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us just because the folk of the Dar al-Harb are incomers to Skrelleland like
you Vinlanders."
"I never thock of that." Park clapped a hand to his forehead. "This bounds
strife is quite embrangled enough without worries of that sort."
"So it is." Ankowaljuu chuckled, a bit unpleasantly. "At least I need not
trouble myself about any faithly forejudgment on your part. As a one-time
Christian bishop, no doubt you will have glick scorn for the
Emir and his Allah on the one hand and our hallowing of the sun and Patjakamak
who put it in the sky on the other."
"I think all faiths can be good," Park said.
Ankowaljuu's eloquent grunt showed just how much he believed that. The funny
thing was, Park really meant it. Anyone who wanted to play politics in New
York had to feel, or at least act, that way. And nothing in Park's experience
with criminals had shown him that people who followed any one religion behaved
conspicuously better than those who believed in another.
Trouble was, both the Tawantiinsuujans and the Emir's subjects took their
religions so damned seriously.
"Dar al-Harb" itself meant "Land of War" war against the pagans the Moors of
Cordova had found when they crossed to what Park still sometimes thought of as
Brazil. Since all the Skrellings in the southern half of Skrelleland were
pagan, the past few hundred years had seen a lot of war.
"Well, maybe this is one war we'll stop," he muttered.
He didn't know he had spoken aloud until Ankowaljuu said, "I hope we do." The
tukuuii riikook raised a hand to the brim of his derby and walked off.
Park opened his book to the place his thumb had been keeping. Religion,
politics, greed . . .
embrangled wasn't nearly a strong enough word for this case. A word that was
came to mind, but not one suited for polite company. He said it anyhow,
softly, and plunged back in.
* * ** * *
Reed flutes whistled mournfully. Allister Park didn't think it was fit music
for a fanfare, but nobody'd asked him. "Judge Ib Scoglund of the International
Court of Skrelleland!" a flunky bawled in Ketjwa.
Park bowed at the doorway to the big reception hall, slowly walked in.
Slowly was the operative word, he thought. Kuuskoo was more than two miles
above sea level; the air was chilly and, above all, thin. He'd come by train
from the broiling tropical port of Ookonja in less than
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a day. Any sudden motion made his heart pound wildly. He looked around for a
chair.
He spotted one, but before he could sit down, a big, red-faced man came over
to pump his hand. "Haw, good to meet you, Hallow, er, Thane, er, Judge
Scoglund," he boomed. "I'm Osfric Lundqvist, the
Bretwaldate's spokesman to the Son of the Sun."
"Thank you, Thane Lundqvist," Park said.
"My joyment." Lundqvist did not let go of Park's hand.
"Thank you," Park repeated, trying to find some polite way to disengage
himself from the ambassador.
Lundqvist was, he knew, an amiable nonentity who drank too much. Because
several nations lay between Vinland and Tawantiinsuuju, this was a safe enough
post for a rich squire with more influence than ability. No matter how badly
he blundered, he could not start a war by himself.
As if by magic, Eric Dunedin appeared at Park's elbow. "Judge, the Son of the
Sun's warden for outlandish dealings wants to meet you."
"Outlandish dealings?" Then Park made the mental leap between the English he
was used to and the
Bretwaldate's dialect: the foreign affairs minister, Monkey-face meant. "Oh.
Of course. Thanks, Eric."
"Here, let me inlead you to him," Lundqvist said eagerly.
"That's all rick, your bestness, but I ock to go alone. I'm here as judge for
the International Court, after all, not as a burgman of Vinland."
And, Park thought, I'll get you out of my hair.
Lundqvist looked disappointed but managed a nod.
The warden for outlandish dealings was a middle-aged Skrelling with iron-gray
hair cut in a pageboy bob like Ankowaljuu's. Unlike Ankowaljuu, though, he
wore in each ear a silver plug big enough to stopper a bathtub. Only the high
nobility of Tawantiinsuuju still clung to that style.
Park bowed to him, spoke in Ketjwa: "I am glad to meet you, Minister
Tjiimpuu."
Tjiimpuu bowed in return, not as deeply, and set his right hand on Park's left
shoulder. "And I you, Judge Scoglund. How fare you, in our mountain city? The
climate is not much like that to which you had grown accustomed traveling
here, is it?"
"No indeed." Park tried a Ketjwa proverb:
"Patjam kuutin
theworld changes." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he
had them back; the saying's implication was, for the worse. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]