Hailing from hot, humid worlds, the thranx were especially uncomfortable here on Tran-ky-ky. They walked past, muttering to each other in High Thranx. Ethan wondered what horrible misdemeanor the two had committed to be assigned to this world. Tran-ky-ky would be a fair realization of the thranx concept of Hell.
“Wonder what’s going on?” September pointed outside as they passed the inner set of doors.
A crowd had gathered on the entryway ramp. There seemed to be an argument taking place in its center. The two men hurried through the outer doors.
It seemed as if a million lumens hit Ethan’s eyes photons-on. The exterior doors were chemically tinted to make the outside glare bearable. Passing through, Ethan had neglected to pull down his goggles. Quickly he lowered them, opened his eyes. Gradually his sight returned and he could discern something besides white. It still felt as if someone had taken a file to his optic nerves. He lowered his face mask, not quite fast enough to prevent a couple of tears from freezing solid on his cheeks. The face shield melted them away.
Words of the argument reached him as he followed September forward into the crowd. Some of them he couldn’t translate. The ones he could embarrassed him. A couple of Tran were expressing enormous dislike for one another.
One of them was Hunnar. The other Ethan didn’t recognize. The combatants faced each other in a small open space, exchanging imprecations with unfaltering volubility. Suaxus and Budjir stood nearby, fingering the hilts of their swords nervously, their teeth half showing. Those, in the crowd nearest them were murmuring threateningly.
“… off-spring of a crippled k’nith!” the strange Tran growled at Hunnar. Ethan noted with some surprise that the stranger was taller than the knight, though not nearly as muscular. In fact, he looked soft. Green and gold metal-fabric sashes were draped importantly across his chest in diagonal pattern, shoulder to hip below the dan.
Metal-fabric: imported trade goods, he knew. Strapped to the richly-dressed Tran’s left leg was a short sword made of stelamic instead of the barely adequate local steel that formed Hunnar’s blade. Its handle was made of intricately molded plastic.
“I will not fight with you.” The stranger tried to muster some officious dignity. “I do not fight with…” The last word he used had an ambiguous meaning, one which could identify any outlander, or indicate the lowest form of peasant.
“I hight Sir Hunnar Redbeard,” the knight replied with a half-snarl. “Conqueror of Sagyanak the Death, destroyer of the Horde, and knight of Wannome of Sofold.”
“Never heard of either,” someone in the crowd snickered. There was degrading laughter all around. Suaxus and Budjir tried to spot the quipster, failed.
“You will hear soon of it,” Suaxus muttered. “It will make a fine inscription for your wandering time.”
“Speaking of fertilizer,” Hunnar continued, “that is undoubtedly what your family trades in, to obtain those shiny trappings you wear and that flashing new sword. So new, in fact, it seems not to have seen use. But then what use has one who dabbles in shit for a sword?”
The Tran opposite stiffened. Ethan knew that on Sofold, at least, natural wastes froze instantly as soon as they were exposed to the outside air. They were then collected by people who dealt in such produce and resold to various farmers, to be reheated and spread as fertilizer. The precarious island ecologies of Tran-ky-ky were kept in balance only by rigorous recycling of any available soil nutrients. The necessity of the profession, however, did not mitigate the offense of Hunnar’s remark.
Everyone in the crowd recognized the insult. Snickers and comments gave way to angry mutterings and the movement of hands toward weapons. No adult Tran and few cubs were ever seen without at least a dirk attached to outer thigh. Though Hunnar and the squires were considerably more battle-trained and experienced than the mob of citizens, they were badly out-numbered.
September and Ethan stepped into the circle. “We are visitors here and we wish no trouble.” Ethan studied the assemblage. “These three are our friends.”
At that announcement a remarkable change came over the mob. The one Tran who had been arguing with Hunnar made apologetic gestures to Ethan. His manner changed abruptly from offensive to obsequious.
“May my cubs be taken by guttorbyn if I have offended you, sky outlanders! I did not know that these,” he almost used the word for peasant again, “others were your personal friends. Had I so known, this would not have happened. I beg my family’s forgiveness.”
“Well,” Ethan began, a bit confused by the unexpected speed of the other’s apology, “I forgive you, if that’s what you want.”
“Tell Hunnar you’re sorry.” September grinned.
The brilliantly bedecked Tran stared at September. For an instant Ethan saw a glimmer in the native’s eyes of something other than respect. It vanished quickly. “As the sky outlander desires.” He turned to Hunnar.
“I ask forgiveness, friend.” The last word was forced out like a recalcitrant belch.
“Finish it properly.” Ethan threw the giant a warning look. They’d obtained an apology, for heaven’s sake! What more did September want?
“My… my breath is your… your…” He looked uncomfortably at September, avoiding the eyes of the crowd.
“Tell him,” insisted September coolly.
Assuming a remarkable expression of distaste, the native put out both arms and approached Hunnar. Placing a hand on each of the knight’s shoulders, he exhaled toward his face. “My breath is your warmth,” he said quickly. Then he retreated into the crowd.
The sympathy of the onlookers, Ethan decided, lay with the departed and not with Hunnar. The knight wrinkled his broad muzzle. “Pagh! That smells of falf lard.”
“Anyone else have anything to say?” September stared at the crowd. With murmurs and mutterings, the assembled citizens began to move off. Like crumbs falling from a cake, they fell away in different directions and smaller and smaller groups. The murmurs included distinct apologies, but all had been directed to Ethan and September.
“What was that all about?” Ethan asked the knight.
Hunnar looked upset. “We were waiting patiently for you and friend September. Local people were going back and forth from the building you entered. Many of them made comments to us. None were pleasant to hear, Ethan. Some would have caused blood to freeze in the streets of Wannome.” He took a deep breath.
“But this is not Wannome and we did not wish to do something that might give you trouble or embarrassment. It was very hard, but we ignored all such comments. At least, we did so until that last pash made a reference upon my family line which could not be ignored.
“Had you not intervened, Ethan, I would have decorated the street with his insides.”
“You are quick to forgive,” Suaxus said softly. Hunnar turned and glared at him, but the squire looked back defiantly. Suaxus had always been fast to take offense, Ethan recalled.
“We hardly intervened,” he said, trying to mollify any discomfort Hunnar might feel for not having fought his opponent. “We were ready to fight alongside you if need be. Why did they all simply apologize and melt away as they did?”
September began scratching the earring-decorated ear. “I’m not sure myself, lad. None of the Tran in Wannome acted like that toward us. They were polite, but independent.”