"Of course not. And likewise if I hear you're in trouble, I'll have to try to help you out—what's your name, by the way?"
"Garmsel bad-Manyao. Hear this: It was reported that you were asking questions at Asteratun's Inn last night—a rash deed in Rüz, though with that letter I suppose you're in order." He turned to his companion. "Let's be off; this place is ill-starred for us."
"The gods give you a good journey!" said Hasselborg cheerfully. They growled something hardly audible and trotted away.
No doubt Qam had reported him to these birds, Hasselborg thought as he watched them grow small in the distance. This local spy-mania would complicate matters. If questions were dangerous ipso facto, he couldn't walk in on the local shamus for a cozy chat as to the whereabouts of Fallon and his paramour.
He finished his lunch, the excitement of his recent encounter subsiding as he pondered his next move. Then he resumed his ride, still thinking. To do a good job, he reflected, he should have a tum-tum tree, but Krishna seemed to lack them.
Hours later, as he approached Rosid, men could be seen working in the cultivated strips. He also passed side roads and more traffic, people walking or riding and driving the remarkable assortment of saddle and draft animals domesticated on Krishna. Some of these beasts pulled carriages of ingenious or even fantastic design.
The sun was nearing the horizon in one of the marvelous Krishnan sunsets when the cheerful sight of a row of gallows trees, complete with corpses, told Hasselborg he was entering the outskirts of the city, reminding him of the verse:
"The only tree that grows in Schotland Is the bonnie gallows tree—"
In the distance, the sun touched the onion-shaped domes of the city proper with orange and red.
Hasselborg spotted another house, bigger than the suburban bungalows, with an animal skull over the door.
This time the innkeeper proved a silent fellow who made no effort to introduce Hasselborg to his other guests. These guests huddled in small groups and talked in low tones, leading Hasselborg to suspect that he'd stumbled upon a place frequented by questionable characters. That bulky fellow in the corner with the horn-rimmed glasses, for instance, might be another innocent passerby; or again he might be a plainclothes cop keeping an eye on Rosid's underworld.
Hasselborg got a wall seat. He ate a palatable if still mysterious meal alone, until a young man who had been idling at the bar came over and said pleasantly; "Sarhad am I; the stars give you luck. You're new here, I think?"
"Yes," said Hasselborg.
"Mind you?" The youth seated himself beside Hasselborg before the latter could reply. "Some of our old-timers wax tiresome when they drink. Now me, I know when I've had enough; too much spoils your hand in my trade. Foul weather we've had, is't not? Hast seen old sourpuss's daughter? Some hot piece, and they do say she's—"
He rattled on like that until the hot piece herself brought his dinner. Since she was the first Krishnan female he had had a chance to scrutinize from close range, Hasselborg took a good look. The girl was pretty in a wide-cheeked, snub-nosed, pointed-eared way. Her costume, what there was of it, showed the exaggerated physical proportions that Terran artists depicted on girl-calendars. Hasselborg wondered idly whether the artists had first got the idea from photographs of Krishnan women. The Krishnans were obviously mammals even if they did lay eggs.
Sarhad dropped a chopstick. "A thousand apologies, master," he said, squirming around and bending to pick it up.
Something aroused Hasselborg's ever-lively suspicions, and he slid his right hand towards his dagger. A glance showed that Sarhad, while fumbling for his eating-spear with one hand, was busily exploring Hasselborg's wallet with the other.
Hasselborg grabbed Sarhad's right arm with his left hand, whipped out his dagger with his right hand, and dug the point into the young man's lower ribs, below the edge of the table.
"Bring your hand out empty," he said softly. "Let me see it."
Sarhad straightened up and looked at him, his mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish whose water needs changing, as if thinking that he ought to say something but not knowing quite what. Then his left hand moved like a striking snake and drove the point of a small knife into Hasselborg's side, where the mail-shirt stopped it.
Hasselborg pushed his own dagger until Sarhad said: "Ohe! I bleed!"
"Then drop your knife."
Hasselborg heard it fall, felt for it with his foot, and kicked it away. All this had happened so quietly and quickly that nobody else appeared to have noticed.
"Now, young master," said Hasselborg quietly, "we're going to have a little talk."
"Oh, no we're not! If I yell, they'll be all over you."
Hasselborg made the head-motion meaning "no" and said: "I think not. Dips operate alone, so you have no gang; and you'd be dead before they could interfere and so would get no satisfaction from my demise. Finally, the brotherhood of criminals considers it an unfair business practice to commit a crime in a hideout like this for fear of bringing danger upon all. Do you follow me?"
The youth's naturally greenish complexion became even more so. "How know you so much? You look not like one of the fellowship."
"I've been places. Keep your voice down and keep smiling." (Hasselborg emphasized the point with a dig of the dagger.) "This inn caters to the brotherhood, doesn't it?"
"Surely, all men know that."
"Are there others in Rosid?"
"It's true. The big robbers frequent the Blue Bishtar, the spies collect at Douletai's, and the perverts at the Bampusht. While if you'd have an orgy of the rramandu drug, or crave to feast on the flesh of men, try the Ye'mazd."
"Thanks, but I'm not that hungry yet. Now, I want to know about local police methods—"
"So the haughty stranger has a game—"
"Never mind that; I'm asking the questions! Who's the chief of police?"
"I know not your meaning… ao! Prick me not; I'll answer. I suppose you'd wish the commandant of the city guard—"
"Is that part of the army?"
"But of course; what think you? Or else the captain of the night watch. They've but now elected a new one, Master Makaran the goldsmith."
"Hm-m-m. Is there any central office where they keep records of your colleagues and other matters having to do with the law?"
"I suppose the archives of the city court—"
"No, not records of trials. I mean a file of records of individuals—with a picture and description of each one, a list of his arrests, and the like."
"I've never heard of aught like that!" cried Sarhad. "Do they thus at the place whence you come? A ter-rible place it must be, in all truth; not even Maibud god of thieves could make an honest living, let alone a poor mortal cutpurse. How manage they?"
"They get along. Now, where can I buy some artist's supplies?"
The youth pondered. "Oho, so you're one of those who falsify copies of old pictures? I've heard of such; fascinating work it must be. You'd not like an assistant, would you?"
"No. Where—"
"Well, let me see, keep you along Novorecife Pike until you pass through the city wall, then continue for two blocks to the public comfort station, then turn right for one block, then left for half a block, and you'll see the place on the left. The street's called Lejdeü Lane. I remember not the name of the shop, but you can tell it by the—you know, one of those things painters hold in one hand while they mix their hues on it—over the door."
Hasselborg said: "I suppose you could enjoy your meal better without my dagger pricking your skin. If I put it away, will you be a good boy?"