Up Jim River

AN AISTEAR

Billy regarded the new member of the troupe with some disfavor and, on the crawl to Stranger Station, explained to the Wildman his position in the scheme of things. But Nagarajan took the Terran by the folds of his kurta and lifted him off his feet. “Hey,” he explained, “Teddy don’t take orders from no flunky. Lady Méarana is the boss. Wasn’t no mention of you in the bargain.”

“Dame Teffna” traveled with them on the same bumboat, but Méarana knew that Donovan and the Fudir were already reasserting control, for the Silky Voice grew huskier with each passing day, and from time to time she gasped a little in pain. “I control the androgens and estrogens,” she explained privately at one point, “so I could force them to live as a woman. But they could shut me up in the hypothalamus, and I’d rather not make my body a battleground.”

Teodorq told Méarana that the medallions had come from a world out the Wilderness Road. This surprised her, because Sofwari had last been heard from on Ampayam; but he had been searching for clan-mothers, not medallions, so she told Billy to make reservations for the next ship to Gatmander. Donovan, eavesdropping, did likewise.

The Furious Joy had once been a liner working the Ramage-Valency region; but she had grown old and worn and less attractive to the sort of passengers her owners desired. So a consortium had bought her up and hired a down-at-luck captain to bring her out to Sumday, and the Joy now made the circuit from Gatmander to Sumday to Boldly Go carrying an eclectic mix of passengers and cargo.

Captain Lu-wi dan Fodio made a point of hosting his passengers to “the captain’s dinner” and seating them with his officers on a rotating basis. The fare was plain; the entertainment, recorded. But dan Fodio was sincere and friendly and his officers polite, if a bit distracted by their duties. Yet Méarana thought the meals were in many ways more genuine than the more formal affairs on Gerthru van Ij?bwode. Captain-Professor van Lyang had maintained an aura of dignity. Captain dan Fodio did not. He would roar with laughter whether he was hearing an anecdote for the first time or telling it for the fortieth.

Billy Chins made one attempt to wait table and Méarana ordered him to sit down and act like a passenger. There were seven of them at the table: Second Officer bPadbourne (“the P is silent,” he explained), a shipwright named Weems from Gladiola seeking opportunity on the frontier, a wealthy bummerl named Konzaquince, and a rather more furtive woman who gave the name Patel and said nothing about her purposes. To have Billy Chins stand behind her chair and spoon potatoes and brusselballs onto her plate as if she were some High Taran aristo while Teodorq and the others contested for the serving bowls struck Méarana as ludicrous.

The eighth seat at their table, bPadbourne told them, belonged to a passenger who was ill at present, and remaining in his cabin.

It was Donovan, of course. He appeared on the third day out, his features now restored to their normal appearance. He came up silently behind Billy Chins and clapped a sudden hand on the man’s shoulder. “Well, well,” he said, and Méarana noted how Billy froze in fright on hearing that voice. “I see we’ve picked up a new playmate.”

Nagarajan had pulled his hair back into a tail and wore the sleeveless jerkin that showed off his shoulder tattoos. Without moving his head, his eyes danced from Donovan to Billy, assessing their relationship.

Billy had turned in his chair and, after a moment of demonstrative surprise, embraced Donovan by the waist. “O sahb! Sahb! Such-much joy lukim you!”

Donovan pulled out the empty chair and sat beside him. “Billy,” he said, “my old faithful khitmutgar, how I’ve missed you since you ran out on me.”

“No, sahb. Billy no-never run! But Mistress Harp, she go willy-nilly wanpela tasol…I mean, she go on alone. Billy can no let such happen! Sahb Donovan be angry-angry supposem lady be hurt. So I go with help her. I do your will always, sahb; even you no ask.”

After dinner, the four of them remained at the table and discussed the venture on which their mutual fates had placed them. For Nagarajan’s benefit, Donovan reviewed the mystery of Bridget ban’s disappearance, the evident importance of the medallion that Bridget ban had given her daughter, and the hints contained in the ancient Terran legend of the Treasure Fleet. Something that would “ward the League for aye.” As far as the Wild-man was concerned, League and Confederation meant nothing; but the chance to be immortalized in song was decisive.

“One last item, and maybe the most important,” Donovan concluded, “is the fact-collector Sofwari. Somehow, his work convinced Bridget ban there was more in the old legend than a tall tale. But Sofwari went up the Gansu Corridor and has not come back.”

“It’s not some geegaw we seek,” Méarana reminded him. “‘tis my mother.”

The scarred man shrugged. “Find one, find the other. There is a bare chance the one is still functional.”

“You told me once,” Méarana said, “that all quests fail, and it is only how they fail that matters.”

Donovan’s smile was full of teeth. “I still expect we will fail.”

Billy blinked. “We no find old machine?”

But Donovan shook his head. “It’s the finding of it that might be our failure. Bridget ban sought it, and never returned.”

“All right,” the Wildman said, “I can see yuh need a fighting man, which that’s me. But I like to know who I’m throwing in with. I ain’t no dummy. I got looks, charm, bravery, fighting skill with all sorts of weapons…”

“Humility,” suggested Billy Chins.

“Yeah, that, too, ‘cause I only listed half my sterling qualities. But a man can’t have everything and I don’t claim to be no big brain. Every gang needs a leader, and my inner sense tells me it ain’t Billy here. He strikes me as a sneaky, whiny little bastard. In a fight, yuh can depend on him for the rabbit punch—and I ain’t putting yuh down, yuh Terry wart. Some fights are better won from the back than from the front. Not my style, but we gotta be what we call ‘multitasking’ here. So are yuh the brains here, Donovan?”

“Me?” said Donovan. “I have more brains than you might think; but I’m only a broken vessel.”

Teodorq shrugged his massive shoulders. “Broken stuff is generally pretty sharp. And that leaves you, Lady Harp. I’m real sorry, me, about yer mother. That’s tough breaks, and I feel for yuh. But what a fellowship we have here! I want the glory. Lady Méarana wants to find her mother. Dovovan wants to find a wonder-weapon. And Billy Chins wants to kiss Donovan’s ass so bad he’ll do a prostate exam with his tongue.”

The little Terran cried out in fury and lunged from his seat, his left hand having pulled a stiletto from inside his blouse.

But Teodorq’s massive hands moved like twin snakes and seized Billy’s wrist in a certain grip, causing him to go white and drop the dagger. The Wildman looked first at the scarred man, then at the harper, then he grinned and pointed to each in turn. “Hideout gun in the back of your waist—a teaser, right? And that dagger yuh showed me once before. Sweet. Smart enough to draw. Smart enough to hold back and see what played out. Here, boy.” He handed the dagger back to Billy Chins, who took it with smoldering eyes.

“Yuh got guts, boy,” the Wildman said. “Pulling on me is usually a one-way trip to the boneyard; but I wanted to see what yuh was made of. Yuh may be a weasel; but a weasel got sharp teeth and ain’t bad to have on your side when yer on the sharp end.”

Méarana spoke up. “Are ye done playing games, Teodorq? Would ye hae me sing a satire on ye? Billy, sit down! Where we gang is gae dangerous, an’ we all maun work together or we’ll nae ayn of us come back.”

“As your mother ‘nae’ came back,” said Donovan.

Méarana turned on him. “What I said about everyone working together applies to ye in spades, Donovan buigh!”

The scarred man’s face twisted as he tried to sneer, smile, and smirk at the same time. But the harper spun to face the Wildman. “And now, we’ll hae no more dancing. Where did your medallion come from?”

Teodorq pursed his lips and looked toward the ceiling. “An export shop on Gatmander.”

Méarana could scarce believe it. “Ye’ve nae took it off a Nyacki warrior? For such mickle return I sprang ye from Josang Prison?”

“Yuh had yer goal, babe; and I had mine.”

Donovan said, “The release form says she gives you back when she’s done. There’s a Pup on Ampayam who’d be glad to escort you there.”

The Wildman shrugged. “What can he do? Put me under a second death sentence? Yuh can only kill me once, old man.”

“Billy Chins knows things,” said the khitmutgar. “Not death, but wish-for-death.”

“Oh, don’t get your shorts in a knot,” the Wildman told them. “I said I was with yuh—to death and glory. The export-guy on Gatmander gotta know where it come from. An’ I seen other pieces like it here and there out in the Free Worlds.” He stood from the table. “I’ll need to buy arms when we hit Gatmander,” he said. “Yuh don’t wanna roam the Free Worlds without yuh be armed—and with more than a teaser.” With that, he left, whistling.

Billy rose to follow. Donovan held him back a moment.

“Don’t kill him. We need him.”

Billy nodded. “I make nice-nice, me. Billy patient man.”

Méarana watched the khitmutgar go. “There will be trouble between those two, sooner or later.”

“Later, rather than sooner,” the scarred man said. “Billy is no fool. Having Teodorq along shortens the odds against coming back.”

“You don’t think we’re coming back, do you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you going?”

“That’s what worries me. I’m not half so afraid of Those of Name as I am of what might be left over up here.” He rapped his skull with his knuckles. “It’s what might awaken in the closets of our minds.”

Méarana reached for the harp case that sat at her feet; but the scarred man shook his head.

“Don’t try your harper’s tricks on me. Why do you play that thing anyway?”

She took the harp out and played a glissando, listening to the jangle of the chords. She began to tighten the ones that had grown slack. “To bring faith, and joy, and love.”

Donovan grunted. “It’s a big Spiral Arm. You have your work cut out for you.”

“I’ll be happy,” the harper answered, “if I can bring them to just one person.”

The scarred man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s a more modest goal, and—if it makes you happy—a self-fulfilling one.”

“No,” said the harper in an almost distracted manner. “Just you, Donovan. Just you. I want you to believe in something, to find joy in something, to love something.”

The mocking smile reclaimed Donovan’s lips. “Why, then you are in luck,” he said. “I believe I’ll have another whiskey. Because I love it. And…I expect I’ll enjoy it, too.”

“Ah, such a joy is fleeting. It doesn’t last.”

“That’s why you have to drink more than one.”