The Hostage of Zir Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: L. Sprague de Camp
the porters. I’m sorry to have forgotten about you.”
“In that case, let us occupy the two vacant chairs, thereby satisfying everyone, as Kurdé the Wise is said to have done in the legend.”
“If none of my people or their baggage gets lost.”
The litter resembled a telephone booth with a seat inside and a pair of wooden shafts extending fore and aft. Reith squirmed into the seat, getting tangled in his sword. The two chairmen, each of whom wore a leather harness depending from his shoulders to take some of the weight, stooped and hoisted the chair.
The procession set out. Reith craned his neck out the window to see how his convoy was doing. He was in the middle of the string of litters. After the litters came the porters, and after the porters, the carriage.
The column plunged into the streets beyond the waterfront. These streets were so narrow and crooked that the chairmen had to crowd to one side to let pedestrians squeeze past. Because none of these streets ran straight for more than two blocks, Reith soon lost sight of the ends of his column.
When the route straightened out enough to allow a clear view to the rear, the carriage was not to be seen. The porters were plodding along with their loads, but the coach, with Shirley Waterford and the dear boys, was gone.
Reith wondered whether the vehicle was stuck at a corner, or had been caught in a riot, or had been attacked by kidnappers. He asked himself whether he ought to run back. Then he committed his missing tourists to the mercy of Dashmok. If they got lost, it would be their own stupid fault.
###
Roqir was setting in the full scarlet-and-purple glory of a Krishnan sunset when the litters drew up at a nondescript stone-and-timber building, with the skull of some Krishnan beast above the door. A hand-lettered wooden sign bore a row of fishhook characters, looking something like Arabic and something like shorthand. Reith guessed that they gave the name of Haftid’s Inn.
Reith spent a frantic half-hour paying off the porters and the chairmen and collecting his tourists and their baggage. There was no sign of the carriage. At last, while Reith was wondering how to organize a search party, the sextuple clop of an aya’s hooves resounded, and the carriage arrived. The press of traffic had thinned with the arrival of supper hour.
“Got caught in a jam,” said Considine. “I thought we left earth to get away from those, but . . . Hey, where’s my little blue case?”
Considine was examining the pile of baggage. Reith knew the case in question. In it, Maurice Considine kept the ornaments and jewelry with which he enhanced his looks. Reith, too, failed to find the case.
“God damn it!” yelled Considine. “One of these gooks stole it. I’ll—”
“Calm down, Maurice,” said Reith. “I told you to carry small hand luggage. If you didn’t—”
“Oh, screw you! Some of that junk was valuable! I’ll raise hell! I won’t stand for it!”
“Looks as if you’ll have to,” said Reith. “Now I’ve got to see to our accommodations. Stay here, everybody. Father Khorsh, will you come along?”
Reith pushed through swinging doors and entered the common room of Haftid’s Inn. One side was for eating and drinking, with benches and long tables. A few customers sat at these. The other side included some crude stools and a large desk. Behind the desk sat a stout Krishnan running calculations with an abacus and writing them down with pen and ink. Reith gave his name and said in careful Gozashtandou: “We have a reservation for sixteen, thirteen Ertsuma and three Krishnans, in the name of the Magic Carpet Travel Agency.” He flourished a paper.
The Krishnan glowered up. “No room.”
“What?” Reith turned to Khorsh, who corroborated the statement. “But—but I have a definite reservation, with a deposit paid in advance!” Reith waved the paper under the Krishnan’s nose.
The Krishnan, whom Reith supposed to be Haftid himself, flapped
“In that case, let us occupy the two vacant chairs, thereby satisfying everyone, as Kurdé the Wise is said to have done in the legend.”
“If none of my people or their baggage gets lost.”
The litter resembled a telephone booth with a seat inside and a pair of wooden shafts extending fore and aft. Reith squirmed into the seat, getting tangled in his sword. The two chairmen, each of whom wore a leather harness depending from his shoulders to take some of the weight, stooped and hoisted the chair.
The procession set out. Reith craned his neck out the window to see how his convoy was doing. He was in the middle of the string of litters. After the litters came the porters, and after the porters, the carriage.
The column plunged into the streets beyond the waterfront. These streets were so narrow and crooked that the chairmen had to crowd to one side to let pedestrians squeeze past. Because none of these streets ran straight for more than two blocks, Reith soon lost sight of the ends of his column.
When the route straightened out enough to allow a clear view to the rear, the carriage was not to be seen. The porters were plodding along with their loads, but the coach, with Shirley Waterford and the dear boys, was gone.
Reith wondered whether the vehicle was stuck at a corner, or had been caught in a riot, or had been attacked by kidnappers. He asked himself whether he ought to run back. Then he committed his missing tourists to the mercy of Dashmok. If they got lost, it would be their own stupid fault.
###
Roqir was setting in the full scarlet-and-purple glory of a Krishnan sunset when the litters drew up at a nondescript stone-and-timber building, with the skull of some Krishnan beast above the door. A hand-lettered wooden sign bore a row of fishhook characters, looking something like Arabic and something like shorthand. Reith guessed that they gave the name of Haftid’s Inn.
Reith spent a frantic half-hour paying off the porters and the chairmen and collecting his tourists and their baggage. There was no sign of the carriage. At last, while Reith was wondering how to organize a search party, the sextuple clop of an aya’s hooves resounded, and the carriage arrived. The press of traffic had thinned with the arrival of supper hour.
“Got caught in a jam,” said Considine. “I thought we left earth to get away from those, but . . . Hey, where’s my little blue case?”
Considine was examining the pile of baggage. Reith knew the case in question. In it, Maurice Considine kept the ornaments and jewelry with which he enhanced his looks. Reith, too, failed to find the case.
“God damn it!” yelled Considine. “One of these gooks stole it. I’ll—”
“Calm down, Maurice,” said Reith. “I told you to carry small hand luggage. If you didn’t—”
“Oh, screw you! Some of that junk was valuable! I’ll raise hell! I won’t stand for it!”
“Looks as if you’ll have to,” said Reith. “Now I’ve got to see to our accommodations. Stay here, everybody. Father Khorsh, will you come along?”
Reith pushed through swinging doors and entered the common room of Haftid’s Inn. One side was for eating and drinking, with benches and long tables. A few customers sat at these. The other side included some crude stools and a large desk. Behind the desk sat a stout Krishnan running calculations with an abacus and writing them down with pen and ink. Reith gave his name and said in careful Gozashtandou: “We have a reservation for sixteen, thirteen Ertsuma and three Krishnans, in the name of the Magic Carpet Travel Agency.” He flourished a paper.
The Krishnan glowered up. “No room.”
“What?” Reith turned to Khorsh, who corroborated the statement. “But—but I have a definite reservation, with a deposit paid in advance!” Reith waved the paper under the Krishnan’s nose.
The Krishnan, whom Reith supposed to be Haftid himself, flapped