Trullion: Alastor 2262 by Jack Vance Read Free Book Online Page A

of dead wood. You need only carry it here.”
    “A very long distance for folk with sore backs.” Glinnes pointed to the spit.
    “Those fowl only half grown; none have raised a brood. We hunt only the three-year birds, which no doubt you’ve already killed and eaten, and probably the two-year birds as well, and after you devour the yearlings none will be left. And there, on that platter-the ground fruit. You’ve pulled up entire clumps, roots and all; you’ve destroyed our future crop! You say you do no harm? You brutalize the land; it won’t be the same for ten years. Strike your tents, load your wagons* and go.”
    Vang spoke in a subdued voice. “This is not gracious language, Squire Hulden.”
    “How does one graciously order a man off his property?” asked Glinnes. “It can’t be done. You require too much.”
    Vang Drosset swung away with a hiss of exasperation and stared off across the meadow. Ashmor and Harving were now engaged in a startling Trevanyi exercise that Glinnes had never before witnessed. They stood about thirty feet apart and each in turn threw a knife at the other’s head. He toward whom the knife was aimed nicked up his own knife to catch the hurled knife in some miraculous manner and send it spinning into the air.
    Trevanyi wagons are ponderous boats with wheels, capable on either land or water.
    “Trevanyi make good friends but bad enemies,” said Vang Drosset in a soft voice.
    Glinnes replied, “Perhaps you have heard the proverb: East of Zanzamar live the friendly Trevanyi.”
    Vang Drosset spoke in a voice of spurious humility. “But we are not all that baneful! We add to the pleaures of Rabendary Island! We will play music at your feasts; we are adepts at the knife dances …” He twitched his fingers at his two sons, who hopped and jerked and swung their knives in shivering arcs.
    By accident, by jocular or murderous design, a knife darted at Glinnes’ head. Vang Drosset cawed, in either warning or exultation. Glinnes had been expecting some such demonstration. He ducked; the knife struck into a target behind him. Glinnes’ gun jerked out and spat blue plasma. The end of the spit flared and the birds dropped into the coals.
    From the tent darted the girl Duissane, her eyes projecting a dazzle as fierce as that of the gun. She snatched at the spit and burned her hand; she rolled the birds out on the ground with a stick, all the time crying out curses and invective. “Oh you wicked urush,** you’ve spoiled our meal! May your tongue grow a beard. And you with your vile paunch full of dog-guts, get away from the place before we name you a stiff-leg Fanscher. We know you, never fear! You’re a worse spageen*** than your horn of a brother; there were few like him.”
    Vang Drosset held up his clenched hand. The girl closed her mouth and grimly began to clean the birds. Vang Drosset turned back to Glinnes, a hard smile on his face. “That was not a kind act,” he said. “Did you not enjoy the knife games?”
    “Not particularly,” said Glimes. He brought out his own new knife, and pulling the Trevanyi knife from the target, sliced off a shaving as if he were paring a withe. The Drossets stared in fascination. Glinnes sheathed the knife.
.’Zanzamar: a town at the far eastern tip of Cape Sunrise.
    **urush: derogatory Trevanyish cant for a Trill.
    *** spag: state of rut; hence spageen: individual in such a condition.
    “The common land is only a mile down Ilfish Water,” said Glinnes. “You can camp there to no one’s detriment.”
    “We came here from the Common,” cried Duissane. “The spageen Shira invited us; isn’t that good enough for you?
    Glinnes could not comprehend the basis for Shira’s generosity. “I thought it was Glay you traveled with.” Vang Drosset made another gesture. Duissane turned on her heel and took the birds to a serving table.
    “Tomorrow we go our way,” said Vang Drosset in a plangent, fateful voice. “Forlostwenna* is on us, in any