Read Online Lin Carter - Down to a Sunless Sea by Lin Carter, Ken W. Kelly - Cover - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lin Carter, Ken W. Kelly - Cover
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the markings upon it could be seen in the dim light of the lamp.
"Well, Doc?"
Harbin cleared his throat uncertainly. "Old work; very old," he said tentatively. "Dozens of centuries, at least. Perhaps, dozens of millennia. No . . . millions of years, surely! See how the writing is worn almost to the point of illegibility? And the styling of the characters . . . that ancient variant of the written tongue was already very old when the oceans died."
"But what does the writing mean?" demanded Brant harshly, still covering Agila with his gun.
The older man shrugged helplessly.
"I haven't the faintest idea! Not my period at all. I am a specialist in Late Imperial and Early Dynasty Princedoms. Very little of this writing has ever been found, and even less has been translated. Even then, the translations were purely conjectural—informed guesswork little more."
"Well ... is the thing valuable?"
"Beyond any question, very valuable. The sort of treasure that might well become the precious racial heirloom of a clan chieftain, even a prince," said Harbin flatly.
They both looked at Agila. The guide cringed, licked dry lips again, then straightened to face them defiantly.
"The dish is mine!" he stated.
"Sure, if stolen property can be said to belong to the thief," grinned Brant. The native flinched.
He dropped his eyes again. "Mine," he repeated, but there was no conviction in his voice.
The two Earthsiders exchanged a glance.
"Old and valuable enough to be the treasured heirloom of a clan chieftain, eh?" muttered Brant grimly. "Which would explain why he's come hunting for the man that took it!"
Doc nodded slowly. "Now we know," he whispered. "At least, it's the easiest, and the most logical, explanation."
"Maybe we can beg a parley, and offer to return it," suggested Brant. "Along with the thief himself, of course."
"No! Masters! He will kill me—slowly!" cried Agila, his swarthy features whitening with fear.
The two Earthsiders grinned at each other.
"That's what I think the legal eagles would call an unforced admission of guilt," observed Will Harbin.
"All right, man, start talking," growled Brant. "Exactly who does the gold dish belong to? I mean, who is the man you stole it from?"
The defiance and bravado had drained out of Agila. His head was lowered and he rubbed his wrists with trembling fingers, for the strength of Brant's grip had bruised his flesh.
"His name is Tuan," muttered the thief. "Once he was a great hereditary chieftain, high in the councils of the Prince of the Moon Dragon Nation. He was defeated in war against a rival chieftain and his people were decimated. Long since, he became a homeless fugitive, an outlaw, with only a small band of warriors to follow him. ..."
"But still retaining a lot of pride," guessed Brant. "And this heirloom is the only one of his hereditary treasures he held onto, right?"
"It is even as you say, f'yagh," Agila said in low tones.
At that point, Will Harbin spoke up.
"Jim . . . I've got a feeling that it wouldn't be enough to salve Tuan's injured pride, just to return the dish to him and to hand Agila over to his crude justice."
"Why not? What else could he want?"
"You forget that we're the hated f'yagha —the greedy Outworlders who have invaded and robbed and despoiled this world. And Tuan will know, or guess—or force Agila to admit—that we have seen and handled the heirloom. Profaned it with our eyes, with our touch, as he would probably put it."
"So . . . it's fight or run, then, eh? Or be destroyed," growled Brant.
"I'm afraid so," admitted Will Harbin. "Since we all pretty much agree that you're in command here, well—which is it to be? Fight, run, or die?"
"Run," said Brant briefly. And he nodded at the dish and at the thief. "But we leave these two—things—behind us when we do."
Agila squeaked and began to beg for mercy in a frenzied babbling voice, which both men ignored.
Doc stepped near. "Jim, what good will that do? I know the People, and
"Well, Doc?"
Harbin cleared his throat uncertainly. "Old work; very old," he said tentatively. "Dozens of centuries, at least. Perhaps, dozens of millennia. No . . . millions of years, surely! See how the writing is worn almost to the point of illegibility? And the styling of the characters . . . that ancient variant of the written tongue was already very old when the oceans died."
"But what does the writing mean?" demanded Brant harshly, still covering Agila with his gun.
The older man shrugged helplessly.
"I haven't the faintest idea! Not my period at all. I am a specialist in Late Imperial and Early Dynasty Princedoms. Very little of this writing has ever been found, and even less has been translated. Even then, the translations were purely conjectural—informed guesswork little more."
"Well ... is the thing valuable?"
"Beyond any question, very valuable. The sort of treasure that might well become the precious racial heirloom of a clan chieftain, even a prince," said Harbin flatly.
They both looked at Agila. The guide cringed, licked dry lips again, then straightened to face them defiantly.
"The dish is mine!" he stated.
"Sure, if stolen property can be said to belong to the thief," grinned Brant. The native flinched.
He dropped his eyes again. "Mine," he repeated, but there was no conviction in his voice.
The two Earthsiders exchanged a glance.
"Old and valuable enough to be the treasured heirloom of a clan chieftain, eh?" muttered Brant grimly. "Which would explain why he's come hunting for the man that took it!"
Doc nodded slowly. "Now we know," he whispered. "At least, it's the easiest, and the most logical, explanation."
"Maybe we can beg a parley, and offer to return it," suggested Brant. "Along with the thief himself, of course."
"No! Masters! He will kill me—slowly!" cried Agila, his swarthy features whitening with fear.
The two Earthsiders grinned at each other.
"That's what I think the legal eagles would call an unforced admission of guilt," observed Will Harbin.
"All right, man, start talking," growled Brant. "Exactly who does the gold dish belong to? I mean, who is the man you stole it from?"
The defiance and bravado had drained out of Agila. His head was lowered and he rubbed his wrists with trembling fingers, for the strength of Brant's grip had bruised his flesh.
"His name is Tuan," muttered the thief. "Once he was a great hereditary chieftain, high in the councils of the Prince of the Moon Dragon Nation. He was defeated in war against a rival chieftain and his people were decimated. Long since, he became a homeless fugitive, an outlaw, with only a small band of warriors to follow him. ..."
"But still retaining a lot of pride," guessed Brant. "And this heirloom is the only one of his hereditary treasures he held onto, right?"
"It is even as you say, f'yagh," Agila said in low tones.
At that point, Will Harbin spoke up.
"Jim . . . I've got a feeling that it wouldn't be enough to salve Tuan's injured pride, just to return the dish to him and to hand Agila over to his crude justice."
"Why not? What else could he want?"
"You forget that we're the hated f'yagha —the greedy Outworlders who have invaded and robbed and despoiled this world. And Tuan will know, or guess—or force Agila to admit—that we have seen and handled the heirloom. Profaned it with our eyes, with our touch, as he would probably put it."
"So . . . it's fight or run, then, eh? Or be destroyed," growled Brant.
"I'm afraid so," admitted Will Harbin. "Since we all pretty much agree that you're in command here, well—which is it to be? Fight, run, or die?"
"Run," said Brant briefly. And he nodded at the dish and at the thief. "But we leave these two—things—behind us when we do."
Agila squeaked and began to beg for mercy in a frenzied babbling voice, which both men ignored.
Doc stepped near. "Jim, what good will that do? I know the People, and
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