"I guess that's worth a nauseating camel ride or two." Trefian brightened. "You know what we should do after we've won? Once we're back in Toltz, we rent a hall and throw a huge victory celebration, I mean a full-scale rip-roaring bash, with champagne, food, entertainment, all of that. We'll invite everyone, absolutely everyone. Then, when the party's at its peak, we have someone outside the hall set off some firecrackers-you know, the big ones that boom like cannons. Then we have someone come running in to announce that the Grewzians have invaded, and that the city is under attack. I tell you, Stes, the place will explode explode, everyone there will go mad, utterly mad mad! What a spectacle!"

"Outstanding! Now there's something to look forward to!"

Both brothers burst into uncontrollable giggles.

As the caravan rounded a bend in the trail, the abrupt materialization of a mounted band cut the laughter short. They seemed to come out of nowhere-a dozen hawk-faced riders, picturesquely garbed, and armed with serviceable-looking carbines. Their leader, an individual of coolly authoritative aspect, called out some comment or command in the local dialect, and the caravan halted at once. The hired guide inclined his head with an air of extreme respect.

"What did he say?" Trefian Festinette inquired.

"What in the world is going on?" Stesian demanded.

"Silence," their guide instructed quietly, in Vonahrish. "It is the Mongrel."

"Who or what is-"

"Silence."

The guide and the Mongrel conversed briefly in dialect, the tenor of their discourse unintelligible to their Travornish listeners. The guide appeared to remonstrate. The Mongrel shrugged and replied firmly. The guide nodded a regretful acquiescence, whereupon the Mongrel gestured, and a couple of his followers advanced to clip lead lines to the halters of the Festinettes' jehdavis. jehdavis.

"What do you think you're doing there, my man?" Trefian Festinette demanded.

"Is this some sort of native custom?" inquired his twin.

There was no reply.

The Mongrel lifted his hand and the hors.e.m.e.n sped off along the trail, drawing the Festinettes in their wake. A spate of alarmed inquiries went unanswered.

For the next two hours the band rode hard, through the Navoyza Pa.s.s and along the winding mountain trails. At last they paused to water the horses. Trefian and Stesian slid from their camels with small moans of relief. One of the Zuleekis loitered nearby, and the twins accosted him at once.

"See here, I wonder if you wouldn't mind telling us-" Trefian began.

"You mustn't think we don't appreciate your lively attentions, but we should very much like to know-" Stesian seconded his brother.

The Zuleeki responded curtly in dialect, and turned away.

"What curious manners these people have," Trefian murmured.

"I don't think he understood us, Tref. They're not terrifically civilized, these Zuleekis. Or civil, for that matter."

"Maybe we'll have better luck with-" Trefian pointed, and his brother's eyes followed.

Not far away the Mongrel leaned stilly against a rock, piercing gaze aimed at the jagged horizon. The twins hurried to his side.

"Master-er-Mongrel, do you happen to speak Vonahrish?" Stesian essayed.

The Mongrel turned to inspect them at leisure. At last he answered, "Some."

"Oh, outstanding. Then perhaps you would be so good as to tell us, sir, what this is all about? Not that it hasn't all been a tremendous lark, you understand, but the fact is, my brother and I compete in the Grand Ellipse, which, in case you didn't know, is this whacking great race around-"

"I know the Grand Ellipse," said the Mongrel.

"Excellent. Then you'll surely understand that-genuinely interesting an interlude though this has been-my brother and I must really be on our way."

"Yes."

Something in the Mongrel's quiet tone prompted an exchange of uneasy glances between the twins, and Stesian prompted dubiously, "To-?"

"To Een Dja.s.seen Een Dja.s.seen."

THE JOURNEY RESUMED and there followed another two hours of riding over wild terrain, along the smallest and stoniest of mountain trails. At the end of that time they came to a sharp grade rising to a small plateau edged with a high wall of reddish stone. Up the path to the great iron portcullis guarding the gateway rode the Mongrel and his followers. The guards on duty raised the portcullis at once, and the party pa.s.sed into the courtyard of a red fortress topped with a dozen twisted lead-roofed turrets. Each turret carried an iron spike crowned with a human skull. and there followed another two hours of riding over wild terrain, along the smallest and stoniest of mountain trails. At the end of that time they came to a sharp grade rising to a small plateau edged with a high wall of reddish stone. Up the path to the great iron portcullis guarding the gateway rode the Mongrel and his followers. The guards on duty raised the portcullis at once, and the party pa.s.sed into the courtyard of a red fortress topped with a dozen twisted lead-roofed turrets. Each turret carried an iron spike crowned with a human skull.

"What place is this this?" asked Trefian Festinette.

There was no answer.

The riders halted with a jingle of bits and spurs. An enormously tall and broad Zuleeki with a glossy bald head emerged from the building to meet them. A brief colloquy between the Mongrel and the bald man ensued, at the conclusion of which the Mongrel accepted a softly clinking leather pouch, and the lead lines of the Festinettes' camels were placed in the bald man's hand.

The Mongrel and his followers galloped from the courtyard.

The twins and their host surveyed one another in silence for a moment. The Zuleeki barked a sharp command in dialect, accompanied by a peculiar tongue click recognizable to the camels, both of which instantly knelt.

"Dismount," the bald man commanded in Vonahrish.

The twins, obedient as the camels, did as they were bid.

"You come," the bald man informed them.

Trefian Festinette found his wits and his voice. "Who are you you?" he asked.

"I am Ilciu. I serve," their host announced.

"Serve what, serve whom?"

"My master. The lord of this place and the lands that surround it."

"And your master is-"

"Een Dja.s.seen."

ILCIU LED THEM INTO THE FORTRESS, along dim and grim echoing corridors, past niches housing suits of antique armor, past wall displays of monstrous swords, pikes, and battle-axes, through chambers hung with threadbare tapestries ancient beyond reckoning, until at last they pa.s.sed through a great double doorway into what seemed another world.

The twins gazed about them in wonder. They stood in a vast vaulted chamber with billowy hangings of lilac silk and mauve gauze, crystal chandeliers with rose-colored shades, spraying perfumed fountains, and tall marble statues of G.o.ds and athletes, painted in lifelike colors. Here the air was soft, warm, and humid. Strains of music delicate as drifting petals sweetened the atmosphere, and the fragrance of violets hung like a pall over all.

The chamber was well populated. A floor of gleaming rose and lilac marble tile supported countless polychrome rugs and fringed cushions, upon which sat or reclined no fewer than half a hundred young males, ranging in age from earliest adolescence to full maturity. All of them were well proportioned, all fit and firm-these attributes easily judged, for all were similarly clothed in abbreviated silken breechclouts and nothing more. All had handsome faces-most of the olive-skinned, hawk-featured Zuleeki type, but some fair northerners among them, and one calf-eyed, full-lipped adolescent cherub who might have been Aveshquian. The young faces were painted, the eyes lined and exaggerated with kohl, the lids brightened with metallic color, the cheeks and lips deeply reddened. Fingernails and toenails were varnished in tones of coral and poppy. The carefully pomaded curls were often highlighted with streaks of gold, white, or blue.

"What an outlandish crew," Stesian observed, sotto voce. "D'you suppose they're actors actors or something?" or something?"

"Don't gawk," advised his brother. "Remember, we're cosmopolitan."

A low murmur of speculative interest greeted the entrance of the Travornish twins. A couple of youths rose from their cushions, stretching for a better look. Ignoring the spectators, Ilciu clapped his hands smartly. A quartet of white-haired, toothless, stooped but spry crones answered the summons at once. Ilciu issued orders in dialect. The crones bowed low, then turned and seized the astonished brothers, hurried them across the great chamber, under an alabaster archway, and into an adjoining room, where twilight filtering through a stained-gla.s.s skylight played upon a great, turquoise-tiled bath.

The crones stripped them expertly and pushed them into the bath. The water was warm, scented, and pleasantly peppered with floating blossoms; the ministrations of the crones agreeable, if almost too thorough. Presently, well scrubbed and tingling, the brothers were plucked from their bath, toweled until they glowed, anointed with perfumed oils, and wrapped in identical embroidered silken breechclouts. Next their faces were carefully painted, their eyebrows plucked and shaped, their fingernails lacquered, their brown curls pomaded and styled. As a finishing touch, each brother was adorned with a pair of dangling jeweled earrings.

"I don't know, Tref." Stesian Festinette shook his head, and the long earrings jingled. "I'm not so sure about all this. Especially the blue fingernails."

"Local customs," his brother reminded him. "Exotic Zuleeki hospitality, that's all. Isn't travel supposed to be a broadening experience?"

The question went unanswered. Ilciu reappeared, and the four crones sank to their creaky knees. The bald-headed man inspected their handiwork at length, then nodded and addressed them in dialect. The old ladies rose, bowed, and departed cackling.

"I tell them it is good," Ilciu informed the twins. "You will please him."

"Oh-" Trefian's look of confusion cleared. "Do we finally get to meet our host, then?"

"Yes. Now you go to Een Dja.s.seen Een Dja.s.seen."

Ilciu clapped his hands. A brace of menials fully as large and broad as himself appeared, bearing a litter. The twins were placed upon the litter, artistically positioned back-to-back, and violet petals scattered over their bare shoulders. Ilciu flicked a finger. The bearers took up the litter and carried it from the room.

"Most peculiar customs," Stesian murmured to his twin as they went.

"Entertaining, I call it," Trefian rejoined. "I'm quite looking forward to meeting this Een Dja.s.seen Een Dja.s.seen fellow. No doubt he's an odd figure." fellow. No doubt he's an odd figure."

"I wonder what in the world he'll want to talk about?"

11.

"GOOD-BYE, BALLERINA. I'll miss you," said Luzelle. I'll miss you," said Luzelle.

"Aihee treat dees lovely one lakka daughter," the new owner vowed in execrable Vonahrish.

"She likes to have her nose stroked."

"Aihee stroke nose, feed oats, polish feet. She ees star een sky."

She is stolen property, and you probably guess as much. Luzelle smiled, nodded, and said nothing. Luzelle smiled, nodded, and said nothing.

"Come, then, red beauty." The fortunate Bizaqhi buyer led the chestnut mare away.

Luzelle sighed. Her eyes stung. Ballerina would surely receive kind treatment, but she hated herself anyway. Her glance dropped to the sheaf of Bizaqhi currency-a ridiculously low price for the stolen horse-still clasped in her right hand. Her wrist twitched, and she came within a nerve of throwing the money to the winds. A stupid impulse. There were better uses for those Bizaqhi notes.

Her eyes ranged the dusty plaza, fly-ridden heart of ancient Quinnekevah. Not much to see. A big stone spire at the center, theoretically marking the site of the Gifted Iyecktor's vision of the Three Fires, and indisputably marking the site of the annual Goat Fair held for the past five hundred years and more. A few old wooden buildings of indeterminate function, distinguished by their domed roofs and windows of goldentinted gla.s.s. A few small, unpainted booths housing vendors and their wares. A few wandering ring-tailed dogs, a few donkey carts, and more than a few pedestrians; the men in their huge baggy breeches, the women all wearing black caps with linen lappets, the children in sleeveless knee-length tunics or in nothing at all. A bustling, oddly timeless scene that had probably changed little since Iyecktor's day.

There was at least one change, however. On the far side of the plaza the recently constructed but already outdated-looking Quinnekevah train station rose in all its dun-colored brick glory. Here in Bizaqh the trains were running, but one of her timetables told her that the next one heading east toward Zuleekistan was not scheduled to arrive for another hour, which left a little time to dispose of her local currency. What to buy? Food? Trinkets? A ring-tailed dog?

Fresh clothes.

She looked down at herself. After days of hard riding across Aennorve she was just barely respectable, or perhaps not quite. Her sober dark-blue skirts were muddied about the hem, her jacket was dusty and travel stained. As for her linen-she did not want to think about it.

One of the booths displayed Bizaqhi garments, and she hurried straight to it. The proprietress was a strapping young woman who spoke no Vonahrish, no Grewzian, no Lanthian, no comprehensible western tongue.

Luzelle scanned the exotic wares, and she pointed. The merchant nodded vigorously and handed her a long skirt of thin, crinkly black cotton with a drawstring waist. Upon closer inspection she found the apparently feminine skirt divided to form a pair of vastly voluminous trousers. What a clever idea. She smiled and pointed again, this time choosing a loose emerald-green tunic with bands of black embroidery about the hem and along the wide sleeves. Experimentally she held the garment up against herself. The vendor grinned broadly, rubbed her hands together in what seemed a local gesture of approval or encouragement, and offered a wide black sash with fringed ends and green embroidery. Luzelle took the sash, along with a second tunic of mulberry cotton, a matching sash, a quilted surcoat, and several linen undergarments whose design was foreign but perfectly comprehensible. Selections complete, she handed a fistful of money to the vendor, who looked surprised, counted the cash, and actually handed back a couple of notes. Remarkable.

She stowed her purchases away in the carpetbag, then marched across the plaza into the lofty dim coolness of the train station, where she paused to consult her watch. Another twenty minutes to wait. Plenty of time. A discreet trio of concentric circles carved into a door panel identified the women's rest room. She went in and found the place unusually modern by Bizaqhi standards, with wooden part.i.tions separating the half-dozen holes in the wooden latrine bench, and plentiful ventilation. She changed quickly into the black divided skirt, the green tunic and sash, while her grubby Vonahrish garments went into the carpetbag to rest atop the corset that she had left off wearing days earlier but somehow did not quite dare to discard. Perhaps before the trip was over she would find the time to wash them. The new clothes were light and loose, offering miraculous comfort and freedom. These Bizaqhis weren't so backward as many westerners imagined.

There was no mirror and she had no idea how she looked clad in exotic peasant gear. Probably absurd, but what did it matter? She felt marvelous.

She smiled and drew a deep breath; this last a mistake, for she gagged on the latrine atmosphere. Exiting quickly, she hurried to the ticket window, where her expressive finger-jabbing at the map on the wall wordlessly communicated her needs. Money and a crudely printed ticket traded hands. A spate of unintelligible Bizaqhi dialect followed. Luzelle smiled, shrugged, and spread uncomprehending hands. The man behind the window pointed at the great clock on the wall behind her, waggled his fingers, shook his head, and chattered earnestly. She turned to glance at the clock, then looked back at him. He was still talking.

She wished she understood him. Beaming a final friendly, puzzled smile, she turned away and went to claim a seat on the wooden bench closest to the departure gate. To do so she was obliged to wiggle her way into a narrow s.p.a.ce between two broad Bizaqhi wives, each enc.u.mbered with husband, children, black cap, and linen lappets, each displeased at the intrusion. Angry eyes fastened upon her uncovered, unruly red-gold hair. Indignant female voices muttered at her.

Sh'tishkur.

Fa kuta.

She did not know the words, and did not want to know. She fixed her eyes on the dun-colored tile floor. The voices subsided. An aggressive elbow pressed her arm, and she ignored it. Time pa.s.sed, and her thoughts drifted.

The chimes of the big clock recalled her to reality. The eastbound train should be pulling into Quinnekevah Station about now. Exactly now.

There was no announcement. Her mind wandered off in pursuit of blue worms and red mares. It seemed hardly more than a moment before the clock chimed again. An hour had pa.s.sed. The train had not arrived.

She lifted her head and looked around her. The waiting room was quite full, most of the benches lined with ordinary Bizaqhi travelers, the majority of them carting suitcases, bags, knapsacks, head trays; a few carrying cages of chickens or pigeons, one leading a white goat. Women were knitting and chatting, men smoking, children romping, babies squalling. There was much audible consumption of fruit, nuts, and various salted treats, a sight that set her stomach rumbling. The scene was unremarkable, but something about it troubled her. A moment's consideration pinpointed the source of her unease: the collective air of nonchalance, the absence of expectancy. Her fellow travelers hardly seemed poised on the verge of departure; rather they looked ready to take up permanent residence in the waiting room.

Eastern fatalism. Good for the digestion. Profit by their example. She closed her eyes. She willed herself to relax. It worked, and she fell asleep. She closed her eyes. She willed herself to relax. It worked, and she fell asleep.

The chimes of the clock woke her two hours later. Still no sign of the train, and now it was very late indeed. But definitely running, she a.s.sured herself. There was no strevvio strevvio here in Bizaqh, nothing seriously amiss. And perhaps this delay that seemed so excessive to her was ordinary by local standards. Certainly her fellow travelers appeared untroubled. Reaching into her carpetbag, she brought forth a packet of raisins and commenced nibbling. Her movements jogged the alien elbow lodged against her right arm, and there was a prompt retaliatory poke, followed by an angry feminine hiss. here in Bizaqh, nothing seriously amiss. And perhaps this delay that seemed so excessive to her was ordinary by local standards. Certainly her fellow travelers appeared untroubled. Reaching into her carpetbag, she brought forth a packet of raisins and commenced nibbling. Her movements jogged the alien elbow lodged against her right arm, and there was a prompt retaliatory poke, followed by an angry feminine hiss.

"Sh'tishkur."

Turning to face her critic, she glowered and pushed the intrusive elbow away, requesting coldly, "Please don't touch me."

The words were spoken in Vonahrish, but the sentiment was doubtless comprehensible to her listener, who responded with a torrent of high-pitched Bizaqhi abuse. The term fa kuta fa kuta recurred many times, a clenched fist waved suggestively, and the outraged local concluded with an expressive blast of saliva, aimed at the floor. recurred many times, a clenched fist waved suggestively, and the outraged local concluded with an expressive blast of saliva, aimed at the floor.

Disgusted, Luzelle rose from the bench and her neighbors instantly shifted position, wide hips converging to eliminate the s.p.a.ce she had vacated. She flashed them the Feyennese Four, which elicited no reaction; that incomparably useful gesture seemed to carry no meaning in this part of the world. Sticking her tongue out as far as it would go, she turned her back on her tormentors. Vituperation fountained in her wake.

She was tired of sitting, anyway. It would be good to stretch her legs. Carpetbag in hand, she strolled along the perimeter of the big waiting room. She had not advanced more than a few yards before a dapper figure rose from one of the benches to accost her.

"Miss D'vaire?"

"Mesq'r Zavune!" Surprise, pleasure at sight of an amiable familiar face, frustration at sight of a rival she had thought outdistanced, all mingled in her mind. She liked Zavune, but wished him a hundred miles behind her. Producing a genuine if half-unwilling smile, she noted that the Aennorvi speculator's expression reflected sentiments similar to her own. He was looking well, she thought. Rested, clear eyed, fit, and content. However had he managed it? He was newly minted immaculate, freshly laundered, barbered, and manicured, his well-tailored linen garments impossibly unwrinkled. By contrast she knew she presented a ridiculous spectacle, with her flimsy native fripperies and her straggling curls. She wasn't even properly clean.

He looked her up and down, and his smile seemed devoid of mockery as he observed, "These Bizaqhi clothings-very pretty for you."

"I had to get hold of some clean things, I was desperate," she told him. "You see, I went and lost almost everything I had back in Aeshno. I didn't want to leave my valise, but there wasn't any choice at the time-"