"Dried Date sang songs of praise to Khanalai till he was offended, that he, a man from a noble family, was serving a commoner who used to tread cow dung in his childhood. He cut one of Khanalai's aides head off, threw it in a sack and raced to Kissur with this ransom. And he also gave Khanalai's sword to Kissur."
Ashidan paused and said, "I also met Khanalai's son there — we were of the same age and the lad was quite gifted. I think that Khanalai took mercy on me because of him. He asked me once, "What if Kissur gets a hold of my son? Do you think he will let him live like I let you?"
"Yes," Bemish thought, "Kissur, however, didn't take mercy on Khanalai's son and he didn't take mercy on anybody else."
"Hey," Khanadar the Dried Date shouted ahead, "have you fallen asleep? Come here quickly!"
Bemish and Ashidan hastened their horses. The road split in two in front of them, the riders grouped at the fork.
"We should go left," Kissur said, "We should visit Aldis so that the next hunt would be even more fruitful than the last one."
"Well," Ashidan objected, "we won't reach the castle before nightfall."
"No problem," Kissur said, "we will sleep over at the old altar house."
Ashidan's face fell.
"Look," Khanadar said, "you aren't afraid of the old altar house, are you?"
And he continued having turned to Bemish,
"Aldis the White Falcon is buried next to the old altar and two families were assigned to take care of the grave. But they ignored their duty and Aldis ate them and he liked it — he started climbing out every night, chased passersby with all his retinue and herded them into his place for a feast. A traveler passes by and sees a manor with lights on, and only his bones are left by the morning. People took notice — if on a new moon night there were fire and commotion at the old altar house — then, some family would wail somewhere soon enough. They would have pounded a stake down his coffin long time ago if he had been a commoner but they are afraid of doing it — you know, he is Kissur's great grandfather." Ashidan grinned.
"It's not fitting to visit ancestors' graves with an Earthman outlander," he said, "It's enough for a stranger that we took him for a hunt."
"I have never hunted here before," Kissur answered, "and not shared my booty with my ancestor."
And they rode to the old altar house, having dismissed the servants and having tied the bear cub's body to a saddle.
The old altar house sat between a forest and a horseshoe shaped mountain on the very edge of a sheer, as if cut with a knife, gorge. Behind a black carved fence, one could see a roof tied in a knot; yellow light issued forth from a round window, people's voices were coming from behind the fence. Ashidan's face acquired a pallid color of toothpowder.
"Oh-ho-ho," Kissur said, "is Aldis getting rowdy again?"
The riders quietly dismounted, Kissur petted his horse so it wouldn't neigh and stuck covertly a stubby assault rifle under his overcoat. A pine tree, that had fallen last year, crushed the fence and miraculously spared the chapel — they took a look over the tree log into a wide yard. There, on a stone site, a small space boat Orinoko-22 stood looking like a striped squash. People in body suits were standing in a line and passing sacks from the altar house to the boat.
"Heia," Kissur said loudly, "that's called progress! Even ghosts can no longer fly without engines!"
He bounced over the log and stepped in the lit circle. Frankly, it was Kissur that looked more like a ghost here — a hunter in an ancient green caftan with a yew bow hanging over his shoulder and his face painted with blue stripes for the hunt — amidst people in flying suits who froze for a moment next to a cargo hatch. The people dropped plastic sacks. Three guys jumped out of an altar house window with long barreled lasers in their hands. A horse quietly neighed — Khanadar and Ashidan stepped out into the light from the other side, leading their horses.
"False alarm," somebody said, "these are the landlords."
Kissur unhurriedly walked to a short round eyed character whom Bemish recognized to be the local bailiff.
"Oh, it's you Lakhor. What are you doing here?"
"You know, my Lord," Lakhor said with a certain dignity, "We are loading…"
Kissur placed his foot on a sack, dragged a hunting knife from his belt and ripped the plastic cover from top to bottom.
"I swear by god's goiter," Kissur said, "Everybody around says "Lord," "Lord" to you, kisses your knees while you don't even know what it is that you lord over. What are these oats you are hauling to the boat? Nothing but oats has ever grown around here, if my memory doesn't fail me."
Kissur scooped up a bit out of the sack with his hand and sniffed it.
"No," he shook his head, "no way, oats could smell like this. Khanadar, do you know what it is?"
Khanadar also picked a sack, tore it apart with his whip's claw, picked some weed up and stuck it under his horse's nose. It neighed and turned its head aside.
"No," Khanadar said, "I don't know what it is but it's not oats. Look, Striped is putting its nose up and it doesn't want it." At this point, Aldon the Lynx Cub joined the conversation.
"Hey, it's hemp," he said, "wolf's whisk." Weian zealots and local serfs have used it since old times to visit the skies and now people carry it to the Sky in plastic bags. I heard, they pay a lot of money for this weed on the sky. Earthmen always pay a lot of money for what a horse put its nose up away."
The only thing that Bemish couldn't understand was why they were all still alive.
Here, Ashidan's breaking voice sounded.
"Kissur," he said, "it's my fault. I failed to ask your permission."
Kissur span around.
"Are you trying to say," he spoke with a phony astonishment, "that you allowed my serfs to trade weed grown in my lands without asking for my consent?"
"But I was not sure…" Ashidan started.
"Tell me," Kissur inquired, "who is the senior in our clan, you or me?"
"You are."
"And who owns the land and everything above it and below it, the senior or the junior?"
"The senior does."
"Then, why are you breaking the law and pocketing the profit from this business?"
"I was afraid that you won't understand…"
"Of course, I won't understand," Kissur thundered, "my serfs on my land start a business and don't pay me two cents! Who should feed me, the sovereign or my own holding?"
"My Lord, my Lord," round eyed Lakhor hurried, "We didn't know that master Ashidan paid you nothing, I'll turn into a frog if we wanted to break the law!"
At this point, a man in a flying suit ducked out of the cargo hatch.
"I bring my apologies, Mr. Kissur," he said in Interenglish, "We really didn't know that you were not aware of our modest business."
Kissur looked him over from head to toes.
"How much do you pay my brother for a sack?"
"Ten."
"You will pay me twelve. I want money now."
"Do you think I have so much?" the pilot snapped.
"Don't cross him," Lakhor peeped in horror.
"I am waiting," Kissur said coldly, "or I will rip all the sacks apart."
"Don't pick a fight with him," another Earthman said, "he is livid."
"You would become livid here," Khanadar the Dried Date objected, "when your own serfs don't pay you their taxes fairly and you brother cheats you — hasn't Ashidan promised you Kissur's protection?"
Kissur and the pilot disappeared in the hatch opening. Ashidan sat on the log not raising his pale face. Bemish's mind was reeling. If Kissur hadn't known whom he would meet at the old altar house, why had he brought the assault rifle that he was now carefully hiding under his hunting coat? And if he had known, why had he dragged Bemish with him? Did he think that Bemish would keep silent? No, damn it, did he think that Terence Bemish would swallow even that? Or would he suggest landing these boats in Assalah spaceport?