The Best Made Plans, Everett B. Cole [free e books to read online .TXT] 📗

"Oh, I can talk to the Korental as an individual who wants to get help from some of his people for a hunt, sure. And we can then arrange an exchange of goods. That's between him and me. But if I tried to talk to him on this affair, he'd throw me out of the village." He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully.

"And, come to think of it, if he thought you'd asked me to intervene, after he'd tossed me out, he'd probably feed you to the Choyneu. That, he'd regard as a selling of honor."

Pete looked at him quizzically. "I can just see him—or any other person, monarch or no—throwing you anywhere you didn't want to go. I'd say the throwing would be the other way."

Don laughed softly. "Oh, that." He shook his head. "Well, let's just say I don't think I'd care to try it out on a whole clan at once. Things might get a little complicated."

A short, heavily muscled man came out of the council hut. In his hands, he held his slender sling-stick. He paused as he got to the door, then shook out the thong. For a moment, he stood, glancing across the end of the valley, then he wound the thong about the stick, securing it at the end with a half-hitch.

Again, he looked in the direction of Don and Pete. Then he held up the stick and beckoned to them.

Don pushed himself away from the bank.

"Well," he said, "here we go. They've come to some sort of a decision."

They walked through the door of the hut, stopping as they came inside. An old man sat on a hide-covered stool, facing the entrance. Near him stood Jasu Waern. The old man got to his feet.

"Waernpeto?" he asked.

Pete stepped forward and bowed. "I am Peto of the clan Waern," he said.

"It is good." The Korental nodded briefly, then looked at Don.

"And Michaels. I know you," he added.

Don looked at him curiously. There was that odd form of address again. Had he suddenly come to be regarded as clanless? What was this? He bowed.

"I know you, Korental," he said formally.

The old man before him nodded.

"We are not now sure how to address you," he explained. "Your father may yet be alive, so we cannot regard you as clan head. But as your father has not been found you may, therefore, be clan head in fact. The men of clan Mal-ka have joined us in searching the gorge of the Gharu, where his flier was shot down. Thus far, nothing has been found. It is a long gorge, and deep."

"Dad?" Don blinked. "Shot down?"

The Korental nodded. "Two days since," he said. "A flier of the Royal Guard fired upon him and his flier weaved and dropped into the gorge. No man saw its landing place." He paused thoughtfully.

"Nor were there flames."

Don glanced about the hut. It was the same place he had come to many times before, when he wanted to get beaters. It was familiar. And yet it was now a place of strangeness. Suddenly, he felt rootless—disassociated from people. He struggled to regain his poise and retain the formal manner expected of him. He managed a bow of acknowledgment.

"I thank the Korental for this information," he said. "I beg permission to await further word under his protection."

Somehow, he couldn't imagine anyone succeeding in shooting his father out of the sky. Kent Michaels had been one of the hottest fighter men in the guard. And even if he hadn't been able to get away from the guy, he'd have taken him down with him. How...? He jerked his attention to the Korental.

The old man had inclined his head. "My clan is yours during this time of trouble," he was saying. He looked toward Pete.

"And you are he who would be King of the Oredanu?"

Pete nodded. "I am."

"I see. Your father tells me of certain agreements made many years ago. He tells me of relationships, and of your possible adoption into another clan. These things are true?"

Again Pete nodded. "These things are true."

The old man considered him for a few seconds.

"Among the men of the hills," he said, "the simple word of a man may be accepted. For only a clanless one would think of speaking other than the truth. But I am told the men of the low countries have no such faith. They require writings, and the speech of many witnesses. This is also true?"

The question was obviously rhetorical. Pete smiled ruefully, but said nothing.

The Korental allowed his lips to curl in a half smile.

"These customs of the plainsmen are not unknown to me," he said. "Men of my clan have gone to the low country and have dealt with the men of the cities. Even now, members of the Kor-en live in the cities. But on the clan days, they return to their home, here in the hills." He looked down at the matting on the floor.

"Your father mentions a clan book," he continued. "Do you have this with you?"

Pete looked at him, then at his father. His expression was suddenly blank.

Jasu Waern stepped forward. "This book is in a safe place," he said, "in Riandar."

Don closed his eyes for an instant. "Oh, Brother," he told himself, "the lights just went out! I'll bet they're tearing that house up, stone by stone, about now."

The Korental nodded slowly. "How safe?"

"Why," Jasu was thoughtful. "Why, the hiding place is known only to me—and to my son." He bent his head, then looked up, smiling confidently. "No, it could never be discovered by an outsider."

"The book must be produced," the Korental told him. He resumed his seat on the stool and folded his hands over a short staff.

"We of the clans would be happy to support a legitimate claimant to the throne of Oredan. We are not happy with the rule of this outlander who has forced himself into power. But we also recognize the rules and the customs of the nobles of the land, who must have proof of everything before they will act. We are not strangers to the conclave, you must remember. And we are familiar with the power of the outlander." He looked at Don.

"Tell me," he said, "do you have an interest in this matter?"

Don nodded. "I am not of the clan Waern," he said carefully. "But my interests have become tied with theirs. Should the Waernu fail, my father's lands would be lost. And the climate of this land would become unhealthy for me—as well as for my father, if he still lives."

"Yes." The Korental regarded him. "I can understand that. We are not as uncivilized as many think us to be. We watched the broadcast of an attack upon your house." He tilted his head.

"Tell me," he added. "The broadcast ended rather suddenly. The announcer mentioned technical difficulties. Can you explain this?"

Don relaxed. The formal session was over for a while.

"I took a shot at them," he said, "with a Ghar rifle."

"Ha! They do have a weak spot, then. We'll discuss this later." The old man looked at Jasu Waern.

"Let us suppose that this young man should ask to be adopted into your clan. What would your answer be?"

Waern looked confused. "Why—— But he's been giving us——"

The Korental chuckled. "I know. He has some of those characteristics attributed by legend to clan talu, and to them only." He bent his head for a moment.

"Suppose I put it this way. When the clans and tribes meet for full consideration of your request for support, you will need strong council. And the councilor who presents your cause must be a member of your clan, of course. He must speak for you, the head of the Waernu."

Waern looked at him. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "And here, we may find strong council." He looked across at Don.

"You would consider this?"

Don paused. This, he thought, was getting serious. It had been fine at first. He had just followed instructions from an experienced agent. And there had been quite a thrill at being in the middle of things. But somehow, everything was flying apart. All at once, he was on his own.

And now—well, clan councilors were pretty responsible individuals. They were supposed to be the experts on law and custom. They were supposed to put things together—and keep them that way. He could remember daydreams he'd had once, of