Mutiny in Space by Avram Davidson Page A

admitted, “I was thinking of a tall, cold drink of greensleeve. ‘Spaceman’s ruin’ — eh? As a matter of fact, Aysil Stone didn’t fall apart because he drank. He drank because he was falling apart…. An ill-starred voyage, Cane — a bad smell to it from the start. However — well. I think that I don’t care much for the prospect of walling ourselves up in the temple precincts with a clutter of barbarian philosophers.”
    The cliff fell away to one side at that point, leaving the whole country open to view for scores of leagues around. It was rugged terrain, with no sign of any of the cultivated fields visible in the early morning toward City Sartissa. It was woodcutters’ country — minus the woodcutters. Far, far-off, across all but bottomless valleys with thin silver lines of streams snaking along them, on a jagged crest, they saw a ruined castle: snub tower and curving battlements, Properly supplied, properly armed, there in that relic of what Rahan-Joe and O-Narra called the
ban-o-thy
— the “time of kings” — they might, few as they were, be able to hold off all the Dame’s armies and all the Dame’s women.
    But they lacked both facilities.
    “We’d be safe,” Jory said. “Both of the Val people insist on that.”
    Rond compressed his lips. “I have come to be as fond of the small man as if he were my own son. And I am glad that you and the young woman are suited.
But
, Mister Cane, our object is not to be safe. We were safe on the island. Our object is
to get away
. And I don’t think that will be easy while we are, so to speak, clutching the horns of the altar.”
    Jory wriggled out of his shirt, wiped his face with it, tied it around his neck. The land had begun to form a great series of shelves, like giant and crumbling steps. Down they went, carefully, carefully, down, down, down.
    “Of course,” said Rond, “I don’t see that at the moment we have any choice.”
    Early afternoon brought them out of the rocks and sun and onto a wooded plateau.
    “I think we might call a halt for rest and refreshment, Mr. First,” said Rond. And then several things seemed to happen at once. A creature of some size came loping out of the trees diagonally across their path. There was a shout. A thud. The beast stumbled, rolled over, lay still. Someone cried, “Oh, good, Moha!” The same voice said, almost at once, in an entirely different tone of voice, “Lady-Narra!”
    A small man in a flowered kilt held out his hands, then, more in bewilderment than fear, let them fall. O-Narra said, in a careful voice, “Lord Clanan.”
    He stared, open-mouthed. Then his eyes observed Jory’s naked chest. He flushed, put his hands to his mouth. “Men!” he said.
    And two women, both bearing cross-bows, came out of the woods.
    • • •
    Lady-Moha was on a week-long hunting trip with her principal husband, Lord Clanan. With them was a younger friend — Lady-Sejarra. Their retinue was, by choice, small. The cares of Fief-Moha had been too much on its Lady’s mind, and her husband had persuaded her to advance their annual holiday by three weeks, and to reduce its party’s size. They had been here now for three days. Hunting was good, Lord Clanan played the traditional music of the Vales of Lan (his original home) on the five-stringed
gor
, the Ladies sang. Maid Thila, the infant heiress to Fief-Moha, slumbered in her cradle.
    Rahan-Joe tactfully parted from his new friends, and went to be of use to the servitors. The sudden appearance of seven guests was perhaps not balanced by the equally sudden appearance of one thrall, but Moha’s retinue — torn between the problem of making the food and table-settings go almost twice more, and the irresistable desire to see the Giants — made little complaint.
    The members of the hunting party rose as well to the occasion as could be expected — indeed, Jory thought to himself, better. Observing Lord Clanan’s courteous attentions as he directed his manservant