"Please." She brought his hand to rest on her cheek. Presently, she fell asleep.
Sometimes, Marco Burckhardt reflected, your luck was out, and sometimes it was in. Sometimes things seemed too damned easy, given all the trouble and worry that had come before.
He sat in the cleanest inn in Abala Port, a filthy port town well up the inland sea, about thirty days' sailing north of Jeds. The winds had been good. His luck was in.
A Chapalii dressed in native-looking clothing, tattooed on his left jaw with the mark of the steward class, was haggling with the innkeeper. Just ten paces from Marco. Just as, right on the edge of town in an old barracks and corral, three more Chapalii stewards watched over a veritable fleet of the most beautiful Kuhaylan Arabians Marco had seen in a good long time. Right there, at the second of Karima's modeled landing points, he had-what was the old phrase-struck gold.
He had sent one scrambled analog burst back to Jeds to inform Dr. Hierakis of the situation. More than that, not knowing what kind of communications equipment the Chapalii had hidden in their gear, he dared not attempt.
A bearded man dressed in a silkily smooth scarlet shirt tucked into black trousers came down the stairs and paused, staying back in the shadows, watching the Chapalii. The steward counted out eleven copper coins and received in his turn five loaves of bread and a slab of cheese. With this bounty, he left. The man came in to the room and, with a nod toward the innkeeper, strolled over to Marco's table.
Marco eyed him with interest. This was the other foreigner in town, a man who had, so the innkeeper informed him, ridden in from the northeast some days before Marco's arrival.
"May I sit down?" asked the man in passable Taor.
Marco gestured. The man sat. He carried himself easily, confidently, yet warily, and he wore a saber at his belt.
"My name is Josef Raevsky. You are from Jeds, I think. I have been watching you these past few days."
"Yes, you have." Marco smiled. "And I you. You're also a foreigner in these parts."
"But you are from Jeds. A merchant, perhaps?"
"I have made no secret of who I am.''
"No," said Raevsky. "You are Marko Burkhhart, an emissary from the Prince of Jeds. Seeking new trade. So you say. And you are interested in the khepelli and their horses. You are waiting to see what becomes of them."
The way he said the word alerted Marco instantly. Here, the townsfolk called them chepalis. This was their name in a different tongue; this was a man who was interested in them as well. Of course, Marco had heard gossip: even in a port town, to have three entirely different foreign visitors-the Chapalii counting as a group of one-at one time was a marvel and much discussed at the inns and around the harbor. An emissary from the Prince of Jeds; strange-looking foreigners from over the seas with their cargo of fine horses; and this man, who was, said the old innkeep, a man from that people called the zherawn, savages from out in the wilderness.
"Say, lad," called the innkeeper, interrupting them. Over the last five days he had decided that he liked Marco, foreigner though he was. The quality of Marco's gold and Marco's gossip had won him over. "I laid that money you said down on them spices, and sure enough, when the Queen Aireon sailed in this morning, that was the first cargo they picked."
"I'm pleased for you, old man," replied Marco. The old man's very young wife came in from the back, carrying two buckets of water, and she smiled shyly and meaningfully at Marco and then slipped back outside. Marco turned back to the bearded man. ' 'Why, Raevsky? Do you know what will become of them?" Then, on a sudden impulse, he went on. "The truth is, I'm also looking for a woman. A Jedan woman." He had already manufactured the story to give her importance but not too much importance. "A merchant's sister. Her ship was lost but the merchant believes she may still be alive."
Josef Raevsky examined him, and Marco felt abruptly that he was being measured and judged by a man whose judgments were worth something. "You mean," said Raevsky, "the sister of the Prince."
Marco was rarely too astonished to be at a loss for words. But the sudden euphoria that overwhelmed him now obliterated everything else. A moment later, he realized that he was grinning.
Josef Raevsky stood up. "Come with me." He went to the door without looking back, and walked outside.
Marco rose to follow him.
"Say, lad," said the innkeeper. "My wife heard a bit of interesting news last night from the captain." The old man's wife was not only young but unexpectedly good-looking, and Marco had quickly ascertained that her favors were for the asking, if one was willing to pay. It was the other reason the innkeeper liked him: that he had paid well and the young woman had enjoyed herself. "Yea. A warband of them damned zherawn rode into town late last night. We see them every second year or thereabouts, in here, trading and such like. But the captain said they've some of them chepalis with them as well." Then, either because Marco's expression betrayed him or because the old man was keener than he looked, he went on. "That's what you've been waiting here for, in't it? More of them foreigners. And it looks like now we know why all these strangers have come into our port this late in the year.''
"Thank you," said Marco. He went outside. Josef Raevsky was waiting for him. "Where are we going?" Marco asked.
"There's someone who wishes to see you."
They walked to the outskirts of town. The rains had not come in great force yet, so the roads and tracks were still dry. But it was getting cold at night. Barefoot children stared at him from doorways. An old woman carded wool. Heat swelled out from a blacksmith's forge.
Within sight of the barracks, Josef halted. Marco stared. What had been a quiet outpost before was now bustling with activity. Scarlet-shirted men examined the horses while Chapalii, clearly more Chapalii than the four who had been here all along, spoke to each other and to a trio of red-shirted men over to one side.
"Have you seen enough?" Josef asked.
"What does this mean? Why are they here, and who are you?"
"We are jaran. We have escorted these pilgrims from the issledova tel shore to this port, where they will set sail for their own lands across the seas."
"The horses are for you," said Marco, suddenly understanding something the innkeeper had said. "You must be-" There was no word in Taor that he knew for nomads.
"We are not khaja, if that is what you mean. The ones who settle in one place. We ride."
One question answered, a million sprouting to take its place. "Who wants to talk with me?"
"Come. We will go down to the port to see the khepelli to their ship."
Marco followed and Josef led him down to the docks. As he waited, Marco chatted with the ship's master of the Queen Aireon, which was returning to Jeds the next day. The ship he had come in on eight days before had already sailed on northward. As he watched, a sail cleared the horizon and banked toward the harbor.
It took until midday for the ship to anchor within rowing distance from the docks. By that time, fifteen Chapalii with an escort of fifteen brilliantly clad riders arrived at the dock. Marco realized quickly enough that he himself was being escorted by Josef. Being watched so that he did not interfere with their leave-taking. The Chapalii were being sent home. Well, being put on the ship, at least. Marco was wild to know how they intended to get off-planet from here, but he had a healthy respect for the saber riding on Josef Raevsky's hip.
Boats came. The Chapalii loaded gear into them. In all this, Marco quickly discerned that two people-one Chapalii, one jaran-were being deferred to here. One Chapalii lord. The jaran man-from this distance, it was hard to tell, except that he was clearly in charge. The Chapalii clambered awkwardly into the boats. Final respects were paid, and the human sailors at the oars began the long stroke out to the ship.