“No matter,” said Jory calmly. “We’ll come.”
Cafferty put her hands on the old woman’s shoulders, as though to hold her back.
“But you’ve got no act,” cried Fringe. “No … no hype.”
“Oh, Jory has an act,” said Asner firmly. “Sort of an animal act.”
Jory gave him a warning glance and patted Cafferty’s shoulder as she said, “Don’t worry, Fringe. We’ll do well enough. You may tell the hound we’ll be ready whenever’s time for the banquet.”
Fringe returned with this message, no whit comforted. The chief chimi-hound seemed satisfied, however, for he swaggered his way up the hill toward the town, leaving only a few of his men to watch the Dove with avid, reddened eyes.
“Serious about it, isn’t he?” the captain commented. “What’s going on here?”
“I wish I knew,” said Danivon, exchanging an undecipherable glance with Curvis. “He’s obviously been put up to it by someone. Or something. Perhaps Curvis and I had better do a little preliminary reconnaissance.”
“First you’d better do something about your eyes,” said Curvis.
Danivon nodded painfully and went off to explore the contents of the med kit. Though he could smell nothing at all, he was able to see fairly clearly by the time the two of them went off down the pier in their show costumes, both pretending not to notice the clot of chimi-hounds who shambled along behind them.
Fringe thought it wise to see to the Destiny Machine. Discretion suggested that new capsules should be lettered in the Derbecki dialect, leaving out all words from which unfavorable inferences might be drawn at the current time. Words like “victory” and “choice” and “leader.” Cafferty found her sorting through the capsules and stayed to help her. Between the two of them, they replaced many of the old words, finishing up about the time that Danivon and Curvis returned, both very frown-faced and irritable.
“Damn near riot prevails,” muttered Danivon to the assembled group, including the captain. “We stopped in a tavern and listened to the talk. Seems Old Man Daddy arranged for his only son, Fat Slick, to be elected Perpetual Leader. Seems the chimi-hound chiefs weren’t all that fond of Fat Slick, so he died of accidental strangulation on the gibbet the morning after his daddy passed on. Then came a pretender from up-country, one calling himself Fees-mew and claiming to be Old Man Daddy’s younger offspring. He’s gained a considerable following from the lands around the sources of the Ti’il.”
“Then,” Curvis took up the story, almost with relish, “the boss chimi-hound chief—there’s twelve of them together, and this is the meanest of the lot—announced Old Man Daddy had picked him as successor by passing him the key to the treasure vaults just before he died, though this is widely assumed to be a lie because the boss chief has shown no signs of sudden wealth.”
“Which wealth,” said Danivon, “is still, so far as anyone knows, up in the tower vaults where Old Man Daddy stored it, needing the proper key or combination or whatever, to keep whoever enters the vaults from blowing himself, and it, sky-high in bits.”
“So the election is between this up-country pretender and the boss chimi-hound chief, and either of them would give his nose, teeth, and left arm for what’s in those vaults,” Curvis concluded the story.
“Does the boss chief have a name?” Jory asked.
“Houdum-Bah,” Curvis answered with an unamused snort of laughter. “Old Houdum-Bah the Bad.”
“And tonight’s affair?”
“A preelection victory feast for Houdum-Bah. It’s local custom to throw such banquets, to show how confident the candidate is. Meantime, Fees-mew is staying under cover, keeping safe from chimi-hounds who’d kill him gaver quick if they could catch up to him. Each candidate has forces abroad in the countryside, killing off the opposition or anybody who’s just standing around.”
“And we’re entertainment?”
“Too true,” Curvis replies. “That we are, in a place that likes its amusements bloody. And Danivon smells trouble.”
“I don’t smell anything at the moment,” corrected Danivon. “Though the drug should wear off shortly.”
“How do the common folk feel about it?” Asner asked. “The Murrey, the color-people?”
Danivon shrugged. “They quote at us, is all. They bow and smile and say ‘All rou-Murrey when the old man dies.’ And true enough, at that. There’s been enough bloodshed already to make the Ti’il flow scarlet.”
“They’ll do dabbo-dam, tonight,” Jory mused. “They’ll do dabbo-dam and then some.”
“Likely,” brooded Curvis.
“What’s dabbo-dam?” asked Fringe and Nela, both in one breath.
“Calling down the gods,” said Jory with distaste. “Oh, they’ll call down the gods right enough, High Lord Chimi-ahm and all.”
“I’d like it much, much better out of here,” said Danivon. “But Boarmus told us to take a look, so we must.”
“Why?” asked Jory, looking puzzled. “Why did Boarmus want you to take a look?”
Danivon shrugged. “That he didn’t tell me. Just sent a clear language message telling me to investigate manifestations in Derbeck.”
“Manifestations?” she asked, darting a troubled glance at Asner.
Danivon shrugged. “In any case, Jory, there’s no way out. The booms are down across all the channels, with chimi-hounds guarding the booms. There’s no way for the Dove to get back to the river.”
He leaned across the rail, staring up at the town, sure that this time and place was the trouble he’d been smelling ever since leaving Tolerance. “I don’t know what this Houdum-Bah is playing at, but he seems set on doing it. Safest for us is probably to do what they want and trust in our skills to keep us out of trouble.”
“Or possibly get us out,” muttered Fringe. “After we’re in.”
They prepared for their performance in no mood of anticipation. Curvis and Danivon spent some time checking their armamentarium, deciding which highly advanced devices they would carry, deciding on those that could be easily concealed beneath their showman’s garb. Fringe carried a heat beamer on her belt, beneath her oracular garb. The twins had
