Chapter 13: Curiosities [Good morning, heroes, how are y - what's wrong with the screen?] -BLINK-BLINK-BLINK-*pfft* *** "God bless healing potions," Ringo intoned solemnly. With a glorious summer morning surrounding them, the four sat at a table on the tree-shaded patio of a small restaurant called "Delicious Food," waiting for breakfast. Thirty minutes ago they'd arisen, groaning and nauseated; forty gold coins later, food was a good idea. Indeed, they all felt terrific: clear-brained and well-rested for the first time on this adventure, and looking forward to their first tasty meal. They were still rather nervous about all the armed people around them, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the Earthmen would have to do something pretty stupid/drastic to invite Ta’akanian wrath. George, who was feeling worlds better after the night’s adventures (but was still leery of John), rolled an empty vial between his fingers, held it up to his eyes. "This stuff is amazing, just miraculous. I wonder what's in it." "Let's try to get the recipe," said John as he shifted position on his backwards chair. "We'd make a few billion on it." (He hadn't needed the potion for a hangover, obviously, but had he been stiff! And in funny places, too.) "You could get addicted to it." Ringo tilted a leftover drop onto his tongue. "Come on, let's get smashed again so we can cure it." He grinned as he said it, but he sounded serious enough for Paul to shake his head and say, "Once is enough. We do want to start thinking about rescuing Lyndess and getting home." "What exactly is it we're supposed to do to rescue her, then?" asked George, putting down the vial. "I mean, I know she's cursed and all that, but what can we do?" "Well, she said we should find her friends and tell them she needs help." "Who are they? Do they live around here? Do we have some kind of address?" Paul opened his mouth to reply, then paused in astonishment and dismay. "She didn't tell us their names!" "Yeah, she did," said John, "she told us just before she zapped us over here, but I don't remember any of them. One might be Ralph, and I think another's Janice." "Is that what she was sayin'?" asked Ringo, balancing all the vials on their ends. "I was so scared I hardly heard her." "Right, what are we supposed to do," George said in annoyance, "go up to everyone and ask ‘Excuse me, is your name kind of like Ralph and do you happen to know Lyndess?’" Their food came, freshly baked small loaves of sweet bread with crunchy sugar tops, bowls of cut-up fruit, and water. John had a triple portion, of course. "Do you happen to know a woman named Lyndess?" Paul asked the man who served them. He didn't, so the four ate gloomily, trying to figure out what to do. "Maybe there's a Hall of Records somewhere," Paul suggested, spearing pieces of pear and melon with his fork. Chewing so that his chin bounced off the back of his chair, John swallowed and said, "Right, we'll just look in the file marked ‘Friends of Lyndess’." "We don’t know how they do things here. Maybe they file by first name instead of last." "If there's a newspaper we could put an advert in it," offered George. "Full-page spread or something." "That's too small," said Ringo. "Let's make a commercial with dancin' bears and a thousand people all chantin' ‘Lyndess! Lyndess!’" He waved his fork like a conductor's baton. "Or cut a record called `Do You Know Lyndess'," John said. He broke into a bastardized "Strawberry Fields Forever": "Let me ask your help, 'cause I'm tryin' to, find my friend's friends; Lyndess is her name; she's cursed to stay in Ke-ta-faaa... do you know her she is desp'rate." Paul rapped on the table to restore order. "Right, I think George had a brainstorm. When we're done, let's go out and see if they've got a paper." Then a man walked onto the patio and up to them and said cheerfully, "Nama, olyrr-sars!" "We're not selling anything!" the four chorused. "So my ears told me," the man said, pulling up a chair and sitting at the corner of the table between John and Ringo. "I have other questions for you." Well, that was different, and unexpectedly chatty for a Ta’akanian; they gave him their attention. An older fellow, perhaps in his early 60s, he was Ringo's size, though stockier of limb and broader of chest. He was rounder-faced than the average Ta’akanian, with sleepy brown eyes, and had a stubby nose rather than the proud native beak. He wore a short brownish-green hooded cape that made him resemble Little Red Riding Hood, but he didn't look like he would mind the comparison; he had the friendly face of a guy who laughed a lot. His shirt and pants, though of the usual silky stuff that Ta’akanians wore, were of a sober dark brown, and he wore no jewelry or other ornamentation. Something about him nagged at John; where had he seen him before? Not on Earth, surely. "Do I know you?" he asked. "Only if your memory extends as far as yesterday," the old man said, casually helping himself to one of John’s sweet loaves and taking a big bite. He had perfect teeth. The light dawned. "Right! I saved your life last night." "Huh?" said the others. John sketched a picture of his evening, careful not to mention how sober he'd been. "I would’ve approached you sooner," the old man said, popping a fallen chunk of sugar into his mouth and crunching it between his back teeth, "but my skif teb with Tarsele burned more time than I expected. When I returned, you’d left." Another bite of loaf, munch, munch, swallow. Then the old man grabbed Ringo’s mug of water and took a deep draught, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ahhh. Er-h’o, my thanks, sar. Dying now would’ve been inconvenient." "I’m sure it would’ve," John said wryly, at once amused and disgruntled by the old man’s casual gratitude. So much for feeling heroic. "You’re welcome—uh, you didn't kill that woman, did you?" "Tarsele? No, I had no intention of starting a feud. Besides, sar’s leaving Ta’akan today, so to me sar’ll be dead." Bite, munch, munch, munch. "My name’s Grunnel the Drinker," he said somewhat indistinctly through his mouthful. The four introduced themselves, and Paul added, "Do you know a woman named Lyndess?" Swallow. "No," Grunnel said. Staring into the remaining bit of his loaf, he added, "Sar, why did you stop that knife?" It took John a moment to figure out that the old man was speaking to him. Nonplused, he replied, "It seemed like the thing to do at the time. Shouldn't I have?" Now Grunnel put down his loaf fragment and looked directly into John’s eyes. "You didn’t expect anything in return for shielding my life?" Something in the old man's gentle, probing tone made John bite back the funny comment he was about to make, and he simply said "Yeah. I mean, no, I didn’t expect anything. I just wanted to save your life." "Do you follow the god Ardav the Silver?" "Never heard of him." "Sharp." Grunnel pushed his hood back, revealing short silver-gray hair, and grinned broadly. "Sar, Ardav is our god of selfless works. I’m a sansar of Ardav, and one of my duties is to reward sars who act altruistically—though until now I’ve never been able to reward anyone who did me service! You’re the first whose motives were bright and unblemished." As John rapidly revised his estimation of Grunnel’s gratitude upward, George said, half to himself, "Must be a thin trade in rewards round here." The old man caught the comment and nodded. "With the Rusting upon us, few sars see beyond themselves or their friends." Before anyone could ask him to expand on this cryptic, tantalizing comment, he reached into the pocket of his cloak and came up with a fist-sized, sparkling red stone that he handed to John. "Is this enough of a reward for you?" It was a ruby… beautifully faceted, deeply red, impossibly huge. The entire planet of Earth had nothing comparable. Even broken into more manageable gems it would have been worth many millions of dollars, and its value as the world’s largest ruby was literally incalculable. Misinterpreting the stunned silence around the table for disappointment, Grunnel hastily said, "Would you prefer fuel stones?" He took out a drawstring bag and opened it to display its contents: several pounds of uncut and cut diamonds of varying hue, some as large as American quarters or black grapes. Obviously, Baravada did not lack for gems! Finally John found his voice. He handed the ruby back to Grunnel and said, "This is, uh, very generous of you, thank you very much, but I can’t take this, this is much too much. Just a couple of these—that’ll do." He took out several cut diamonds that would make nice rings for Yoko and nudged the bag back to the old man. "I really didn’t do it for a reward, y’know," he said, somewhat defensively. Grunnel looked impressed. "That’s true altruism," he murmured, gathering up the valuables and stashing them away. Then he chuckled. "I could reward you for that." "You’d better not," said Ringo, seeing the joke. "He’ll turn that down, and you’ll want to reward him for that, and he’ll turn that down, and so on and so on…." "An avalanche, sar!" the old man said with an appreciative glance at the drummer. Suddenly he touched John’s cloak (John flinched though the man’s hand was nowhere near his wings). "Sar, a different reward? I’ll feed the spell on this cloak. It’ll die in a few days if I don’t." John started so violently that he almost overturned his backwards chair. "Oh, God, yes! Please! I had no idea!" "I will." Grunnel got up, moved behind John, and began to trace his finger along the silver decorations on the cloak. John shrank away—he’d expected the old man to just make some passes at the cloak. "Don’t move," Grunnel muttered, catching hold of the cloak and tugging. "I don’t care what you’re hiding." That wasn’t much reassurance, but John forced himself not to squirm any more as the man’s finger continued its tracing. Still, he sat very still and squished his wings as close to his body as possible. The old man had told the truth; he cared much more about the construction of the cloak than about the construction of John’s body. "Rusty work," he murmured. "Comes of using silver instead of diamond. Tch. And the caster used the weak amikvar do’et rather than the strong. Careless. But—" He bobbed up from behind John and brushed off his knees "—it’ll burn for a tenhand now. If you’re still here when it begins to die, I’ll renew it for you." "Thanks. Thanks a lot!" John said fervently. Horrible scenarios about the cloak failing in the midst of a crowd flicked through his mind. "In a way you just saved my life." He proffered his hand, but the custom of shaking it evidently didn’t exist here; Grunnel just ignored it and sat down, leaving John to awkwardly withdraw it. The old man took another swig of Ringo’s water. "Er-h’o, sars, now indulge my curiosity. Why are you here? You’re the first olyrr-sars to come to Ta’akan in more than a year, and you’re also the most different." "More than a year? Why?" asked George. "Why are we so different?" asked Ringo. "Why do, uh, olyrr-sars come here anyway?" asked Paul. "Where do they come from?" asked John. Grunnel glanced at each Earthman in turn. He looked oddly happy. "Ah, I could be back at the School. It’s been an old while since I’ve been asked so many questions. Let me organize my thoughts." He was silent for a few moments, lips moving vaguely. Then he said, "Where are olyrr-sars from? From many worlds. Why do they come? Until you, I’ve met only those who have either come to sell or to hunt. That’s why you’re the most different. You’re not selling anything, and with neither magic nor weapons you’re not here to hunt. Why are you the first after so much time?" He swept his arm out at the city. Except for a single woman on a horse, there were no passers-by. The few shops visible looked deserted. "As I said before, the Rusting is upon us. What remains for olyrr-sars here? Little remains for Baravadans," he added sadly. But then the cheer returned to his round face. "Er-h’o, different olyrr-sars, tell me why you’ve come to C’hou." They were more than eager to tell him their sad story, including their involvement with Lyndess, their ignoble escape, and their promise to the woman. Except for an occasional terminology clarification, the old man listened silently and attentively, though, like Lyndess, he was astonished that a god wouldn’t tell his worshippers precisely what he wanted of them. When the four were finished, Grunnel said thoughtfully, "You don’t know their names or have anything that belonged to them? Even the gods would find it difficult to help you—but they won’t help rescue one of their own exiles anyway." Paul nodded. "We thought the best thing to do would be to advertise for people who know Lyndess in a newspaper, if you’ve got one." "Advuhtize? Noose-paypa?" When the old man was enlightened, he shook his head. "We have nothing like that. But there are message boards in the taverns. Are your friend’s friends skahs or tirin?" Blank stares, so Grunnel explained, "Baravadans are either skahs, those-who-fight-monsters, or tirin, those-who-are-protected-from-monsters. I’m skahs," he said offhandedly. "Er-h’o, post messages in all the taverns, skahs and tirin. If these sars are still in Ta’akan, they might see one of your messages. Or their friends might see one." Making a mental note of this rather inadequate method of communication, Paul said hopefully, "How about a Hall of Records? Have you got one of those?" Grunnel drew himself up in his seat, face full of wonder. "Records? Records of sars and their movements? Records of things that happened in old time? Are such records kept on your world?" John said, "Yeah, they keep records of everything that happens. Don’t you do that here?" The old man shook his head emphatically. "Few sars are interested in such things. In my lifetime the only records that have been kept are the spell instructions in the Wizards’ Library in Zagesevregar. That’s where my friend Brox is," he added, "sifting through half a millennium’s books and scrolls in an attempt to solve Baravada’s problem." At this point Grunnel flagged down a server and ordered vax for everyone, giving the four a chance to glance at each other, mouthing the question, Should we ask him? The old man’s answer was potentially trouble for the four; but their curiosity was too powerful, not to mention the sense that maybe this was why they were here; so when the server had left, George asked, "What kind of problem does Baravada have? Do they have something to do with why people are leaving here—that, uh, Rusting you mentioned?" Grunnel seemed surprised and rather pleased that George cared enough to ask. "Yes. Our problem is that there are no monsters left for the skahs to fight. We have nothing left to do." Suddenly part of what Grunnel had said before started to make sense. "That’s why no one comes to hunt any more," said John. "Yes. I’ll explain…." The old man launched into a narrative, the gist of which was as follows: In the past, Baravada had been overrun by lizard-like humanoids called Tahil [TAY-hill] and a variety of monsters that poured down from the north. As the monsters swarmed into various wilderness areas, the Tahil captured most human-elf settlements, enslaving the populations. The remaining free Baravadans, apparently leaderless (Grunnel was vague on this issue), divided into two groups: the fighting skahs and the supportive tirin. Armed with magic and weapons, the skahs attacked the Tahil and the monsters in small guerilla-like groups. Gradually they worried away at the Tahil power base, overcoming the one advantage the Tahil had—numbers—with increasingly potent offensive spells from which the lizard-men couldn’t defend themselves. Though the Tahil had minor magic of their own and a highly organized army, they were at core a stupid race and were unable to adjust to skahs tactics. Nor could the monsters, who, though powerful, magical, and often more intelligent than the Tahil, bred too slowly to survive the ferocious skahs onslaught. The result, ultimately, was the extermination of Tahil and monsters on Baravada. Three years ago, the last known Tahil settlement had been wiped out; and since then, the skahs had been scouring the wilderness for survivors. But no one had reported a genuine encounter with Tahil or monster in more than a year. The skahs, addicted to adventure, devoid of purpose, were getting antsy. And they were leaving Baravada in droves. "Many are sailing toward Birth—toward Seopia, our sun goddess, as she is born anew each morning," Grunnel explained to his fascinated audience. "The Garden Isles are numerous and mostly unexplored, and it’s rumored that a fleet of Tahil fled in that direction. Other skahs have gone to the Ah’di, the desert at the center of Baravada, or into the Falora I’c’herma—the Corpse at the Top of the World, the cold deadlands where the Tahil first appeared. If these skahs have found anything, they haven’t returned to tell me." Leaning forward, Grunnel drained the rest of his vax, wiped the greenish liquid off his face with the back of his hand, belched, then settled back. "We’ve asked the gods to rebirth the Tahil and the monsters, but they won’t. They told us we’ve completed the task we set out to perform, and if there’s no more need for skahs, we should become tirin." He made a face. The four exchanged glances again. C’hou should have been subtitled the Planet of Peculiar Problems. At least Grunnel didn’t ask them to actually solve this one—which was fortunate, since it wasn’t something they wanted to help out with. This wasn’t like reintroducing wolves to Yosemite National Park or breeding whooping cranes. This wasn’t even Ducks Unlimited. Why restore the beasts of Baravada just so they could be massacred again? But none of them were imprudent enough to say that, so they made commisserating noises and nodded sagely as if they fully appreciated the Baravadans’ plight. Grunnel acknowledged their "caring" with a grin all around. "As I said, Brox is at the Wizard’s Library, looking for old, forgotten spells that might solve our problem. I think sar’s just bleeding time; even if sar finds such a spell, it couldn’t possibly be powerful enough to do what we need." He shrugged. "Still, what else is there to do now? Neither Brox nor I care to track rumors through the Falora or across the ocean. And at least Brox is trying." In one deft motion he removed his dagger from its shealth and jammed it into the table, then said fiercely, "Of all the sars I’ve known, Brox is the only one who thinks beyond the next fight and who sees beyond the small space that sar occupies. Even the others at the School teach and collect spells only because they’ve been charged to do so by their gods. Released from their agreements, they’d all be gone, chasing the faintest scent of Tahil. Only Brox understands that helping all skahs helps sar as well." Well, there wasn’t much to say to that unexpected outburst of passion either, so the four just agreed with Grunnel that helping all skahs was a good thing. They wondered if they would ever meet this Brox character, who sounded interesting. By now John was getting hungry again. He flagged down the server and, after being apprised of the lunch menu, ordered a roast chicken and bread. But in paying for it he exhausted his supply of coins, and though George was able to make up the difference, the four shared the unpleasant realizations that they had a finite amount of money, it was dwindling rapidly, and they had no immediate way of making more. In some embarrassment, Paul said to Grunnel, "Looks like we’ll need to work for a living… we’re bards, y’know, is there a concert hall around here or something?" "You need money?" the old man said in surprise. "When you refused the ruby I assumed you had money. You’re still welcome to take it." "We don’t need that much," John reassured him. "Just enough to live on until we find Lyndess’s friends." George, who had been quietly calculating their expenses, now spoke up: "If we double up at the inn we stayed at last night, and every meal costs about what breakfast did, we can get by on about fifteen gold pieces a day. IF we don’t have any extra expenses, like healing potions." He threw Ringo a mildly accusing look, who returned an injured one of equal strength. "You’re going to pay for an inn when you can live in any empty building in Ta’akan?" Grunnel exclaimed. "If you were only going to be here for a few days—but if you lack money, why throw it into that ocean?" George looked chagrined at having missed the obvious. "Oh—yeah—I didn’t think of that. In our world we have a lot of money, so we always stay at the best places." John added, "It’s illegal anyway." "Il-EE-gahl?" asked Grunnel. "Against the law. Not allowed." "Well, squatters—" began Paul. He was cut off by the old man’s near-gasp of "Not allowed? Who would object? Why would you let yourselves be prevented from doing as you wished?" He yanked the knife out of the table and slowly, gracefully carved the air before sheathing it. But before any of the four could embark on an explanation of property laws, Grunnel laughed and held up a hand to stop them. A strange light had entered his eyes. "Olyrr-sars, what you’ve said—what lies beneath your words—fascinates me, as so little has done in past time. I want to learn about your world. Don’t stay in an abandoned building! Don’t look for work! Live in our house so we can talk frequently! We have more money than we can use—you can have as much of it as you’ll need for your stay." The offer took the four by surprise, and after thanking the old man for his generosity, they retired to an empty table across the patio to talk it over privately. Ringo was all for it; he liked Grunnel a lot and didn’t want to lost track of their one and only friend in Ta’akan. John was open to the idea as well, being immensely grateful for his rejuvenated cloak and convinced that they could trust the man; he also wanted a guaranteed source of income to accommodate his appetite. George was less sure of Grunnel’s motives and wondered if the old man would somehow press-gang the Earthmen into the monster-restoration quest, but George also didn’t want to spend his time earning money, and he was eager to ask Grunnel about his god and Baravadan religion in general. Only Paul was cool to the idea, cautioning that they knew nothing about Baravadan/Ta’akanian society, and what might they find themselves beholden to Grunnel for? The old man’s taste for genocidal hunting was particularly unattractive to him, and he wasn’t sure he could stand by doing nothing if Brox happened to unearth a monster-restoring spell. "Maybe we can think of something else for the skahs to do," Ringo said, almost offhand, and that did it for Paul: he quietly resolved to nip this monster restoration thing in the bud by weaning Grunnel and Brox off hunting and onto something equally exciting but cruelty-free. "Maybe they’d enjoy football," Paul said hopefully as they got up from the table to go tell Grunnel the good news. John snorted. "American football, maybe." Of course, Grunnel was delighted by their decision and celebrated by ordering beer for everyone. "Very sharp, olyrr-sars! We’ll learn so much from each other!" Then he took off a plain silver ring that he wore and tapped it three times on the table. "I’ve summoned As’taris. Sar needs to know that you’ll be living with us. We’ll sit and drink and talk here until sar comes, and then we’ll go to the house." "As’taris?" said Paul, averting his gaze from John as the roast chicken came and John ripped off a leg and started munching. "Brox’s realchild." Grunnel settled himself comfortably in his chair with his beer. "Er-h’o, olyrr-sars, explain to me who prevents you from sleeping in abandoned houses and why." So the four embarked on an awkward explanation of property laws that only served to confuse Grunnel further, especially since the laws varied by location; so they were quite grateful when a sullen elf-youth strode up to the table and stared down accusingly the old man, who gazed up at the teenager with patient, paternal fondness. Probably no older than 20, As’taris looked like the skahs poster child. His hair was cut so short that it was a mere wheat-colored fuzz over his skull; his pointed ears really stood out over his nearly bald skull. His eyes, narrow and slightly slanted, were of a deep golden hue and looked wholly appropriate in his dark, delicate face, with its sharp chin and high cheekbones and thin lips. He was wiry rather than muscular but looked strong regardless. For all his exotic looks, he wasn’t terribly handsome, though he might have been better looking if he hadn’t had such a deep scowl. However, his ornamentation betrayed a large measure of vanity. Over his fine blue shirt he wore a silver brooch and a silver necklace with a round diamond pendant; gem-studded gold and silver rings flashed on his fingers; a silver chain with large links served as a belt over his black pants. Altogether, he looked fit and graceful and ever so prepared for life in Ta’akan. Or, at least, life in Ta’akan as it must have been with monsters lurking round every bush. Arms crossed over his chest, he demanded of Grunnel, "What do you want?" in a surprisingly deep baritone. "Why’d you drag me from the skif tebs? Mebben Twoknife was about to fight Masta’is Skytoucher!" Grunnel smiled innocently. "Introduce yourself to the tirin olyrr-sars." The elf threw them the briefest, most condescending of glances. "I’m As'taris Farbound. Grun, why are you coloring our lives with this rust? Everyone knows they aren’t selling anything!" "I wanted to alert you that these olyrr-sars will be at the house when you return," the old man said. "They’ll be living with us for a while." As’taris stiffened. "This is the reward you spoke of for your life-preserver?" "No," said Grunnel, taking a swig of his beer, "They need money and beds, and I want to learn about their world." Suddenly the elf thrust forward and slapped his hands on the table, stared round at the four hungrily. "Are there monsters and Tahil on your world?" "Uh, no," said George. "Rust!" On the instant As’taris was back to where he’d been standing. "Then what use is learning about their world?" he snapped at Grunnel. "Without monsters, it’s no different from C’hou!" "Perhaps," the old man said tolerantly. "Er-h’o, useful or not, they’re staying at the house." "I do not befriend tirin, even olyrr-tirin!" "You don’t have to befriend them. You can ignore them." As’taris stuck his chin out stubbornly. "I will." "Sharp!" said Grunnel. He waved his empty mug in salute to the four and the elf. "You'll never be friends, but you'll never be enemies either." Then he put it on the table with a clunk and stood up. "As, I’m taking the olyrr-sars to the house in the boat." "I don’t care," the elf said, scowling at the four. "I’ll never travel with them." "Sharp. We’re embarking." Grunnel gestured for the four to get up (John grabbing the last meaty piece of chicken and Ringo gulping the last of his beer as they did so). Then the old man glanced at his—ward?—and said, "As, don’t join a skif teb. Just watch." "Grunnn!" As’taris whined, mortified. "I know! Why do you repeat this every day we come to Ta’akan?" "Creating truth," Grunnel murmured. The elf, mortally insulted, stomped off. Grunnel watched his departing back with a surprising amount of paternal fondness. "Sar was born too recently," he said to the four. "Had sar been formed two hand-years earlier, sar would long ago have sated the adventure-lust that makes us skahs. Now…." He shrugged. "There are times when I believe Brox seeks the monster restoration spell as much to please As as to help the skahs. Er-h’o, come. Tell me of your world as we travel." And thus the quintet traveled, stopping first at the inn that the four had stayed at the previous night to pick up Paul’s guitar and their other meager possessions, then strolling down through the city, going in more or less a straight line past buildings that were increasingly made of stone, taller, of more sophisticated architecture, closer together, and occupied, and down streets that became actual streets, old but in good repair. Grunnel cheerfully explained that this was Old, the ancient core of Ta’akan, around which the now-decaying "districts" Almost and Anywhere had been built. The passers-by became somewhat more numerous, though still far fewer than in a comparable city on Earth, and there were many more tirin than skahs, who tended to come in clumps here, little adventuring parties stocking up on supplies before their journies or heading off to the docks. Grunnel greeted friends as he encountered them and asked them questions about their plans, but he was a good guide and never stopped to chat with anyone for more than a minute. Their march took them through the unquestionably busiest place in the city: the Stomach: a huge open market full of stalls and interesting smells that merged with the Ta’akanian harbor, with its many tall ships docked there. With John hugging his cloak tightly around himself, they threaded through a colorful crowd of shoppers, farmers, sailors, fishers, merchants, laborers, skahs, and even a street performer here and there. Goods for sale included all kinds of food, prepared and unprepared, great heaping mounds of vegetables or wheat or fish or beef; live animals, especially horses and cows; used items; a couple of what could only be called "skahs garage sales," with weapons and travel gear and occasional objets d’art or pieces of jewelery for sale; herbs and spices; and much more. Except for an occasional ex-skahs unloading stuff in desperation, everyone looked prosperous and well fed. The market pace was surprisingly slow and quiet for this kind of atmosphere; few voices were raised in praise of their own merchandise and little haggling could be heard. Among other things, the Stomach demonstrated conclusively that the Ta’akanians made no distinction between the sexes when it came to profession: men and women were evenly represented in all endeavors. It also demonstrated that even the tirin hardly had any children running around. "I wonder why?" George murmured to Ringo as they passed their first small girl of the day, a tiny child ludicrously made up as a skahs, staring up at her elders as they packed their horses’ saddlebags with preserved food. "Maybe they keep them inside until they’re old enough to take care of themselves," Ringo offered. "Grunnel didn’t say it was a problem…." They resolved to ask the old man later. Soon they were through the Stomach and in the port area, making their way down a dock where many small boats were berthed, often without benefit of rope—held in place magically, no doubt. They stopped at one such craft, a small blue boat that had neither sails nor oars and, indeed, appeared to have been looted from an amusement park. At Grunnel’s gesture they boarded, and when the four were seated he seated himself on the seat in the stern, looked towards the horizon, and murmured "Ho." The boat moved soundlessly away from the dock and accelerated as it headed for open water, leveling off at about thirty miles per hour. The four made impressed noises; after the healing potions, this was the best magic they'd seen. Grunnel smiled, a little condescendingly perhaps, and the conversation turned to boats on Earth. For ten minutes or so they sped through the water with the coast on their left, which grew steadily higher, then pulled into a cove at the bottom of a cliff with steps carved into it. "Er," said Grunnel, and the boat ground onto the short strip of pebbly beach at the base of the cliff. Grunnel jumped out, and his passengers, in some dismay, followed him. "Oh, shit," said Ringo, gazing up at the stairs that Grunnel had started climbing without a second thought. They might as well have gone mountain climbing. But what choice did they have? With trepidation and much mental cursing of their host, the four mounted the stairs and began the long, arduous climb; they didn’t even have the benefit of a rail to help pull them up. At least the steps were set deeper and deeper into the rock wall as they climbed, so that the fear of falling to one side or the other was quickly diminished; but still…. Even John was a little tired as they finally struggled their way to the top, and the other three collapsed on the grass, angry and spent. Smiling mischievously, and clearly not tired, the old man was sitting on the grass waiting for them. As they glared at him, panting, he tossed them each a healing potion. "My small joke," he explained. No one else thought the joke was funny, but the healing potions did much to restore their bodies—indeed, they were reminded anew how delicious the sensation of sudden removal of pain was, and it was hard to be annoyed at Grunnel after that. Still, for a few moments they didn’t say anything as they gazed upon the house, as much to avoid speaking to the old man as to gather the strength that the healing potions didn’t restore. Whatever they had expected the two skahs to live in, it wasn't this pleasant, normal-looking white house with shuttered windows. It faced a long, wide lawn rather than the ocean, which was a shame, for the view was magnificent: the great sprawling Ta'akan curving off to the right, sparkling blue water, ships with their sails puffed out whitely, and a sky that went on forever. Surrounding the entire house and grounds was forest (a path was clearly visible through the trees), and a weathered shed sat some feet from the house. When the four were feeling stronger, Grunnel took them inside. The ground floor consisted of two rooms: an enormous living/dining room dominated by a table and eight chairs, and a large but homey-feeling kitchen with hams and strings of onions hanging from the ceiling and a magical sink with constantly flowing water. Upstairs were eight small bedrooms, five neat and unused, three rumpled and claimed. Then the old man took his guests back to the kitchen and pulled on the ring of a trapdoor in the corner of the floor. It opened onto a lit flight of stairs. The sharp smell of metal drifted up. They descended— —and emerged into a combination of Aladdin's Cave and Scrooge McDuck’s money bin. Copper, silver, and gold coins covered the floor to a depth of several inches, judging by the short step from the lowest stair to the coins. Chests overflowing with jewelry and unset colored gems lined the walls, gleaming under a layer of dust. (In one glance John saw at least six gems that made Grunnel’s reward ruby look like a pebble.) Small, exquisite statuettes, boxes, bric-a-brac in every medium from silver to emerald dotted the spaces in between the chests like outrageously valuable mushrooms. The four just stared. Grunnel took out the ruby and the bag of diamonds and casually tossed them onto the pile, out of the way of clumsy feet. "Spend as much of this as you need to," he said. "We have too much—it weighs us down, especially As. Sar would prefer we had nothing, to force us to go in search of Tahil. I’m not sure I disagree. Getting it was much more interesting than having it, especially now." He went upstairs. Coins clinked, sliding into the depressions left by the old man’s feet. "Right, I don't think we're gonna have any money problems for a few days," Paul said at last.