*6*
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE
About 200 Idris, male and female, were sitting at the long tables in the dining hall when Grynun and her bards arrived. The volume of conversation was impressive. Crusty meat pies and pitchers of liquid had been placed on the tables, but all the plates and mugs in front of the diners were empty. The smell of charred meat mixed with fresh bread and sweat assaulted the nostrils. The tapestries in this room were vastly dirtier than those in the main hall; some were completely indistinguishable under many layers of grease.
When Grynun appeared in the doorway, the room fell silent. As one, and distressingly Nazi-like, the Idris rose and saluted their leader. The old woman tossed off a return salute, touching her side because she didn’t have a gun. She bade the four stand off to the side of the entrance and proceeded to a long table on a raised dais that overlooked the rest of the tables. Her seat, at the very center of the table, was obvious: a large, gilded throne (peeling badly in spots) with red cushions.
Twelve people, generally older and more intelligent-looking than the average Idri, stood behind their chairs at the dais table. Ten of them had the requisite one-armed shirt, dyed arm, and red bands around each wrist. However, two men—the ones whose chairs flanked the throne—wore sleeveless shirts to show that both their arms were dyed. One man was tall and fair, but graying, and full of tight-lipped disapproval; the other looked something like the picture of the dark-skinned man in Grynun’s room and something like Fi’ar, but thicker, shorter, and more amiable.
As Grynun reached the table, the dyed-arm men each grasped an arm of the throne and lifted it off the dais onto the floor. The Idri-head plumped her rear end on the cushions, whereupon the pair hoisted the throne back up, then sat in their own chairs. Immediately the other ten people at the table sat down, followed by the rows of standing Idris. Then the shorter throne-hoister produced a long whistle and blew a shrill note three times. A door in the wall behind the throne opened, and out strode a grinning man in a pink robe, accompanied by a rhythmic squeaking, as of unoiled machinery.
"Who’s that?" John muttered, barely moving his lips. "The Royal Fag?"
George whispered in excitement, "That must be one of their priests."
The source of the squeaking was revealed as the wheels of a dolly being maneuvered out behind the priest by two panting boys, also in pink robes. On the dolly stood a six-foot-high pink pillar of stone that probably was supposed to represent the Vasyn, but it looked nothing like the one outside the castle. If anything, it looked like the Washington Monument. As the boys struggled to move the balky dolly to the right side of the table (one held the statue so it wouldn’t fall over while the other inched it home), the pink-robed man hopped up to stand between Grynun and the fair throne-lifter. He gave the assembled Idris a long, eager look, and now the four noticed that all the Idris had gotten out their own personal Vasyns, either lengths of rope or actual carvings.
The priest grinned at the four, though whether in good Favorites-of-the-Gods fellowship or something less pleasant, they couldn’t tell. Then the man raised his hands and bellowed,
"Praise Tasemmi for the food!"
"Nem Tasemmi," murmured the Idris—at least, that’s what it sounded like. Each touched the nearest plate of food.
"Praise Tedanal for the tables!" cried the priest, a look of wild joy on his face as he sliced his hand horizontally through the air. "Nem Tedanal," droned the Idris, touching their tables.
"Praise the Vasyn for bringing the gods back!" The priest ran to the pink statue and hugged it.
"Nem the Vasyn." The Idris fondled their Vasyn-icons.
It went for about five minutes, the dancing priest and his mostly rapt audience. In contrast, George’s desperation was almost audible as he tried to memorize the unfamiliar names and match them with those he knew, but he was hopelessly behind when the priest finished, sweating and grinning.
A nod from Grynun send the holy man and the statue back through the door. Then the old woman pointed at the four. Everyone turned to look. "Those be bards. They’ll play music before we eat."
And the four discovered there was a difference between the stares of the average Earth citizen and the stares of hundreds of hungry and well-armed storm troopers who were not in the mood to let music delay their meal any further. A murmur of annoyance arose from the mass of warriors. More than one dagger was drawn from its sheath and idly twiddled about; more than one gun appeared on the table in front of its owner.
Grynun seemed surprised by her troops’ discontent. "Very well, eat now," she called. "They’ll play while you eat."
At once the Idris began hacking at the pies and grabbing for the mugs. While many cut the pies open with their daggers and stabbed hunks of meat, some simply plunged their hands in and grabbed. Gravy flew here and there as several disputes raged over choice morsels. But the guns were put away, and the daggers all found employment elsewhere. Now the stares at the four became, if not friendly, at least curious.
"Bloody Hamburg dinner theatre," whispered John, moving as close as he could to Paul and George without sticking his guitar in their chests. "Trade places?" he said to Ringo, hidden behind the guitarists, but Ringo wouldn’t budge.
"Don’t suppose they’d care for an opening monologue," Paul murmured. "Right, ‘I’ve Just Seen a Face’ on four."
On the first notes the conversations faded away again and the eating slowed dramatically. The sudden quiet shook the four even more, as they knew how noticeable any flubs would be; that they were able to play at all was a tribute to their years of experience. But no daggers or bullets came whistling at them; on the contrary, most of the Idris seemed fascinated, and a few were openly enraptured. Emboldened, the four improved, until they sounded better than they had at Stal’s house.
As the last chord died away, the silent Idris looked expectantly at Grynun’s table. The Idri-head held her dagger point-up in the air, an act instantly emulated by the short man and with some hesitation by the tall man. Thus reassured, the massed warriors raised their daggers or their guns. The effect was rather like a giant bed of nails.
"Thumbs-up," said Paul, grinning at the soldiers, winking at Grynun, who was just visible across the room and above the daggers.
"I guess music really does soothe the savage beast, or at least the savage Idri," said Ringo. He didn’t move forward to be more visible, though.
John thought of a joke about the Idris making a point, but he wasn’t in the mood to say it. He exchanged a glance with Ringo and knew that they both had roughly the same prayer in mind. Please, God, let us vanish out of here when we finish. Paul can brag about how he was right every day for the rest of his life, and I’ll gladly listen... please!
They launched into another song, and the Idris, apparently satisfied that the four were of acceptable quality, began to eat and chat amongst themselves. But never loudly, never drowning out the music.
John, George, and Ringo sat at the far end of the leftmost long table, picking at the pie crust that was the only edible part of the meat pie that had been presented to them. (The meat inside was both highly spiced and partially bad; only Ringo had been courageous enough to try a piece, and he drained two pitchers of water getting the taste out of his mouth.) Every so often one of the three would glance at Grynun’s table, where Paul sat, chatting up the Idri-head and being largely ignored by the two Arms (the rank of the two bare-armed men who shared the table). A good number of the lesser Idris had finished eating and left, but there were still enough around to discourage conversation between the three. But they weren’t much in the mood to talk anyway.
John was sick, just sick, that they were still in that horrible place. Why the fuck couldn’t Paul have been right, he moaned silently, cradling his head. We’re trapped here forever, I’ll never see Yoko or Sean again. Oh, Yoko, why couldn’t you’ve been sent along?
George was the only one who said anything, and that was to ask the others, "Are you sure you don’t remember any of the names?" at five-minute intervals. ("No!" the others would snap.) How badly he wanted a pencil and a piece of paper! Vasyn sounds a bit like Vishnu, I wonder how they spell it? And, what was it, Kashota, that’s close to Krishna, except the priest said he was in charge of the crockery...
Ringo was scared about being stranded, no question. But he also felt a bit glad that they hadn’t disappeared yet, because he wanted to find out about the magic that Fi’ar apparently expected them to do for her or (more significantly) that Lyndess could do. Is it real magic or the Houdini sort? It must be real. Our being here proves it. God, this insanity would all be worth it if we got to see real magic. Of course, they would have to be careful with the cross-Chasm-native Lyndess, who might not appreciate their little lie.…
As if summoned by his thoughts, the woman walked into the dining hall.
Actually, Ringo didn’t know it was her immediately. What he saw, however, made him sit up and take notice.
Taller than the average Idri woman—taller than the average Idri, period—and in her mid- to late thirties, she was interesting rather than beautiful, with heavy eyebrows and high cheekbones, thin lips, and a large Roman nose. Her skin was a bit more brown than copper-colored; her hair, short and black—and clean! She wore a silky blue shirt, somewhat faded but clean, and a pair of loose black drawstring pants. A yellow gem winked from the hilt of the dagger at her belt. In shape she was slim, trim, graceful.
Ringo just had time to notice that the Idri who saw her became uncomfortable, when her gaze fell on him. Her eyes widened; she glanced at Grynun quizzically, noticed Paul occupying the Idri-head’s attention, and looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she ran a few steps toward Ringo and the other two, but caught herself and walked the rest of the way over.
"Eh, lads, company," said Ringo, but the other two paid no attention—until the woman sat down on the bench next to him.
She beamed at them as if they were long-lost relatives. "Nama," she said, voice rather breathless. "What are you selling?"
There were many things they expected her to say, but that wasn’t one of them.
"Selling?" echoed the nonplused Ringo. John shrugged; George mumbled "Just music."
The woman rubbed a corner of Ringo’s shirt between her fingers. She ran her forefinger down his thigh, digging her nail into the seams on his pants. He sat still, afraid to move or offend her. Glancing at the nearby Idris, who were watching curiously, she leaned forward, motioning for the three to do the same. When they were all in a knot, she whispered "I’m Lyndess Groundburner. I know you’re olyrr-sars, and I won’t kill you. Come to my house after this meal; we can talk privately there. My house is in the back, against the castle wall." Her accent was almost American, a bit more liquid than that.
With that she got up and left three very nervous men. Not so much for who she was and how she could expose them if she felt like, for she had clearly recognized them as outsiders; more for the implication that should they indeed be forced to tell the truth, someone would kill them.
Paul appeared at the end of the table a few moments later. "Grynun said that was Lyndess. Is she from Earth?"
"Don’t think so," muttered John. "We’ve got a date, Paul."
They briefly considered running away, but with nowhere to go that idea didn’t last. So they rallied around Lyndess’s professed nonhostility, and, making sure Grynun didn’t mind their leaving the castle for a while (and getting her permission to leave their instruments in her room), they went in search of the exile’s house. The sun was setting and the two moons glared down at them, but they easily found her dwelling: a small cottage nestled against the castle wall, surrounded by a picket fence. Through the open gate they saw a carefully tended flower garden, all blues and reds, and a paving-stone walk up to the door. There also was a small door in the castle wall right next to the house: the woman’s private entrance to the Idri grounds.
Lyndess was on her knees fiddling with the flowers. When she saw the four and stood up, she revealed a sign in the garden: STEP ON THE FLOWERS AND I WILL KILL YOU. "Most Ketafans can’t read," she told them, nudging the sign a little straighter with her foot. "I should have a corpse with a crushed flower on its sole suspended over the garden, but it would block the sun, and I don’t have any way of preserving the body."
"Uh, that’s a problem," agreed Paul.
Lyndess smiled and wiped her hands on her pants. "Come in, come in! We have much to discuss."
The interior of the cottage was as tidy as the exterior and very Earthlike, with several rooms visible. Lyndess escorted the four into a well-lit sitting-room with several cushioned wooden chairs, a small folding table with a roast chicken and a napkin on it, and another folding table that bore a pitcher and five cups. On the wall hung a piece of dark wood inlaid with silver in abstract patterns. The air was scented with chicken and roses.
Lyndess sat down to the food, tore off a chicken leg, and gnawed. "Sit anywhere, drink wine, you can have some of my food, I can’t eat the dung the Idris serve."
They politely declined the chicken but fell upon the pitcher, which held a weak but tasty white wine. Ringo was just pouring a cup for Lyndess when his eyes fell on the oil lanterns that illuminated the room. He suddenly realized that firelight should have been dancing off the liquid, but the lanterns didn’t flicker; they shone with the steady glare of electricity, or - "Are those lanterns magic?" Ringo asked, awed.
"Certainly," the woman replied, and the four promptly crowded round a lantern and stared at the little ball of cool, yellow light floating within it.
"You’ve never seen magical light?" Lyndess asked, amusement and disbelief coloring her voice through a mouthful of chicken. "It’s just finger-magic. Surely you’ve much more powerful spells on your world?"
"Sort of," Paul began. Then:
"Our world?" exclaimed the four. "You know?" stammered John.
"Certainly! I’m Baravadan; I know olyrr-sars when I see them, unlike the deadbrained Ketafans."
"Allah-sars," George said, "that means, uh - "
"Sars not of C’hou. And it’s ahleer-sars."
"And sars means people?"
The woman nodded. "And Baravada is that which the Ketafans so stupidly call cross-Chasm." Obviously she had had to explain that little fact before.
"Cow—that’s what this planet is called?" Paul asked.
"C’hou. Cuh-How. Even the Ketafans know to call it that."
The four tasted the word and found it strange. It was nice to have a name for the soil under their feet, not that knowing it helped matters much.
"Er-h’o," said Lyndess, dropping her chicken bone in a small trash can near her chair. "Don’t tell the Ketafans you’re olyrr-sars. They’ll kill you for being something that their gods don’t talk about. I hate Ketafans," she added thoughtfully. "I hate Ketafa."
"Oh," said the four. They could appreciate that.
The woman crossed her legs and tore off the other chicken leg. "Sit down. I didn’t invite you here to talk of me." Munch, munch, munch, swallow. "I’ll teach you the light spell if you have anything I want."
"What d’you want, then?" asked John as they sat, Ringo still watching the lantern.
"Spells or kvarsaels of motion, especially flying, swimming, or water-walking. Cursebreakers, if you have them. Other spells, perhaps. What have you got?"
The four exchanged glances. "I’m sorry if we gave you the wrong impression," said Paul, "but we haven’t anything to sell."
Lyndess’s face fell. "Nothing?"
"Well, songs."
"Rust," growled Lyndess, slumping in her chair, the leg bone dangling between her fingers. She sighed deeply. "Sars, if you’re not selling anything, why did you come here? To torment me with hope?"
"Oh, no," said Paul. "At least, I hope not. We don’t know why we’re here, actually."
"We just sort of woke up here," added Ringo.
And George said, "God sent us here, but I don’t know why."
Lyndess’s eyes widened. She sat up, dropped the bone in the trash, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes as if enduring pain. "Some of the fog lifts, olyrr-sars. I should have guessed; no sar comes willingly to Ketafa, except Rust Coast traders. But you don’t know what you did to anger your god? Godsar must be very secretive."
George paled. "We angered God? Is that why we’re here?"
"That’s why I’m here. The gods use Ketafa as a cage for those who anger them. But I didn’t know that olyrr-gods used it as well."
"We don’t know that God sent us," Paul said hastily, ignoring a glance full of daggers from George. "That’s just one possibility. We don’t even know if He really exists."
The woman regarded him curiously. "How can you not know if your god exists?"
"We do!" snapped George.
"You kind of have to believe that He does," Ringo clarified.
"I don’t understand." Lyndess drank some wine. "Doesn’t godsar appear in temples, grant magic to the sansars - "
Suddenly all four were talking at once:
Paul: "Do you get lots of, uh, olyrr-sars here? Where do they usually come from? Have you ever heard of Earth?"
John: "You mean the gods here show up in the flesh or ectoplasm or whatever? Who are they? I thought they abandoned Ketafa."
George: "What did we do to get put here? How do we get home? Can we be forgiven? Do we have to get purified or something?"
Ringo: "What kind of magic? Is that where you get yours? What can you do?"
Lyndess clapped her hands over her ears, splashing herself with wine from the cup in her hands. " Sheath it, sheath it! I can’t answer questions when they’re all shot at me at once!"
The four fell silent, bubbling with impatience and more questions.
She dried off the wine in her hair with the napkin, then faced the men warily. "Are you going to be silent?" Nods. "Sharp. You." She pointed at George. "Ask me one question."
"What did we do to get put here?" he demanded.
Her jaw dropped. "How would I know the motives of olyrr-gods? If you don’t know what angers your god, you shouldn’t work for godsar."
"But - "
"Sheath it! Your question is answered. Ask one," she said to John.
"Right. That’s good wine, by the way. Is the Vasyn real?"
Lyndess’s mouth curled up in a half-smile. "If it were, I wouldn’t be here." Her finger jabbed at Ringo. "Ask."
But Ringo couldn’t decide which question he most wanted an answer to, and as he tried to choose one, a bell tinkled.
Lyndess froze; her gaze traveled to the door. Then she whipped a chicken bone at it. "Geld it! Tarnish! Rust! Rot the Idris!" Her face was red with rage as she stood up and bawled "Enter!"
The door was pushed opened by a scowling male Idri—the taller of the Arms that had flanked Grynun. Perhaps fifty but still slender and muscular, he was the tallest Ketafan they’d yet seen, about six feet. His clean-shaven face was scarred around the chin and upper lip, as if he were a klutz with a razor, but otherwise he was handsome, rather similar in appearance to a graying Mel Gibson, but more angular. He wore his sword on his back and a gun at each hip.
"Why are you here, Terdan?" Lyndess asked distastefully.
"Talk no more to me than you must, wizard." Authoritative, deep, scornful—this was the voice that had ordered the whipping (as Paul had already discovered in the dining hall). "Grynun wants the bards. And some lust dust. Magic." He spat on the floor.
Sucking in her cheeks, the woman said, "Wait here, Arm—if Arm you still be. Or will Remlar also be fetching and carrying like a Foot?"
Terdan reddened, but before he could say anything Lyndess had left the room. He affected indifference and studied the dark wood wall hanging. Meanwhile, the four stayed still, hoping the Arm wouldn’t speak to them.
Suddenly Terdan snapped his head around and barked at them, "Why be you here with this wizard? To learn her—MAGIC?"
Startled, they mumbled replies, but the Arm cut them off with "Or thought you to cheat Grynun, Castle Virgins? Know you that the outbuildings be part of the castle, and early sex here carries the same penalty as behind the walls?"
Not that any of the four had been particularly horny before, but now they were ready to run screaming from any woman who came near, Lyndess included.
"Ah! Your faces tell me all!" the Idri cried, deliberately interpreting their dismay as guilt. He drew his sword. "It seems I have a few steers to make."
Things might have gotten panicky if Lyndess hadn’t re-entered the room just then, snapping "They haven’t sexed here, Foot-Arm. Sheath your sword or I’ll - " Her arms rose threateningly.
The sword found its home, and the four got a good look at Terdan being very scared for a few moments.
"I have no more lust dust," Lyndess said dryly. "Grynun will have to sex without it."
"Know you she can’t. Make more," the Arm huffed.
"I can’t. I burned up all my fa’elapfa."
"Stupid wizard! Then get more!"
"At this time of year? I’d have to go to Ganawir to get some. I don’t want to spend four days on a horse."
"Your wants be nothing!" Terdan was practically frothing at the mouth now. Spittle flew everywhere as he thrust his face into hers and screamed, "You be walking on a string to stay here, wizard! Have you the power to fight all the Idris when they burn down your house for disobedience?"
The woman didn’t seem at all intimidated by the maniac just inches away, but his words had an effect. She slowly nodded. "Yes, I’ll go." To the four, in an apologetic voice: "We’ll have to continue when I return."
"Can’t you send someone to get it for you?" Paul asked. They had finally found someone they could talk to, and she was leaving five minutes into their conversation?
"No. Fa’elapfa must be picked so that no roots are lost. Lust dust made with imperfect fa’elapfa has unpleasant side effects."
"Come, bards!" Terdan ordered, a look of triumph in his brown eyes. "Grynun’s fingering!"
With forlorn glances at the wizard, and not a little trepidation at being around the vile-tempered Arm, the four followed the man into the Ketafan night and a sky full of unfamiliar and unfriendly constellations...
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