The Enemy of My Enemy (3 page)

The younger man made a small sound of surprise, quickly overcome by a long souad of disgust.

“But why?” aDuc was himself surprised at this reaction.

A look of loathing, hatred, contempt, of even physical revulsion, writhed upon Jerred Northi’s face.

“There’s a why,” he said, after a moment, “and there’s a why not. It’s not because she was certainly once a whore, though she’s pretty much covered that up. And it’s not because she’s certainly still herself a whoremonger, though she pretty much covers
that
up. I have no right to despise the shopkeeper where I’ve gone myself to shop. But — damn it, ‘Ten! She runs the biggest kiddy fair cartel in the country. Doesn’t she? I mean —
child hunts!
”

The older man sighed. “You haven’t lived in Pemath long enough, Jer,” he said, “no matter how long you have lived here, if you still react like that. Pemath is not Tarnis. Or Baho or Lermencas. Or anywhere else. Do you know how many of our children die of hunger alone every day? You say, ‘Oh, how dreadful that this child should be hunted!’ I say, ‘The day the child is hunted is the day it’s sure to eat.’ Don’t bother me with your tender stomach.
Pushipushi
. What, you are
still
making faces? By my forefathers’ foreskins!
Why?
”

“Because,” said Northi, in a low voice that commanded attention better than a shout. “Because … I think … that I was once, myself … I’m not sure, I’m not sure, but I’m sure enough … that I was at least one time a huntee-kid myself — ” He looked sick. He seemed to crouch, and he swallowed hard.

Atén aDuc’s face for a moment showed shock, then sympathy. Then simply fatigue. Then all three vanished. The urbane mask slid into place again. He shrugged. “Well, there you are. And you are alive and almost thirty years old and coarsely healthy and you have had much sport and pleasure in your life and you hope to grow much older and stay at least as healthy and have much
more
sport and pleasure. So you will allow me to gamble on the likelihood that you were not followed here, and to introduce you to the presence of Lady Mani — not so simple or easy, you know — and allow her to take it (and you) from there. Or perhaps you prefer to go on dodging around until someone sets you on fire or loops a leeri around your neck. Eh?”

“No … .”

Atén aDuc stroked his thin, red moustache. He gave a very small, very short sigh. Then he reached over for his
thular
once again. “By and by I shall set things in motion. It’s still too early. Meanwhile, there is food, there is drink, there are things to inhale, there is also some music about to be played. Or you may simply wish to sleep.”

He placed the
thular
to his lips. The notes came forth, slow, simple at first, then less slow and more intricate. His face changed utterly. It became the face of a lover, lost in the contemplation of his love.

Jerred Northi crouched on the up-seat.

Ronk Krakar, a typical Bahon (so he thought of himself and was content to have others think of him) with a typically explosive Bahon name, was feeling altogether rather explosive. It wasn’t that the Tarnisi were unpleasant to him. At least, certainly not unpleasant in a way he’d met with elsewhere, because he was a Bahon … the way some other nationals were unpleasant because the United Syndicates of Bahon had a deserved reputation for staunchly looking out for their own interests. There had never been any disgusting incident of going to the Tarnisi theater and being obliged to walk out in the middle of a so-called comedy because the thing contained actors made up as caricatures of Bahon. That had happened to him before; he grunted angrily as he recalled his then-host following him out with feigned regret which broke into uncontrolled laughter as he recalled the stage mockery he was even then deploring: mock Bahon names, mock Bahon accents. No —

There was nothing coarse about the Tarnisi. And they had no particular prejudice against Baho or the Bahon. It was simply that they were concerned only with themselves, and seemed unable ever to regard foreigners as fellow adults. Here, for example: He’d been waiting many minutes in the guest rooms of the office in Tarnis Town of their current Commercial Deputy, Hob Mothiosant. For a man not to be prompt for an appointment was bad enough, for a businessman it ought to have been out of the question, but for a government official … ! And then this effete nonsense of “guest rooms” as office adjuncts! Krakar had come on business, important business, traveling thousands of miles, and not to be shown into some sort of — he lacked the words, the experience — was brusque to the pretty girl who was opening boxes of games (
games!
) and offering to show him how they were played and to play with him (
play!
) — or to dance with him or for him, or to employ various musical instruments in his entertainment. No, he did not desire that, nor did he wish to swim or to bathe … his mind, not too accomplished in the language, backtracked, corrected itself, was scandalized: She had offered to bathe him! How effete, how typical!

He cleared his throat, glanced around the (admittedly) gracious chambers, resisted an angry impulse to stride out, flung himself down in a chair and picked up a book without looking at it. In an instant the guest-girl, not ruffled in the slightest, was at his side, turning the pages for him.

“See, this is a very ancient illustrated text, my great lord,” she said, in her pleasant voice, “of our national epic,
The Volanthani
. Lord Maddary rides home from the hunting and finds his wife has been rapted away by the Volanth … .” Her slender hands turned the page, rings flashing on long, lovely fingers. Tarnisi in archaic costume made stylized gestures, were attacked by a multitude of ugly, stunted, apelike figures, caricatures, uniformly evil of expression. “See, my great lord: the Volanth. Ugh, how disgusting!” Gradually Krakar allowed the pleasure of voice and presence to soothe him of his annoyance, took no particular notice of the narrative except to derive mild, automatic, low-keyed pleasure from the soft colors of the pictures. Was, at length, caught up with some confusion and surprise at the end.

“I don’t understand. I thought she was his wife.”

“She was his wife, great lord.”

“Then why did he kill her?”

“She could not have returned to live with him, great lord, after the disgrace of being held in capture by the Volanth.”

“I see … .” But did he? “Well. In that case, since he could not keep her, why did he bother to go after her in the first place?”

The girl seemed at some loss to know what to answer. Probably no one had ever brought this inconsistence to her attention before. Chimes sounded. She rose from her knees, gently closed the book. “Pemathi boy is coming presently, my great lord.”

The “boy” turned out to be a portly, elderly Pemathi, grey shot all through his once red hair, and dressed in a fashion which he, Krakar, had never observed in Pemath — or, indeed, anywhere else outside of books. Drab kilt and coat and cap, unknown in Pemath proper for generations, were evidently still not merely traditional, but required, here among the sojourning Pemathi servant class in Tarais.

“Master, we go-see Himself now. Sorry for bad delay. My own guilt.”

Ronk Krakar did not believe it for a moment, of course, but at least the excuse returned him to a familiarity where tardiness was at least a matter incurring guilt and requiring excuses. Behind him he heard the guest-girl murmur, “Return another time, my great lord, and renew my joy.” He grew a trifle warm about the skin, reflecting on the phrase, and its possible (though this time unjustified) implications. If someone had told him that the offices of the Commercial Deputation were the suites of a palace, Krakar would not have had any trouble believing it. Astonishing! How could so impractical a people have amassed such richness? The nuances of the beauty might be open to discussion, subject to opinion; the richness, never.

Mothiosant greeted him with some politely subdued murmur of a phrase which might have meant, My cousin’s uncle, or, My uncle’s cousin … not so near a degree of kinship which would have required them to kiss, not so distant a one which might have offended. Assuming Krakar to be susceptible to offenses of that sort. Tardiness as a matter of offense evidently did not cleave to the Tarnisi Commercial Delegate’s mind.

“I have been painting leaves again,” the man said, gesturing to a complex of art supplies which should have been sufficient to paint an entire forest. The gesturing hand came to rest in mid-air, fingers limp and languid before a sheet of some dark substance on which was a darker smudge. “You do not care for it,” he said, after a moment’s polite uncomprehending silence. “You are correct not to. What says Sohalion? and, after all, Sohalion
is
leaves: if Sohalion has not said something on the subject, let no one now venture to bother saying it. ‘One should begin to paint leaves at the age of ten, one should continue painting leaves for another thirty years; after that, one may have arrived at the possibility of knowing how to paint leaves.’ Well — ” He lifted his hand, his face, his eyebrows. “And I have done none of these things. Of course it is but a wretched daub, tear it up, destroy it, Arád iGen.”

“I go-do so, Yourself,” the aid said, obediently.

Krakar ventured to turn the talk onto the proper track. “Sir, the purchasing contracts for the resins — ”

“Ah, why speak of the dull past?” Mothiosant arose from the contoured bench. “We have a pleasant, I must hope, a fascinating, I must hope, section of the present to enjoy. What says Alanas? ‘The present is a cross section of eternity,’ is it not so? Yellowtrees, have you never been there? You will enjoy, I must hope, your visit. I know that I and all of us will enjoy your visit. So. Give me your august sleeve, and I will, as we leave, point out to you one or two or at most three things of worth (some would say, ‘beauty’; such presumption is not for me) which do not disgrace this building, sordid function though it serves.”

He took hold of the tiniest bit of Ronk Krakar’s sleeve with his thumb and forefinger. The Bahon’s eyes, bewildered, met those of the Pemathi, who said, “Before, we go-take Master clotes and oter tings, go-pack tern good. Master needn’ go-worry. Go-have nice visit on Yellowtrees, Himself’s estate.”

Urged forward by the most infinitesimal of physical pressures, yet able no more to resist than if drawn by titan engines, Krakar could not on the other hand completely surrender his proper purpose. “Sir,” he said, firmly, as they walked through the corridor; “Sir, concerning the purchasing contracts for the resins — ”

His guide turned to him a look both humorous and rueful. “Ah, still the past, my kinsman’s kin? Was not the resin satisfactory?” Face, with an effort, turned grave. “ ‘Rad, discern from the records those responsible for poor resins, we shall have them flogged … or something unpleasant. You,” he said to the Bahon, “will be content.”

“I do not — Sir, I — ”

A slight sigh escaped Mothiosant. He paused in front of a cabinet containing something which glistened. “Three years ago, I must hope I am correct, your august nation purchased resins, did they not so? Ah, you see,” he smiled, faintly, “you say that we Tarnisi have no head for business, but I am sure my memory does not fail me here, I must — Arád iGen! Did not three years ago Baho-men buy resin-chop?”

“They go-do so, yes, Yourself, before tree year.”

The Tarnisi smiled blandly. Ronk made a considerable effort and smiled back. “It is true, sir. Three years ago, two years ago, and one year ago, we bought resins from Tarnis. They were quite satisfactory. We bought them seven years ago, eight years ago, eleven years ago, and so on. We buy them every year, sir. Every year that we can.”

Mothiosant’s smile had not ebbed during this flow of statistics, it had merely frozen. “Is it so, then. How unforgivably stupid of me. I should be flogged. Well, then, this year you shall buy them cheaper, but let us not discuss it now. Afterwards, kin Krakar, you and ‘Rad will arrange the matter.”

The Bahon’s fingers twitched on the portfolio containing the contracts. Again his eyes met the Pemathi’s. The latter’s gaze was now as bland as his own master’s smile, as stylized as the intricate carvings in this so-called Hall of Commerce. “Ah, Yourself, too bad. Resins no come up from sout. Trees all sick tis year. We go-get resins, Volant in sout all hunger, you-know. No resin-chop for go-sell. Ah — ”

The Deputy dropped the whole matter instantly with, “There you are. Alas. Now, my august kith, do you see the grain of this inscription tablet of the Eleventh Cycle? Is it not beautiful?”

His “august kith” swallowed something stiff and bristly in his throat. He knew what this meant. Well, better to have found it out before the office at home had made commitments. More than once, in fact quite often, contracts for the purchase of commodities had been made with Tarnis, only to have them casually broken because the latter had simply not bothered to look before they signed. It would be beneath them to engage in commerce efficiently, to gauge their resources’ futures before committing them. No resins! Well … once more, briefly, he met iGen’s eye. Yes, yes. He knew well enough what it meant. The Pemathi would have known quite, quite early in the season that the crop was going to fail. And doubtless he had scrounged around, bought up what there was to buy on his own and secret account; now one would have to do business with
him
… at high prices … plus bribery … The man bowed slightly. His capped head was immaculate. In a way, Krakar reflected, irritation already giving way to resignation, in a way it was too bad that one could not simply do business all of the time with the local Pemathi, and leave their Tarnisi masters quite alone to admire the damned grain of their damned Eleventh Cycle damned inscription tablets!

• • •

Another thing about the charming and impractical Tarnisi, Krakar thought to himself with mixed feelings, was that they either all suffered from acrophobia or else believed it was impious for man to fly. He could think, at the moment, of no other reasons for having to spend an hour or more in a surface vehicle. The journey took them in a graceful hydrofoil craft, up an uneconomically curving river lined with trees of (he supposed) great beauty but no economic value whatsoever. “No, Master — tese trees no go-give resin-chop, no … Lumber-chop? No, not tat eiter. Only for go-look on, Master … ” Krakar was not much interested in trees that were only for being looked at.