Tales of Drysdale House (6)

 

(Custom Illustration courtesy of Paladin)

Narrative of Patrick Masters.

I was flying back to San Francisco from Pittsburgh on a commercial flight. As I thought back over the past twenty-four hours, less than twenty-four hours really, I wondered how I had come to agree to undertake a commission so far from what I believed in, and so far from what I had understood my character to be. Leigh, the flight attendant brought a scotch and soda to my aisle seat in the last row of business class.

“Not what you usually have sir, I hope everything is all right.”

I was pleased by her genuine concern. Usually on a flight I have only water or soda, but I felt that I needed at least one drink. Leigh is such a sweet lady. Some fellow will be lucky to find her and make her his wife. She moved back down the aisle, stopping at Anders, the Gorean assassin. We were travelling separately, at least for now. I had first seen him in the bar at the Downtown Marriot, less than a day ago. Then I thought he might have been sent to kill me. Now that I knew him for an ally, I feared him more than I did then. I leaned back but could not rest. I thought back over the events of the past day.

Woodrow Frick had come into the bar to collect me to take out to the Frick Mansion to talk to Wyandotte Frick. Wyandotte was the new Ubar or leader of one of the traditional North American families that dealt slaves to Gor in exchange for aid and technology. Wyandotte had offered his aid when my car had been ambushed by a gunman two nights before. It was a terrifying time. I had been grateful that I had purchased a fast German sedan rather than driving my old reliable Subaru. It was reliable but not built for escaping from murderous gunmen in a high-speed chase.

Woodrow had walked up to me while I was standing at the bar. I was trying not to stare at the man who managed to remain so inconspicuous sitting at the door. As Woodrow was greeting me, I told him I was worried by the man by the door, wearing sunglasses indoors.

“He is a man well worth worrying about. His name is Anders. Most people don’t spot him, I am told, until it is too late. But he is not here for you. He is an assassin from Gor, and he is a friend of an old friend of mine. He sets my teeth on edge, to use an old expression, but he is vouched for. The Red Caste and the Black are antipathic. I want to see what Wyandotte has to say about allowing him near our operations. Don’t mention him to anyone else. We don’t want to spook the other North American families by having an assassin in our following.

I nodded as though I understood, although I did not understand the implications of half of what he told me. Woodrow went on.

“The house is overrun with Frick cousins, most of them parasites, and Emerys of course, all come for the companioning ceremony of Elliott Emery to my loving half-sister Chelsea.” 

(Afterthe Bighorn, Chapter 17, The Trial of Chelsea Frick)

Woodrow made a droll face. He and Chelsea barely tolerated each other. He went on.

“Chelsea is putting up a good front though. She is acting as though being companioned to a man forty years older, even if well-preserved, is her fondest desire. Felicity Emery, I think you met her once, is here, as well as the Bannon female. And we have members of all the other North American families as well, Bannons, Finnegans, Robinettes and others. So watch what you say, in front of anyone who is not Wyandotte, Zach Frick, or myself”

“I am a lawyer. I can be discreet.”

“Be discreet, don’t make mistakes like Sam Vansittart did in the court case.”

I nodded. I looked around, Anders was nowhere to be seen. As I walked to the door with Woodrow, though, he suddenly appeared at my elbow. I started. Neither Woodrow nor Anders smiled. When we were in the car driving to the Frick estate. Woodrow spoke again.

“Anders, I want you and Patrick Masters,” he gestured to me, “to stick together. Speak as little as possible, both you, to anyone else at the party.”

“I can remain inconspicuous. It is part of my training. What about him?” He gestured to me.

“If necessary, I can speak and say nothing; that is part of my training.” I did not laugh at my own little joke.

Woodrow drove in by a back way, and led Anders and I to a terrace outside the windows of Wyandotte’s office. He walked away. Anders turned to me.

“We should make it look as though we are talking. Two men standing without talking is conspicuous.”

I nodded. “Your English is very good, do many Goreans speak Earth languages?”

“I do not think so. Only those who come on Voyages of Acquisition, I expect. When I came there were sleep-learning appliances, as I learned to call them, I learned several of your languages and was instructed on many of your customs.”

“Was the passage from Gor to Earth rapid. I am told it can take as long as six months or as quickly as three.”

“It was only two of your months. Our vessel was commanded by a very capable pilot, Marius the Mariner.”

I had heard of Marius. Instead of following the orbit of Gor and Earth, which is the easiest and safest navigational path between the worlds, he would cut across the orbits, which was riskier and harder. I had never heard of a two-month passage though.

The party seemed to be coming towards us. More and more people filled the terrace; it was going to be difficult to avoid talking to other guests. I spotted Don Emery, with whom I assumed was his wife, Janice. I had had Don at Drysdale House recently. He was a minor Emery who worked as a dry cleaner, with attached tailor shop. Some of his employees made what he sold as Harem Wear. Silk, especially thin silk suitable for kajirae, was difficult to work with: he had supplied custom fitted costumes for Juli and Veronika; he had been quite taken with Juli. 

(After the Bighorn (23)Dancers and other matters)

To get away from taking to people, I suggested we take a walk in the grounds. We walked up a gentle rise while still keeping within view of the house so we could be hailed when wanted. We were near the edges of the property by the back road when Anders stiffened. He grabbed my arm, then pushed me to the ground. For a second, I thought ne might have decided to kill me, but rapidly I saw him focused on a clump of bushes off to one side.

“Stay here, and stay quiet, and stay down,” he hissed.

I nodded. Anders approached the bush obliquely. He was moving quickly, low to the ground. He disappeared, then re-appeared and motioned to me. When I entered the clump of bushes, I was surprised.

“It looks like a hunter’s hide or blind, a firing position.”

He confirmed what I thought, then he asked very quietly.

“It is exactly what it looks like. I know. What is the range of your forbidden weapons?”

I knew that by forbidden weapons Anders meant all kinds of firearms and explosives. Woodrow had told me, during long nights by the fire on the Lazy F ranch, that the Priest-Kings forbade such weapons on Gor, to encourage bravery in face-to-face confrontations.

“It is an easy shot from here to the terrace, or even through the window of the house.”

“The assassin may return at any time. I will keep watch from over there,” he gestured to a group of trees, “while you summon help.”

I nodded and headed down the hill. I had already been shot at a couple of days ago. I didn’t think I was the target this time, but there was still an itch between my shoulder blades as I made my way down the hill as rapidly as I could without drawing attention. When I arrived on the terrace, I started looking for someone to inform them of the danger. Instead, I encountered Chelsea Frick and her gaggle of friends.

“Patrick Masters, how good to see you again. It is such a pleasure. Girls, this is a friend of ours, Patrick Masters.”

The hypocrite was playing the happy Companion-to-be to the hilt. She was such a good liar. I would need to remember that. I remembered how the Companionship had come about (insert link to the trial of Chelsea Frick). She deserved to be in a collar, and I sincerely hoped that it would be mine.

I played along and smiled back. I said hello to Felicity Emery and some insipid Bannon girl. I looked beyond the tipsy girls and saw Zach Frick and Michael Emery strutting around each other. Bruno, one of the Frick henchmen, was watching ready to break it up. I approached the pair. I nodded at Michael Emery; I had met him when he came to pay a condolence call after the death of Chelsea’s father, Willard.

Steel Worlds (28), 

After the Bighorn (8) Preparing the Merchandise

“Excuse me, Mr Emery, I need to speak to Zach, I have a task for him.”

Zach frowned, I didn’t care. I pulled him away to a quiet corner. Bruno followed. I spoke urgently to Zach, I didn’t care if Bruno heard.

“Anders, Woodrow’s friend, has discovered a sniper’s nest up the hill. He is keeping watch, we need to get some help immediately.”

Zach started protesting.

“Woodrow isn’t a friend of Anders; the Black and the Red castes do not mix.”

“Zack! Concentrate. Get moving on some action!”

Zack was still trying to clear his head of his rivalry with Michael Emery. Bruno was already headed up the hill, but in an oblique angle so as not to alert any possible killer.

We didn’t hear anything, but a piece of the stone façade of the building above our heads went flying. Zach was staring at the raw gash in the weathered rock of the wall; I was looking up the hill. I saw Bruno running straight towards the bushes. I pushed Zack.

“Get Woodrow, I don’t care what he is doing, this is more important. Make sure Wyandotte is safe and above all, be discreet.”

I headed up the hill. When I reached the sniper’s bush and plunged into the thicket, I found Anders fighting with one man while Bruno was wrestling with another, trying to take a rifle away from him. The weapon discharged with a quiet sound. The man fighting Anders went down. Bruno and Anders both leaped for the assassin with the rifle. The rifle was wrested from his grip and he stood panting, facing Anders and Bruno. He heard me come up behind him and whirled to face me. Anders and Bruno seized him, forcing him, resisting, to the ground. As he was pinned to the earth, suddenly he stiffened and then went limp. Bruno grabbed his chin, and forced open his jaw. Anders reached inside the man’s mouth with his fingers, bringing forth a white pulpy mass.

“Poison tooth; fast acting.”

“This one is dead too. No one to question.”

Bruno sounded disgusted. Anders was agitated.

“They got into the nest and started firing before I could reach them. They were very quick.”

“I know, I saw. They had scouted well and saw an opportunity.”

Woodrow arrived and looked at the scene.

“Both dead?”

It was Bruno who replied.

“The sniper shot the spotter. Not sure if it was on purpose or by accident trying to get your man.”

He nodded at Anders. In the moment, neither denied the affiliation.

“Then when Mr Masters arrived, and it was three to one, he used his poison tooth. There was nothing to be done.”

Woodrow looked at the body of the spotter. Then at the body of the shooter.

“I don’t know that one. But I recognize this one. He was the inside man for the attack on the Lazy F. He is definitely VanRijn’s man. His name, the name he gave us anyway, was Fred. I don’t think he was here for you, Patrick, though he might have been behind the attack on you two days ago. He came here for Wyandotte, or at least that is my guess.”

Woodrow, Bruno, and Anders spoke some more, but in a language I did not know. I presumed it was Gorean.

 

**

We convened late that night in Wyandotte’s study. He had not done much to impress his own personality on the room. It looked much as it had when I had first seen it immediately following Willard Frick’s murder. The guests had finally gone to their beds, either here or at various Pittsburgh hotels. The Emerys, except Felicity, were all staying at hotels; the two companions would not be under the same roof until the Companionship ceremony in two days. Even so, there were still many people for the new Ubar of the Fricks to meet and socialize with as he tried to restore his family’s position.

There were five of us; three Fricks, Wyandotte, Woodrow, and J Cornielius Frick IV, who it seemed as acting as a sort of counselor to Wyandotte; Anders and lastly me. Woodrow described for Wyandotte and Cornielius the events of the afternoon, including the death of the would-be killers and the disposal of the bodies.

“Fortunately, sleen will eat anything and we weren’t, as far as I know, observed taking the bodies to their kennels. Bruno made it look like some minor landscaping work with a small tractor and garden trailer. Zach provided a distraction by having that boring little Don Emery describe some of the slave silks he provides to the families. Between the men being interested in the pictures on his phone, and the ladies affecting disapproval we got the bodies moved.”

J. Cornielius intervened.

“Why is that minor Emery showing up here again? He is not really involved in the Emery Family councils. Suddenly they are pushing him forward.”

It was Wyandotte who answered.

“Because of Masters here, and because Don Emery lives near San Francisco. The Emerys want to find out more about Patrick. Michael Emery is not just the vapid playboy he seems. There is a brain in that head. When he and Felicity made their condolence call after Willard’s murder, they met Patrick and learned he was staying here at the house. That piqued the Emery’s interest. So they want to keep an eye on him.”

Wyandotte turned to me.

“Don’t shut him out but be careful what he sees. I don’t trust that man.”

Cornielius observed.

“You don’t trust most people.”

Wyandotte nodded and replied.

“I misjudged VanRijn. I thought he would be quiet until after the Companionship, and hopefully until we were back on the council. We wanted to conceal our weakness from the other North American families. That’s why I made the deal to settle. We got an influx of cash and land, VanRijn escaped jail and embarrassment. And now this.

“Now Patrick, tell us about the attack on you.”

I described the attack on Juli and I when we were driving home from a dinner, and how only good luck, my new German sports sedan, and the automatic gates at Drysdale House had saved us. I then went on to describe Barbara Quipley’s concern at the disappearance of her sister, Hannah. I wound up by saying that VanRijn had left San Francisco for his rural hideaway a week earlier as he announced he would be spending ‘some quiet time in reflection’ until the New Year.

Wyandotte had listened carefully.

“Where is this hideaway? Is it a small place, a cabin in the woods, a Zen-like retreat?”

I shook my head.

“It is more like Hearst’s Xanadu than a monastery. It is called Dragonwyck II. It is near the coast of California, up near the Oregon border. It is wild country, surrounded by forest. A client described it to me once; he flew in by helicopter. It is modeled on the first Dragonwyck, an upstate New York property that was owned by his family on the Hudson for three hundred years. It was burned down in a tenant revolt in the 19^th century. VanRijn is very protective of his privacy up there, I am told.”

“So it is hard to reach then. He feels safe there.”

“From what I understand, it is only reachable by helicopter or by one logging road. There are few people around, mostly hippies, recluses, loggers. Mr client told me there were some trout streams there, and salmon coming up the river, pretty remote.”

Woodrow spoke.

“Should we lay quiet until after we are on the Families Council again? It sounds as though he and that lawyer of his Vansittart, have taken their shot and missed. He will find it hard to find another shooter. You can’t just advertise in the papers for one. Some time in November, we can plan something with personnel from the ranch. It is a quiet time for us then, and we can deal with this VanRijn.”

Wyandotte shook his head.

“No. We underestimated this man once, we gave him a second chance; allowed him to make a deal, to have peace. I do not think we can wait again. He may find, or may already have, more resources than we suspect. It should be now, and it should be before he suspects the failure and death of this Fred person. We likely have less than ten days until he starts laying other plans.”

Wyandotte turned to Anders, who had been sitting quietly by the fire.

“Will you undertake this contract for us? As you see, we need justice for our losses and to protect ourselves and our friends.”

Wyandotte gestured to me when he spoke of protecting their friends. I was surprised at what I had let myself in for, associating with the Fricks. I knew that they were dangerous, but I had seen no other legal path to fully, legally possessing Juli. I loved Juli; and I wanted to own her, the fullest sort of connection, sanctioned by generations of evolution and custom. Now here I was, in the room as murder was discussed. The law and legality, was always the most important thing for me, now I confronted a fork in the road. What was I willing to do to possess, own, and protect Juli?

Anders rose. His tone was formal:

“I will, Ubar. My friend Scipio Metellus is a friend to Oudroe Frick here present, and we need friends to help us establish us here on the Slave World. There is one problem, I do not know the forests of your world, nor am I well versed in wood craft and approaching this Dragonwyck. Find me a guide and some help and I, Anders of Victoria will undertake the task.”

There was silence for a moment. Then a voice spoke up.

“I can guide Anders. I know the coastal woods. Juli and I have camped there, I know the maps. We will need kayaks to come in unobserved by the trout streams as we cannot take the road.”

So it was agreed. I had volunteered to lead an assassin to his target. It was partly because of Juli, partly because of my anger at being targeted by VanRijn and Vansittart for doing my legal duty in the patent case. In a way I argued to myself, it was really self-defense. If I did not kill VanRijn, he would kill me. He was too powerful and rich to involve the police. I would stand my ground to hold what was mine. It was right. It was just. I hoped it was legal.

So now it is the next morning, Anders and I are flying back to San Francisco. We will quickly head north to accomplish our task. I see Leigh, the flight attendant talking to Anders. He is now known by the name on the Luthan passport he carries: Anders Anderson. Wyandotte had arranged the papers.

Later, after our meals have been served, she returned with warm cloths to wash our hands. She spoke to Anders.

“Excuse me sir, there seems to be a little smudge on your face, it looks like a little cross on your forehead. Shall I clean that for you?”

“No, it is a mark of my caste. It shall remain until I have completed my pilgrimage.”

“I am so sorry sir, I meant no disrespect to your religion, I hope you can forgive me.”

The girl Leigh is always so helpful and kind. She had even charmed the Gorean Anders. She had no way of knowing that Anders had carefully drawn the mark on his forehead that morning. It was a dagger, the sign of an Assassin of Gor on a mission. He would remove the mark when he had plunged a dagger into VanRijn’s heart.