“Are these Harps enemies to regarders?” The locals called all off-worlders after the Bonregarde.
The old man laughed. “They’d not likely know of you, at all. They think the nuxru noorin, the river of light, is the mountain path that Fjin Cuul trod long ago, high up the Mountain of Night.”
“Nushrunorn? Is that what they call the galaxy?”
“No, mildy. That’s what we civilized folk be calling it. The Harps call it the gozán lonnrooda, the shining path. They are simple mountainfolk and don’t know that it’s just a local thickening of the aether that makes the light seem like a continuous band.”
Méarana said nothing to this, although she noticed that even Paulie was much amused, though he could not have believed anything more sophisticated himself before he went on the Roads. “Will we have trouble with them?”
“No, mildy, for they worship the instrument you play. It is their totem. But when you reach the third falls, where the river will be impossible to use, you will find the people of Dacitti. They are a surly folk, not welcoming of outsiders. But they can tell you of the Well of the Sun.”
“The Well of the Sun?”
But the tavern-master shook his head. “That is a long and very dry telling.”
Méarana took the hint and reached into her scrip for a gold Fredrik. These bore the image of a recent Qaysar in Riverbridge, one who claimed, through marriage to marriage, a tenuous connection to the old imperial house. The current Qaysar, who really did have the old blood, had not bothered with such pretensions. The coin rang on the tabletop. “My men are thirsty, too,” she said.
The tavern-master grinned and the coin did not bounce a second time before he had it for his own. He ducked swiftly behind the counter and poured three drinks from the same barrel and a fourth, his own, from another. When he set the mugs down before them, Billy laid a hand on the man’s arm to stay him. “What was in the second barrel, friend?”
The old man blinked, puzzled. Paulie loosed the sword in his scabbard. “But I follow Owl,” the tavern-master said, “and surely you do not!”
“Old man,” said Billy, “you obviously believe you have explained something, but you have not; and the time grows short in which you may.”
“Billy…,” said Méarana.
“Fermented beverages are forbidden to the children of Owl! If you’d drink a wee drop of the fruit nectar with me, sure and I would be pleased to pour it. Are there those among you who shun the creature as we do?”
Paulie suppressed a snicker. “How could you receive a vision from the gods without mead?” Méarana also accepted the beer, which was flat and room temperature. Enjrun had not yet rediscovered either carbonation or refrigeration. Billy shrugged and said he would try a nectar of peaches.
When everyone was settled once more, the tavern-master said, “As it once was in the long ago…”
The door to the wharf swung open and Donovan strode in with Zhawn Sloofy close behind balancing on his head what looked like a metaloceramic panel. “Make it not so long ago, Djespa. Save the long version for those who don’t pay in gold.”
Paulie protested, “I like a good story.”
“You and he can stay up late swapping yarns, then.”
The tavern-master shrugged. “As you will. The Well of the Sun is at the Edge of the World, about…here.” His finger entered the hologram a little way north of Dacitti, and he hastily withdrew it and wiped it on his qamis, the baggy shirt favored around Rajiloor. Since the map clearly showed more world beyond the Edge, the Gaelactics smiled. “The story is that there is a tribe high up in the western Kobberjobbles that eats only once a day. They have a very deep well, which they fill with water; and into this well they toss the meats and vegetables that they have spent the day hunting and preparing. When the sun goes down to his place of rest, he falls into this very well and, of course, boils the water…”
“Of course,” said Billy. Méarana glared at him.
“…and this cooks the food, for the sun is quite hot, as you may know. Then, once night is fallen and the sun has cooled, the tribe draws up the meat and vegetables into a kind of stew called moogan, on which they gorge themselves, for they will not eat again until next sunset.”
“One question,” said Billy with a tightly controlled countenance. “The sun fell into the well, right? So how does it get out and run around to the other side of the world in time to rise in the morning?”
Djespa the tavern-master showed surprise. “But your honor, all men know that the world is a ball and the sun goes around it, so that though it seems to touch the ground far off in the west, it is only passing beyond the horizon. Surely, you regarders are as knowledgeable in such matters as our own failingsoofs.”
“Now, my good Djespa,” said Donovan, “if you would serve a pot of that fine beer for my man Sloofy and myself?”
“Not the peach nectar?” asked Méarana.
“Of course not,” Donovan told her. “All sorts of bacteria out here in the Wild that our specifics don’t recognize. Ask Sofwari about it. But nothing that can hurt a man can live in a pot of beer. It’s the alcohol, you see. What’s the matter with Billy?”
“Nothing. Did you hire the boats we need?”
“I did. And an interpreter who savvies the lingo in the Roaring Gorge. His name’s Djamos Tul. He’s a Gorgeous pack peddler, and will be joining us once he finishes selling his pigeons. They say the river will be more settled by then.” Donovan took his pot and went to stand over the holomap. ‘We wish this thing had better resolution.” He waved the mug. “We’re not blaming Maggie B. The spysats are just to check for wars or tribal migrations, not to look for footpaths up the sides of cliffs out where they’re never going to go. Sofwari back yet?”
“No. I don’t expect him until dinnertime. You know how involved he gets in his work.”
“He has a funny idea about work. We brought back a bit of trash he might find interesting.” Donovan hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the panel that Sloofy had propped up against the wall. “There’s an ancient city not far from here and the Rajilooris salvage materials from the ruins to shore up the terraces during the ‘soons.”
The scarred man held a huge amusement behind his belt and needed to loosen it and let it out. So the harper sighed and, taking her beer with her, walked over to the wall where the panel stood. Billy and Paulie joined her. Sloofy only shook his head at the insanity of regarders and applied himself to his beer.
It was metaloceramic. And who in the Wild knew how to make such stuff? She said, “Why, this must date from…”
“From the First Ships?” said Donovan. “From that era, certainly. The ruins these people are scrounging from may be the remnants of the oldest settlement on this world.”
“Infamous!”
“Don’t see why,” said Djespa. “We need to keep the mound shored up, else it’d wash away in the next flood. What good does this stuff do, buried out there under the mud and sand?”
Paulie O’ the Hawks agreed with him; Billy shrugged. “A culture has the sciences it can afford. If they didn’t salvage this material, their own town would soon join it under the mud. Do you really want to ask that of them?”
But Méarana did not answer him, because she had already seen what Donovan had wanted her to see. Across one end of the panel ran the squiggly script used by the’ Loons of Harpaloon. “I think I know,” she said slowly, “what friend Sofwari will find in his little thread shapes.”