Like getting to Tammulcor, for instance—Tammulcor, where bewildered men were rioting and demonstrating against anything and everything. Once in Tammulcor, Kris would face a difficult job, but he was looking forward to it.
There was an analogy. For the past three-years, he had taken orders from Del peFenn—dull, blockheaded, blustering Del peFenn. Kris had threatened rebellion from time to time, but Norvis had always managed to smooth things over. Now, at last, Del peFenn had sent Kris off to Tammulcor in a position of unquestionable authority. It had been worth waiting for.
Dran yawned. "When is we getting to Tammulcor?"
"Soon, Dran peDran. Be patient."
Easy to say, Kris thought. He scowled as the deests barreled through a muddy marsh and kicked up a shower of brackish water. This trip would never end.
Somehow, he managed to hold himself in check for the rest of the long day. Toward nightfall, the Great Light began to dim rapidly, and soon the nightly drizzle started coming down.
"Do we camp for the night?" Dran asked.
Without turning his head, Kris said, "No. Let's keep going."
They kept going. Before morning, the harbor of Tammulcor came into view. Smoky fires trailed upward, giving sign of violence the night before.
"There's been trouble here," Kris said. "And there'll be more." There was a note of keen anticipation in his voice.
The Great Cor Bridge across the Tammul river was guarded by a group of ten husky men wielding heavy truncheons. One of them was armed with a cocked and loaded rifle—an expensive weapon, but an effective one. The guard, Kris thought, looked as though he could handle the gun effectively enough.
They had placed a heavy wooden barrier across the bridge, just high enough to prevent even a trained deest from leaping over it. As Kris and Dran trotted their mounts up to the barrier, one of the men stepped forward to meet them.
Before the Peaceman could say anything, Kris called out: "Who are you? Why is the bridge blocked?"
"Peacemen!" said the burly one. "Who are you, and what is your business?"
"My compliments to the Uncle of Public Peace," Kris said smoothly. "I can see that he chooses his men well."
"What do you want? Why do you go to Dimay?" the Peaceman repeated, obviously attempting to ignore the naked flattery. But his voice was less harsh than it had been.
"I am Kris peKym Yorgen," Kris said. "Merely a citizen who wants to go to Tammulcor. Is that wrong?"
"Not wrong," said the Peaceman. "But foolish. The whole province is in an uproar; there is rioting in the cities and bands of looters in the country. You take your life in your hands to enter Dimay."
"Is that why you're here then?" Kris asked with feigned innocence. "To warn travelers?"
The Peaceman shook his head. "No. Somewhere in Dimay, someone has hidden eight million weights in cobalt. We don't want it to leave the Province."
"Indeed? Eight million weights?"
"Yes. You may enter if you wish, but watch yourself. And don't try to pass an exit barrier without stopping."
"Of course," Kris said meekly.
The barrier was lifted, and Kris and Dran urged their deests across the bridge.
"What is all that for, captain?" Dran asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
"They're playing it smart. They didn't ask us if we had any coins when we came in, but you can bet your life we'll never leave with any. They're letting cobalt into the province, but they're not letting any out."
"I wonder why," Dran said slyly.
"I wonder!"
They trotted on across the Great Cor Bridge.
The first task at hand was to find lodging and a place of business. Then, Kris thought pleasantly, once things were set up, things would really begin to pop in Tammulcor.
Kris reined in his deest, and Dran pulled up alongside him. "What is we going to do?" Dran asked.
Kris glanced around. The city was quiet, just now, but it looked as if it were about to explode into violence any minute. An uneasy fog hung over the port, and even the usually placid Tammul River looked oddly threatening. Restless townsfolk moved aimlessly about the streets, and here and there an ugly-looking little knot of men was gathered, whispering earnestly.
"The first thing," Kris said, "is to find a place to stay. Suppose you get moving into town and find some hotel with room for us."
Dran nodded. "And then?"
"I want to find an office for us. We need a center of operations. I'll go look for that, and you meet me back here at midmeal. Got that?"
"I sees perfectly," Dran said.
"I hope you does," said Kris.
Kris rode down into the heart of town, watching carefully for sign of an office building that would serve his purposes. He needed one centrally located, impressive looking, and easily defended in case of emergency.
After about half an hour, he found what he wanted. He hitched up the deest and strode inside. A thin youth with blinking eyes looked up lazily at him from a chair in the vestibule of the building.
"Yes?"
"I'm looking for the landlord," Kris said. "I want to rent an office."
"He isn't here," the boy said.
"When will he be back?"
The boy shrugged complacently. Kris took a step closer to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic.
"Hey, let go of me!"
"Not so much noise," Kris said mildly. "Where's the landlord, now?"
"He's ... upstairs," the boy said.
"Get him," Kris commanded.
The boy dashed away, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was happy to be out of Kris' reach, and returned a few moments later with a sour-faced man of middle age. The landlord confronted Kris with an expression of unhidden hostility. Kris noticed that a wide-bladed peych-knife was thrust in the sash of the man's trousers.
"You the fellow who wants an office?"
Kris nodded. "My name is Kris peKym Yorgen. I'm interested in renting one of your vacant suites."
The landlord clamped his lips together and grimaced owlishly. "We don't have any vacant suites," he said.
"Oh? That's odd; I'd say the building was at least half empty, from the looks of things."
The man's hand slipped to the pommel of the peych-knife, but he made no move toward Kris. "I say the building's full, and I say I don't want any strangers renting here. What are you going to do now?"
Kris shrugged. "Well, if you're going to be that way about it—"
Casually, he drew a thick sheaf of purple-and-gold Bank of Pelvash scrip from his pocket, riffled through the notes reflectively, smiled, and stuffed the roll of bills back in the pocket. He drew forth a handful of cobalt coins, jingled them, and likewise replaced them. Then, whistling a sea tune, he turned and sauntered toward the front door.
"Just a minute," the landlord said hesitantly as Kris started to leave. "What kind of business you say you were in?"
"What does it matter?" Kris countered. "The building's all full, isn't it?"
The landlord smiled craftily. "That was Bank of Pelvash money you had there, wasn't it?"
"What of it?"
The landlord put his palms together. "Possibly I could find a vacancy," he said. "Quite possibly."
The sign on the door said:
SCRIP EXCHANGE OFFICE
Kris grinned as he looked at the reversed printing on the inside of the frosted glass door. It looked impressive. If Dran were doing his duty, spreading the word around Tammulcor, it wouldn't be long before the good folk of the town would be clawing at each other to see who'd get inside that door first.