The Steel of Raithskar Read Online Free PDF

emanated from him. He was a little taller than I, his hair darker and sparser, his hands thinner. He moved them in a gesture of invitation.
    “Sit, Rider, and eat,” Balgokh said.
    I sat down and took up the eating implement which was partially imbedded in the contents of the bowl. It was ceramic, shaped very much like a spoon, except there were two slots in the end, which formed three fork-like tines. It matched the other pieces of the serving set, and said something about basic values in Gandalara: graceful utility.
    The bowl contained what appeared to be finely chopped vegetables and chunks of meat. I scooped a small bite into my mouth, braced for anything. It was pleasantly warm, and tasted something like oatmeal with bits of lamb—a distant relative of haggis.
    “This is delicious,” I said, meaning it. Balgokh bowed slightly, accepting the compliment.
    “We offer the best fare we can to those who pass through our compound. Please, eat. We will talk when you have finished.”
    As I ate—I was intensely hungry, and had to try not to wolf down the food—I considered what they had called me: “Rider.” It was a title, not a name.
    The bowl of food was quickly gone and, surprisingly, I was quite satisfied. When I finished, Keddan came back in to take away the bowl and fork-spoon. Had he been watching through the curtained doorway?
    When he had gone, Balgokh reached into his flowing robe and took out a small pouch and handed it to me. “Your money, Rider. Your sword will be returned when you are ready to leave.”
    I accepted the purse with new misgivings. Hesitantly, I asked, “Do I owe you for your hospitality?”
    Oops.
    The tall man stiffened, and his voice lost the note of familiarity that had been present earlier. “We sell water to the caravans,” he said with deadly formality, “for that is the living of the Fa’aldu. But we demand nothing of the distressed, and we
never
accept coin.”
    Hurriedly I stood up and bowed with what I hoped was formal grace. “I ask your pardon, Respected One.”
    Boy, do I need more information about this culture—for that matter, about the person I’m supposed to be. But how the hell can I ask questions about things which are absolutely obvious to other people? A man wandering around California asking questions like “What are grapes?” or “Who is the president of the United States?” is going to be suspect as a mental case. If I don’t want to head straight for the local equivalent of a twitch bin, I’d better think about
everything
I say before I say it. Unless …
    I decided to tell part of the truth.
    I touched the side of my head gently. “This blow on my head has left me confused, Respected One. My memory is addled.”
    To say the least.
    He thawed instantly, and looked so concerned that I felt a twinge of guilt. “I have heard of such cases,” he said. “I saw one, myself, many years ago, when I was an apprentice. An unfortunate man. He was a caravan driver, who had been kicked in the head by one of the vleks. He did not know his name or where he came from.”
    “What happened to him?” I asked, glad to hear Balgokh’s voice lose its frostiness.
    “He died.” Then, at what must have been a look of utter shock on my face, he added quickly, “But he was in much worse shape than you. It was a miracle that he lived the three days he spent with us.”
    I laughed a little. “I’m not going to die.” The words held infinite meaning for me. “But I admit I can’t remember my own name.”
    He grinned broadly. I was interested to see that, old as Balgokh was, he, too, still had all his own teeth. I was getting used to the large canines; Balgokh’s smiling face was not what I could yet call handsome, but I was beginning to like it. Especially when Balgokh said:
    “I am delighted to be of help to you in that respect. Four days ago, the caravan of Gharlas stopped by, trading food and cloth for water. You were with them as a mercenary guard—at least,