The Burning City by Jerry Pournelle Page B

back out to see the rest. The head was rising and rising on what looked like leagues of neck. It turned toward
us
. Acrimegus waved and danced and shouted, ‘No, no, you massive great fool,’ until it turned toward the privateer and started to dip—”
    â€œWhat
was
it?”
    â€œWell, an illusion, of course, but the privateers turned about and ran. What made it work wasn’t just Acrimegus’s light effects, but the details, the way he acted, the way
we
were acting.”
    â€œWere you frightened?”
    â€œI pissed in my kilt. But what a story! I’d travel again with Acrimegus any day. Now you tell me something.”
    â€œI’ve seen a Lord.”
    â€œSo have I. Where was your Lord?”
    â€œAt home, in Lordshills. He had a fountain. And a room inside where they can cook. A room to piss in, with running water. And a room where kinless wrote things on paper and put them in jars, but I couldn’t go in there.” Whandall decided not to speak Samorty’s name. He would hold that in reserve.
    â€œCan you read?”
    â€œNo. I don’t know anyone who can read.” Except the Lords could read. And Shanda.
    â€œYou do now. What did your Lord do?”
    Whandall was still trying to understand what he’d seen on two visits. “He had other Lords to dinner, and a magician. People who weren’t Lords brought the food and took it away, and all the Lords did was talk and ask each other questions. At the end they acted like they’d fixed something broken, only… only it was the next Burning. They think if they can make people talk to each other, they can miss the next Burning. And at the end he put on armor and went out with some other armed men.”
    â€œDid they… do
you
think they put off the next Burning?”
    No grown man or woman could answer that question. Whandall didn’t think even Lord Samorty knew that. Whandall said, “No.”
    â€œThen when will it happen?”
    â€œNobody knows,” Whandall said. “There was another Lord who made cups move in a circle. Like this—”
    â€œYes, that’s called juggling.”
    â€œHow do you do it?”
    â€œYears of practice. It isn’t magic, Whandall.”
    â€œIt isn’t?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThere was a…” Whandall couldn’t remember the word. “People pretending to be other people. Telling each other a story like they don’t know they’re being watched.
Jispomnos
, they called it.”
    â€œI’ve seen
Jispomnos
. It’s too long for after dinner. It runs on forever! You saw just pieces, I bet. Was there a part where the wife’s parents want blood money?”
    They talked through the morning and deep into afternoon. Whandall practiced his scanty Condigeano from time to time, but usually they were each speaking their own language.
    Tras spoke of his own affairs without hesitation. Still, it was hard for even a teller to tell how he lived… to see it from inside… to see what a stranger must miss. They had to walk circles around their lives, to sneak up on the truth.
    â€œDo you know who your father was?”
    Whandall said, “Yes. Do you?”
    â€œYes, of course,” Tras said.
    â€œWhat you did with your face. It looked like you wanted to fight.”
    Tras shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe for just a moment. Sorry. Whandall, it’s an insult to ask if anyone but my father is my father.” Tras changed to local speech. “This not Condigeo.
You
feel I still respect you?”
    â€œYes, but we don’t say
father
. Resalet—” Tras lofted one eyebrow. Whandall explained, “Resalet is father to my brothers Wanshig and Shastern and two of my sisters. He tells us, ‘I know who
my
father is. So do you. But maybe I’m talking to one who isn’t so lucky. I don’t throw it in his teeth. You don’t either. You say
Pothefit
. You and I