Some pot-bellied, swag-jowled, bloodshot-eyed, gold-bedecked oaf had bumped into me. The objects I had felt had been his guts and his sword. I will not repeat what he said.
The tide of invective poured on. I did not know who he was. The uproar attracted attention. He clearly felt himself to be an important man.
Even as I plucked my fist out of the air and slapped it down, opening my hand out to clamp around my thigh, I turned away. Hitting him would not help my three friends. And, somewhere in the limbo of the unborn, that new face of mine howled for a body.
By Zair! But I know my own face must have looked a sight — that devil’s look that stops a risslaca in its tracks.
I dodged down a side alley. Toward the end a cage held half a dozen werstings, and the black-and-white killer dogs prowled around and around, tongues lolling. Poor old Unmok the Nets had been in a quandary about his werstings. He put great store by them, and pampered them, and did not want to sell them and, because the rest of his merchandise was of top quality, had received offers. The quandary lay in this — his werstings were now soft. Pampered, overfed, overweight, perfumed and silk-ribboned, they would not last a heartbeat against real killers.
Mind you, I hold no brief for werstings. They have taken the seat out of more than one pair of breeches before I could jump clear. They and stavrers, both...
* * * *
The noise rose into the sky. The suns were gone and the gas lights jetted. Under the arcades all manner of unholy trades were going on, fruits of the excitement of the arena. The crowds jostled, taking the opportunity for a last look at famous kaidurs before the evening’s entertainments took on their more familiar aspects — taverns, theaters, dopa dens, girls all beckoned the raffish sets of Huringa.
In the shadows under the wooden swell of tiered seating of a small private arena I halted. Footsteps padded after me. Three drunks passed in the opposite direction, and I used their stumbling bodies as a shield to turn to confront whoever it was who stalked me. A man stepped forward.
“Lahal, Drak the Sword!”
“Lahal,” I answered firmly. “You would do yourself a good service, Cleitar, if you omit the Sword from my name.”
His one eye disappeared as he winked — or blinked — who can say in a one-eyed man?
“I understand. I thought you dead. You left — I recall it as though it were yesterday.”
“And, when that fat oaf bumped into me, you saw...?”
“Aye, Drak. One does not easily forget that look—”
“So I am told.”
“By the brass sword and glass eye of Beng Thrax! I am glad to see you. These young coys are all flatfish these days.”
I digested that. So much came out there. Cleitar must know we had not been blade comrades. But we had been comrades fighting for the ruby drang. I nodded. “Can you...?”
“Oh, I am a cheldur now and may come and go as I please.”
As I try to explain it, a cheldur is not quite like a Roman lanista. He is a trainer, above all, responsible for his barracks and for the production of kaidurs. He does not really possess the lanista’s privileges of arranging affairs.
Cleitar gestured to his face.
“This was a blessing in disguise.” He went on to describe in gory detail the fight in which he had received his wound. We walked on to where he said we could find wine or dopa. “After that they said I could be a cheldur and no longer fight. Well, by Kaidun! I have done well—”
“The ruby drang sits at the bottom of the staff.”
He looked savage. “Aye! The sapphire graint lords it now!”
So, weirdly, weirdly! I was back thinking and passionately thirsting for the ruby drang to be triumphant. I recalled how we reds fought and shouted, cat-calling the other colors, contemptuous of them all alike, how we crowed at our victories and screamed and rattled weapons along the iron bars at our defeats. Oh, yes, I had been a hyr-kaidur and one does not easily forget that, by Kaidun, no!
And, the other weird thing was, here we were, walking along and talking almost as though so many seasons separating our last meeting meant nothing, had never existed...
He wanted to know all about that dramatic escape in which a monstrous skyship had descended into the arena and plucked us from the silver sand. I told him a little — very little, as you will easily imagine. Then it was simple to go on talking about Oby and Tilly and Naghan the Gnat, for they, with Balass the Hawk, had been rescued along with me.
He had not heard of them, any of them, from that day to this.
So, I said to myself as we went into a vile-smelling place filled with wooden benches beneath a training ring, that means Naghan has to be armorer to another color.
“In here, Drak—” Cleitar said, ducking his head to pass under the lintel. I took his arm and held him back.
“It would be a good idea to call me by my name,” I said. “I am Chaadur, sometimes called Chaadur the Iarvin.”
He looked nonplussed for only a space, then he nodded, and we went in. He well understood that Queen Fahia would like to get her hands on me. Her pet neemus would have a feast then. And I was aware that he had to be watched.
As for the name Chaadur, this was a name I had used once in Hamal. And Iarvin — well, Pompino wouldn’t mind if I borrowed that, would he now?
The impression I took that Cleitar Adria hankered after the old days when he had been a hyr-kaidur strengthened. Hespoke offhandedly about the new men he had to train up. Not one, he said, banging his fist on the table, not a damned one was fit to latch the sandals of the coys in our day!
It occurred to me that, as the ploy had been successful already here in Huringa, I would try it again. By innuendo and hint I got across to Cleitar that, far from the queen being angry with me and seeking to have me killed, quite the contrary was true. I even went so far as to suggest the skyship had been a part of the plan.
“And I am here in Huringa, and Fahia—” I said Fahia and not the queen or Queen Fahia to impress him “—has been graciously pleased with my work for her. So, Cleitar, keep the old black-fanged winespout stoppered. Dernun?”
I said dernun in a nonviolent, inquisitive way, and his immediate response of “Quidang” carried also that note of conspiracy. And, at that, he got a thrill out of feeling in touch with skullduggery for the queen.
Dopa, that fiendish drink, was being drunk by other men in this malodorous cavern. Cleitar bellowed for purple Hamish wine and I was quite startled when it was forthwith produced.
He nodded, slyly. “This is more like it, Dra — Chaadur. We do ourselves well, out of sight, like. Better than Beng Thrax’s Spit, yes?”
“But you are surely allowed into the city?”
“Of course.” He poured. “But well — I have grown used to the Jikhorkdun. It is my home now. Far more than my real home ever was, when I was a quoffa handler.”
We talked over the old days, remembering past kaidurs and hyr-kaidurs, and the great kaidurs they had performed in the arena. Just how much he really believed of my story about the queen I wasn’t too sure. But I fancied he wanted to believe. He was a very lonely man in these latter days.
This dopa den was not patronized by kaidurs, of course. Here congregated the men involved in the ancillary details. Here sat and drank beast-handlers and slave-managers, cheldurs and armorers, the quasi-privileged of the arena. If they wanted to sing or fight, as is the habit in dopa dens, I did not care, being in the mood to oblige either desire. I gave Cleitar to understand that my reason for being here this evening was to pick up a few tips. I’d been away, I said.
He gave me the names and rankings and running odds of various of his kaidurs. The reds were down in the mouth these days.
“We have a new batch due in, coys as green and raw as uncropped corn. Maybe out of three hundred I will find three who will do. Eh, Chaadur! You remember how we began, me and you and Naghan the Gnat?”
“I do.”
By Kaidun! I did! And I had to get about finding Naghan an
d not sitting like a putative sot drinking purple Hamish wine.
So, with excuses and promises to return, I took my leave.
And, and I say this with all sincerity, it had given me quite a jolt to meet Cleitar Adria again and talk over the old days. Quite a jolt. As I say, when you have been a hyr-kaidur in the arena, you never lose the cachet, odiferous though it may be.
* * * *
The partnership with Unmok proceeded splendidly, but he wanted to save the incoming money. I agreed. So instead of buying ourselves zorcas to ride about we purchased urvivels. These are sturdy animals, although not in the same class as zorcas. I walked across the patio toward my urvivel, patiently awaiting me, and two shadows closed in under the lights. We went outside the Jikhorkdun. The people had mainly streamed away along the boulevards. Suddenly, this patio was deserted of all save me and these two.
“By Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls!” quoth one, very merry. “I do believe we have a chicken to be plucked!”
“By the Resplendent Bridzilkelsh!” chortled the other, very darkly. “I do believe you have the right of it!”
They bore in, bludgeons upraised. One was, as you will perceive, a Rapa, and the other a Brokelsh.
I turned to face them. “A chicken, my friends? Oh, you famblys, I have no feathers left!”
So, joyfully, we met in combat — they to take my gold and slit my throat or bash my skull in if they had to, and I to prevent them. The first bludgeon blows hissed through air instead of rattling my brains in my skull. The first knife was drawn in exasperation. They were a right comical pair — I’ve no idea what their mothers called them — and they went to sleep, slumbering like the babes they once had been. I looked down on them and shook my head, in sorrow rather than anger.
“Thank you, my friends,” I said to their unconscious bodies. “You serve to remind me that life is mutable and that the suns may rise over Kregen as ever — but not for everyone.”
And with that, I mounted up on the urvivel and ambled off to our camp outside the city, and to a fine old argument with Unmok the Nets.
Chapter sixteen
An Armorer Raises an Echo
The argument erupted into a rip-roaring row.
“But we’re partners, Jak!”
“Yes. But—”
“The animals are sold. There is nothing to detain us here. I do not like the Jikhorkdun—”
“No more do I!”
“Well, then! What ails you, Jak? Let us clear out. I have good suppliers lined up and we can fetch in a fresh consignment—”
“What about your cage-voller?”
Unmok lifted his upper left and middle right. His upper right held a goblet of cheap wine.
“Not yet. I do not have the cash. But our money is safe with Avec Parlin, who has banking connections—”
“Yes, yes. But—”
“And this voyage will see it, Jak. It will! Then we can buy a cage-voller and set up properly in business.”
“I thought you were giving up? What was the last scheme — totrix breeding in Haklanun? Or was it a return to the beads and bangles on a vast scale—?”
“You mock me! We are partners, Jak!”
It went on for some time. I couldn’t leave Huringa now, of course not, and Unmok couldn’t see why not, and I couldn’t tell him. We went to sleep in an uncomfortable silence that all our attempts to come to an understanding only made worse.
In the morning we breakfasted with only the stiffest and politest of words between us. Froshak the Shine kept well out of it, and so opened his mouth as to yell more than twice at the slaves, which clearly indicated all was not well with Ms world.
“I have to see Vad Noran,” said Unmok. “No doubt you will be about your business — whatever that may be. I will see you tonight?”
“Yes. I will not — yes, I will see you tonight.”
I’d been about to say I wouldn’t leave without saying the remberees. But that would only arouse a fresh storm.
Riding the urvivel into Huringa, I pondered the problems. Today I intended to try my luck with the blues. The sapphire graint was the top color these days. Maybe Naghan had a hand in that. The guards at the Gate of the Trompipluns let me through — trompipluns means yellow feet — and I cantered to the inn where I would leave the urvivel for the day, preferring that to a public stables. The inn was The Queen’s Head. That has ominous overtones, if you like. It was situated right next door to the Arbora Theater where all this month of She of the Veils they were presenting The Vengeance of Kov Rheinglaf, from the Third Book of The Vicissitudes of Panadian the Ibreiver, by, as you are well aware, Nalgre ti Liancesmot. These ordinary events went on, the inn was patronized, the theater attended and all the time the Jikhorkdun lowered its shadow over all.
The noise of a busy city arose on the morning air. Slaves were hard at it. Guls were earning their hire. The gentry and nobles were thinking of getting up and facing the day. Carriages were already abroad. The hectic activity of the night in which the country carts trundled in with the produce to sustain the city’s life had ceased and given way to the equally hectic business of the day.
And I had a Gnat of an armorer to find, and a beautiful Fristle fifi, and a right tearaway who passionately loved vollers.
This early in the morning the environs of the Jikhorkdun held an exhausted, gray, hung-over look. The guards shuffled. I had scrounged a piece of blue cloth from our camp and had replaced the red with the blue. I walked up as though I owned the place.
Well...
At that time of day it was not too hard to find a way to let a gold coin change hands; a wink, a smile, and I was into the outer courts. Nothing — or very little — would get anyone into the inner courts. You had to be of the arena to be allowed there. I began my inquiries.
“Naghan the Gnat?” said a Khibil guard, his burly body straining his leather armor, his alert foxy face shrewd. “Well, now...”
Another gold coin changed hands.
Always fancy themselves a cut above the ordinary run of diffs, Khibils. I get along with most of them. Their ruddy whiskers, their bright eyes, their keen fox-like faces, have been a comfort to me on many a battlefield. The gold vanished.
“Yes, dom. Naghan the Gnat—” He hesitated.
“Yes!”
“Aye, dom. Yes. I know him.”
I quieted down. Maybe there were two men with the name of Naghan the Gnat. I nodded and the Khibil went on.
“See this thraxter?” He drew his sword and showed it to me. He pointed. The rivets of the hilt were indeed beautifully forged and fitted. I thought — I would not, dared not believe — they were Naghan’s work. “He did that, the little feller, after I wrecked the blade on the armor of that bastard of a Rapa who—”
“Where is he?”
“I’m telling you, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” I made myself speak meekly. “You are, dom.”
After all this time I was really going to find Naghan!
“He wanted to work for the reds. Course, the managers wouldn’t have that.” The shrewd fox face lowered on me. “I c’n tell you that we’re doing well now because Naghan’s armor is the best in the world. That’s why. Course, he works hard. Has to, d’ye see? They whip him if he don’t.”
My fingernails bit into my skin, but I held still.
“Where is he?”
“Where? Why, where d’you expect him to be?”
I suppose, just about then, this smart Khibil more or less took a closer look at my face. He swallowed. His stiff red whiskers bristled. Then he said, rather quickly, “Why, he’s in his forge, of course. Where else would an armorer be?”
Of course. The blue section might not be laid out in the same way as the red. I caught my breath, and then in what I considered a neutral voice, I said, “Tell me where the forge is, dom.”
The Khibil jumped.
He pointed. “Down that alleyway between the barracks and the second training ring. You can’t miss it — stinks of charcoal
and smoke and oil—”
I walked on.
The sound of a two-pound hammer in that particular rhythm: chang, ching-ching, chang, ching-ching, met me as I walked along. The smells were there, charcoal and smoke and oil. The furnace glowed cherry red. Three miserable-looking slaves cowered out of my way, carrying baskets of charcoal. I walked on. A man stood at his anvil, half-bent, striking neat, tidy blows, working with the utter absorption of a master craftsman.
This was no dramatic confrontation. There was no hectic rescue amid showers of arrows, no smiting away of sword blades to snatch Naghan to the saddle and gallop madly into the sunset.
I just walked up and said, “Lahal, Naghan, my name is Chaadur and—”
He whirled. He was just the same, thank Zair.
The hammer fell from his nerveless hand.
His stained leather apron with the marks of the fire on it, his small body all gristle and bone, his lively face, with the soot marks of his trade, sweating already, and his whole astonished gape endeared him to me all over again.
He began to stutter, and swallowed, and: “Dray!” and he would have gone on.
I said, “I am Chaadur the Iarvin. Best you mind that.”
“Aye,” he said. “Aye.” He shook his head, and bent to retrieve his hammer.
“Talk later, O Gnat. Are Tilly and Oby here?”
“No.” He wiped his nose and left black smudges. “Oby is with the yellows. I am not sure about Tilly. But, but...!”
“Later. Does anything detain you here?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Then bring your hammer and a few tools. Walk casually. We are on an important task for a great lord. Dernun?”
“Aye, and thanks be to Opaz—”
“Come on.”
So we walked along the alleyway. We did not pass the way I had come, for gold would not have quieted that Khibil guard. When Khibils hire out as guards they hew to their own codes of honor.
“I can’t just walk out, Dr — Chaadur!”
“You can and you will.”
We went along past the second training ring, briskly, Naghan two paces abaft me.
The gate I chose for the exit was guarded by a Rhaclaw. Rhaclaws possess immense domed heads; that does not mean they have any more brains than any other race of diffs.
Beasts of Antares Page 17
