Jaezila tossed her head back so that her brown hair rippled all gleaming in the moonlight. She laughed full-throated. And, so laughing, saw me.
“Jak!”
“Well, Jak,” said Tyfar, scraping his chair back and standing up to greet me, “and have you freed yourself of your entanglement outside the city? Do you come to stay with us?”
“Lahal, you two,” I said, walking up and grasping Tyfar’s hand, leaning down to kiss Jaezila. “No. I’m not clear yet.” I sat down and the wine was poured as I pulled the chair forward. “But I joy to see you—”
I had told them only the most superficial account of my true life and circumstances out of necessity. They knew I was happily married, although I had — prudently — given Delia a different name. I had said — and I would not want Delia to learn this too swiftly — that her name was Thylda. That was a good name in Hamal. You see what petty shifts one is driven to when friendship is sullied by these monumentally idiotic politics of war! So they knew that my entanglement outside the city was not with a woman.
I asked after the fliers they had come here to buy, and heard that the work proceeded slowly, for the people of Hyrklana deeply resented having to build airboats for Hamal. Only fear of that great empire on the mainland opposite, and its mad Empress Thyllis, kept the Hyrklanians polite to Hamalese in their midst.
“Although,” said Tyfar, looking flushed and annoyed, “a factory was burned to the ground today — ten fliers were lost. They go in for fires in Huringa, I see.”
I told them that the fire in the Souk of Trifles had been started by two sorcerers quarreling.
“Their damned Quern of Gramarye, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Now that I had joined them, the slaves could bring the food. One thing was sure, despite the enormous difficulties, when Vallia had triumphed over Hamal — as we would! — we’d stop all this slavery. The transformation of a slave-owning society into a free society was causing difficulties in Vallia, and the problems would be worse in Hamal. But in Opaz’s good time, the task would be done.
Jaezila wore a deep crimson evening robe, just such a gown as Delia had once worn here in Huringa, and with a narrow golden belt from which swung not a silly ornate curved dagger but a solid workmanlike rapier and main gauche. She looked stunning. And yet still she teased Tyfar, and tweaked him and, as I looked at them and saw, she was more attached to him that she probably realized. As for Tyfar, his dark blue evening robe concealed a harness of mesh link, I did not doubt; his rapier and main gauche swung from his belts outside the robe. Under the folds of cloth I also did not doubt he had his axe about him. He was not willingly parted from that axe, was Prince Tyfar of Hamal.
Toward the end of the meal he kept darting puzzled looks over my left shoulder. A wary expression crossed his face and then he returned to the squish pie. But again he looked up. Open and frank, bold and fearless — these words describe Tyfar as he carried himself with us, for we were comrades. With his father, Prince Nedfar, and the high notables, Tyfar tended to the withdrawn, the aloof. A bookish man, he had taken up the axe as a kind of defiance of those forces seeking to mold him into the run-of-the-mill Hamalese prince. A good man in a library and a good man to have at your back in a fight, Prince Tyfar.
He said, “I think—”
Then he stood up, very quickly, overturning his glass of wine. His rapier snicked out and thrust past my ear as he flung himself forward. I was off my chair and rolling on the ground, without thought. I heard the scream of surprised pain and then I was up, rapier in hand, to see that damned assassin fellow who had been following Unmok and me writhing with Tyfar’s rapier through his guts.
Jaezila’s own sword flicked about, checking the sudden surge of interest from other diners at adjoining tables.
The wretch skewered so neatly fell down. Tyfar withdrew.
“Friend of yours, Jak?”
“My thanks, Tyfar — not exactly. He’s been following us — me — around Huringa tonight. I’m glad I know where he is now.”
“He’s on his way to the Ice Floes of Sicce, that’s where.”
“May his ib rest in peace — although I do not think that likely.”
“Pay the reckoning, Ty, and let’s go.” Jaezila spoke evenly.
“Agreed.”
I started to shuffle coins out and the prince checked me, as he always did in these matters. He was a real prince.
The landlord waddled up, protesting, but a dead man who might or might not be an assassin was no new thing in this Kyro of the Happy Calsany. A few gold coins jingling, a smile and a word or two, and the matter was settled. We were known to be strangers, and rotten damned Hamalese at that, but gold was gold.
We walked away, and Jaezila picked up a ripe shonage to eat as we went along.
So I told them about my dealings with Vad Noran.
“Unmok the Nets and I sold Noran a parcel of wild beasts. We were up at his villa when the slaves broke out.” I didn’t tell him why the slaves had escaped. “Some schrepims were released from their cage and the reptilian warriors went berserk.”
“Schrepims,” said Tyfar. He pursed his lips. “Nasty.”
“Quite. Unmok and I managed to beat them off with the aid of a lion-man, and this great Vad Noran appeared and was given the credit for the fight. We did not care. Unmok just wanted his money and to get out, and the numim escaped, for he had been a slave there. So now, I think, Noran wants to shut our mouths in case we spread the true story. He has been dubbed a great Jikai because of his supposed fight—”
Jaezila laughed, striding along, munching shonage, the juices running down her chin. “It is strange, for we have heard of the Jikai Vad Noran performed. And it was like that!”
“We heard more about this Noran, also,” said Tyfar, and he spoke seriously.
“He builds vollers and no doubt sells the airboats to you?”
“Yes. It was not his factory that was burned to the ground. But—”
“But he seemed most pleased that the vollers had been destroyed.” Jaezila wiped juice. “No. Not seemed. He was damned pleased — and it is easy to see why.”
These two blade comrades of mine believed that I worked in secret for the Empress Thyllis — a lie I had been forced to for the sake of friendship and a whole skin — and that I was Hamalese as they were. At least, as Tyfar was. Jaezila might not be Hamalese but she labored for that evil empire just the same. So I could say, with a grimace, “Because they hate us.”
“They do hate us. And again, it is easy to see why.”
Once more we were on thin ice. I guessed that Tyfar’s father, Prince Nedfar, did not share the grandiose ideas of conquest harbored by Thyllis. Hamal had extended out to north and south, laying waste lands and islands, sending her iron legions to destroy all the might sent against them. Well, we in Vallia were checking that onward march. But south of Hamal, in the Dawn Lands, the Iron Legions of Hamal surged on in blood and death. The invasion to the west of Hamal into the Wild Lands had been halted some time ago. To the east, across the sea to the island of Hyrklana... Well, would not Hamal seek to conquer Hyrklana in the fullness of time? Unless mad Empress Thyllis was stopped? There must be many men in Hamal who wished to check the empress and could not. And I had said — or implied — that I worked secretly for Thyllis. Tyfar’s father opposed Thyllis — again in secret. Yes, thin ice, damned thin ice...
“The empress is like a dark center of contagion,” said Jaezila. I looked at her sharply. Tyfar’s face remained wooden. I guessed they had talked long and deeply on this. Now, how was I supposed to react?
“I once said that revolution might not be the way. I once said—”
“Yes, Jak the Sturr?”
“I do not like wars and killing and all the horrors they bring in train. If they could be halted... “ I paused. “If they could, the world would smile again.”
“But Thyllis is strong. My father extends feelers, but he must move cautiously.” Tyfar looked at me an
d his brows drew down. “We are blade comrades, Jak. Yet you work for the empress, personally—”
“We are blade comrades. You are aware that my opinion of your father is that he is a great man. I would like—” Again I paused. “Prince Nedfar is a man among men.” Was the idea so ridiculous, so impossible? Would it be beyond the bounds of reason to imagine the Empress Thyllis deposed and Prince Nedfar installed as king and emperor? The war would end then, instantly. Vallia and Hamal could shake the right hand of friendship and turn to the more pressing problems of the reivers from over the curve of the world, the dark cloud of horror that threatened all these bright lands of Paz on this side of Kregen.
I harbored the suspicion that Tyfar’s sense of honor would prevent him from raising his hand against his empress.
Feeling cautious, I said, “It is said in many of the old writings that a man’s allegiance to his country must outweigh any friendship for an individual.” Tyfar remained unresponsive. “Other wise men say that friendship overrides all other considerations. Does loyalty without friendship constitute reason enough?”
“Loyalty—” Tyfar would have gone on, but Jaezila burst out passionately: “I hate this stupid war. Thyllis should have had her backside slapped when she was younger, been made to realize a few things.”
“Now, Zila...” Tyfar was not so much outraged as amused. I perked up. For a high and mighty prince of Hamal that was a good sign. And Tyfar was no high and mighty prince in that petty and world-weary way; he was alive and eager and filled with the conviction that, as the gods had seen fit to make him a prince, he was obliged to honor that position of trust.
We had talked up the east boulevard heading west, toward the somber bulk of the Arena. The outer courts of the Jikhorkdun would at this hour still be crammed with throngs seeking a continuation of the thrills of blood and death, catching a glimpse of their favorite kaidur, seeing an animal trainer, doing business with a slaver, organizing the eternal wagers, perhaps taking up swords and venturing into small practice rings to pit strength and skill against professionals.
Now shouts lifted at our backs and we turned about, wary and alert to possible danger. It was just a miserable coffle of arena fodder, being prodded along toward their destinies.
“Klactoils,” said Tyfar. His face expressed a distaste I knew to be for the institution of the Arena and which people who did not know him and reacted as the common run of folk react would have taken for disgust at these chalk-white Klactoils. A strange kind of diff, the Klactoil, parchment white, only around three feet tall, with a thick ridged array of spines down the backbone and a walloping great tail that could take your ankles off. There is a fishy look to a Klactoil’s face quite different from most of the faces of Paz. They keep themselves to themselves in out-of-the-way places, ruins like the Lily City Klana were infested with them. It was said — and at the time I was not aware any more than anyone else of the truth of the saying — that they were either a decadent remnant of a marooned band of marauding Shanks from over the curve of the world or else and more darkly a product of miscegenation of Shanks and some doomed race now long extinct.
Whatever the truth of that, these Klactoils were whipped and prodded along the boulevard headed for the Arena. The guards did not spare their whips. Most of the time I noticed that the lashes fell relatively harmlessly across that barrier ridge of spines along the diffs’ backbones.
“Let the bosks at them!” a fat man declaimed, licking his lips. “That’ll be rare sport!” He watched, safely away from them.
“No,” disagreed his companion, nudging him. “Let the chavonths chew them up.”
“If you ask me—” said a thin woman with a down-drawn mouth, one or other of the men being unfortunate enough to claim her for wife. “If you ask me, they should be tied two and two, and then tied two and two, until there is only one left.”
“Yes?”
“Then let your bosks or your chavonths at him.”
Jaezila made a disgusted sound, and we walked on. No, the institution of the Jikhorkdun in Huringa, the capital of Hyrklana, was not a pretty affair at all.
Of course, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that one of those Klactoils might succeed in the Arena, might win his victories, advancing from coy to apprentice, to kaidur, and then, if the gods smiled on him and he trusted in Beng Thrax, he might become a hyr-kaidur. Then his fortune would be made. Of the fifty or so I did not think more than one percent would do that; which meant not one would succeed in the Jikhorkdun. The opposition would be just too fierce, from savage animals and giant beasts to extraordinary proficient and cunning kaidurs who’d have their tripes out as they stood on the silver sand gawping at the crowds and the color and the noise and the whole impressive and diabolical display.
The life of a hyr-kaidur could be alluring. I knew that. Once you had made your mark, achieved your victories, stayed alive, you were a man set apart. The life could suck you in and overwhelm you with sensory impressions, with the fierce surge of combat, with the ferocious partisanship and courage that sought victory for your color. The Mystique of the Arena might possibly transcend areas amenable to reasonable analysis; it existed. I had been a hyr-kaidur in Huringa at a time that, with the stink of the place in my nostrils, did not seem at all long ago... Yes, the Jikhorkdun possessed its aura, and between harshly defined limits the Arena did have a genuine feeling, a sense of passion in victory, an involvement with means which, in themselves, created a mystery above reason, even if the ends were despicable to me. I wanted nothing more of the Jikhorkdun, where I had been known as Drak the Sword.
Jaezila threw down the remnants of the shonage. “All the same,” she said in her bright, no-nonsense voice, “the Jikhorkdun in Ruathytu is far more bloody than the one here in Huringa.”
Tyfar hunched a shoulder. “True.”
Ruathytu, the capital city of the Empire of Hamal, was well-known to me. I had visited the arena there, unwillingly.
“We were interrupted at table,” I said. “Let us find a fresh bottle.”
“And we can talk more about this Vad Noran. You know him well?”
“No, Jaezila. Only to sell wild beasts to.” I laughed, shaking off the dark mood. “Oh, and to provide him with a vicarious Jikai.” We jested, between ourselves, in an easy companionable way, and made light of ponderous matters. But the ponderous matters pressed in hard.
We found a small tavern that was not too congested and a bottle of red Corandian, very low in alcoholic content, and split it between us. “And did you see this mysterious swordsman, this Gochert with one eye and the other all covered with crusted diamonds and emeralds?” Jaezila lifted her glass and before she drank, added, “I am intrigued how a one-eyed man can be so sure with a blade.”
“As to his prowess as a bladesman, that I cannot say,” I said. “But, yes, I did see him. He moved with a deliberateness, rather like a stalking leem, very quiet and smooth. He wore good blades. He dressed austerely. And he was thin, by Krun! At the time I remember I thought he looked like a starving ferret.”
Jaezila laughed. Tyfar nodded. “Such men are quick with a blade.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. He gave Vad Noran the Jikai[1] for the fight with the schrepims. But I don’t think he could believe Noran had really done what was claimed. He looked at me with his one eye, very fishy.”
“A Klactoil eye!”
“Precisely.”
“But he was apim, like us?”
“Assuredly. What do you know of him? For I confess, he intrigues me.”
“I know little and that little bodes ill for Hamal.” Tyfar lifted the bottle, which was empty, and signaled the serving girl, who was a Gonell slave with silver hair wound around her body three times. The fresh bottle opened, Tyfar said, “My people here keep their eyes and ears open. They tell me this Gochert is a part of a conspiracy against Hamal.”
This sounded promising. Maybe Gochert had been too harshly judged. Anyone willing to strike a blow against Hamal woul
d, in Vallia’s present circumstances, be regarded as an ally. And then Jaezila put the question that was crucial for any decision.
“Against Hamal, Ty? Or against the empress?”
“That, by Krun, I do not know. My people have done well to discover what they have. There was a spymaster here in Huringa I could have called on for assistance. Unfortunately, he disappeared before we arrived. Our ambassador here is jolly and fat and sweaty, as you know, Zila, and more than a bit of a ninny.”
“Well,” I said, putting the boot in, “the empress chose him.”
“For a purpose, Jak. The Hyrklese hate us. Fat jolly Homan ham Ambath is a man difficult to detest. I think in this Thyllis chose wisely.”
So that chopped me down to size. But Tyfar was right. Thyllis might be mad and bad; she was also shrewd and cunning and utterly ruthless, and therefore uncaring of ways and means just so long as the ends were her ends. And then Prince Tyfar said something that made me hold my glass motionless at my mouth just a little too long.
“It would solve many of our problems if only Hyrklana were a part of the Empire of Hamal.”
Oh, no, my bonny prince, I said to myself, in that, my blade comrade, you are totally misguided.
Chapter three
Unmok and I Agree to Quarrel
“Wriggled like a beetle stuck through with a pin, did he?” Unmok spoke with great satisfaction. He was not a bloodthirsty man, as I well knew, and he’d always avoid a fight and pay someone else to take the knocks if he could. If he had to fight, then he would take his part bravely. “Serve him good. Although, to be sure, Jak, I didn’t know you had friends in Huringa.”
“The capital is big enough to take in all kinds.”
“I didn’t mean that! And you know it, you hairy apim!”
Rebel of Antares Page 3
