Haggopian and Other Stories

“Ah! But that’s a poor man’s philosophy, Tarra Khash—the philosophy of defeat. For a poor man has nothing to lose, and what’s life itself but a burdensome, lingering thing? When a man becomes rich, however, his viewpoint changes. And the richer he becomes, the greater the change. Which tells you this: that since coming here I have grown rich. So rich that I am no longer willing to risk a fifty-fifty chance of hying myself to Chlangi all in one piece. Aye, for what’s wealth if you’re not alive to enjoy it?

“Wait!—let me say on. Now, I can see your first question writ clear across your face. It is this: how, by what means, have I, Hadj Dyzm, a poor man all my life, suddenly grown wealthy? Well, this much I’ll tell you—” He brought out a weighty saddlebag from beneath his robe, spread the hem of Tarra’s blanket over the smooth rock, tipped out contents of bag.

Tarra’s jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide, reflecting the glow and glitter and gleam of the heap of gold and jade and jewels which now lay scintillant in the fire’s flickering. And: “By all that’s—” he gasped, stretching forth a hand. But before his fingers could touch, Dyzm grasped them in his own wrinkled paw.

“Hold!” he cautioned again. “Wait! You have not heard all. This is but a twelfth part of it. Eleven more bags there are, where this one came from. Aye, and an hundred, a thousand times more where they came from!”

“Treasure trove!” Tarra hissed. “You’ve found a cache!”

“Shh!” said Dyzm sharply. “A cache? A hoard? Treasure long lost and buried in the desert’s drifting sands?” Slowly he shook his head. “Nay, lad, more than that. I have discovered the tombs of a line of ancient kings, who in their time were wont to take with them to the grave all the treasures gathered up in all the days of their long, long lives!” And chuckling hoarsely, he patted Tarra’s knee through the blanket.

The tombs of kings! Treasures beyond avarice! Tarra’s head whirled with the sudden greed, the poisonous lust he felt pulsing in his veins—until a cooling breeze blew upon his brain from dark recesses of memory. In his mind’s eye he saw a huge slab of stone pivoting to block a portal, heard the shuddering reverberations as that massive door slammed immovably into place, felt the weight of a million tons of rock and sand pressing down on him, keeping him from the blessed air and light.

He drew back his hand and stopped licking his lips. His eyes narrowed and he stared hard at Hadj Dyzm.

The oldster gave a harsh, hoarse chuckle. “That’s a rare restraint you show, lad. Don’t you want to touch it?”

“Aye,” Tarra nodded. “Touch it? I’d like to wash my face in it!—but not until you’ve told me where it comes from.”

“Ho-ho!” cried Dyzm. “What? But we haven’t settled terms yet!”

Again Tarra nodded. “Well, since you’re so good at it, let’s hear what you’ve to say. What are your terms?”

Dyzm stroked his gnarly chin. “The way I see it, with you along especially in Chlangi my chances for survival go up from fifty-fifty to, oh, say three out of four?”

“Go on.”

“So let’s settle for that. For your protection I’ll pay you one fourth part of all I’ve got.”

Tarra sat back, frowned. “That doesn’t sound much of a partnership

to me.”

Dyzm chuckled, low and throaty. “Lad, these are early days. After all, we can only take so much with us—this time!”

Tarra began to understand. “As I prove myself—that is, as you continue to survive, which with my protection you will—so my percentage will improve; is that it?”

“Exactly! We’ll return—trip after trip until the vaults are emptied—by which time you’ll be earning a full half-share and there’ll be men enough in our employ to keep all the brigands in Theem’hdra at bay!”

“But where are these vaults you speak of?” Tarra asked, and got exactly the answer he’d expected.

“Man, if I told you that at this juncture…why, what need of me would you have then? Anyway, the vaults are impossible to find; I myself found them only by dint of sheerest accident. Aye, and I have sealed up the hole again, so that it’s now doubly impossible.”

Tarra grinned, however mirthlessly. “It would seem,” he said, “for all your high opinion of Hrossaks, that this one is only trustworthy up to a point!”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life,” Dyzm answered, “it’s this: that all men are trustworthy—up to a point.” He pointed at the fortune nestling in the corner of Tarra’s blanket, tossed down the saddlebag. “But keep them,” he said.”Why not? And take them up with you to your ledge to sleep the night, where a poor old lad with a pot belly and bandy legs can’t reach you and choke your life out in the dark. But don’t talk to me of trust and mistrust, Tarra Khash…”

Tarra reddened but said nothing. Truth to tell, old Dyzm’s arrow had struck home: the Hrossak had taken his precautions before sleeping, and he’d done a fair bit of suspicioning, too. (Only thank goodness the old fox hadn’t seen him following him, else were there a real tongue-lashing in the offing!)