape, made smaller yet by the tyrannosaurian bulks preceding, entered his field of view. He caught his breath. It was not really too surprising that Djana had also come. But after so much time, her delicate features and gold hair struck through the fishbowl helmet like a blow.