“Never!” he said, and he tried to twist that gaunt head to glare at me. The blade bit and he choked. “I had you — you know nothing of the arts of Vajikry—”
“I know enough to know when to take a dagger to your scrawny throat. Move!” And I amplified that with: “Bratch!”
He jumped.
We went out of the room and if the guards thought to stop me they saw my face and made no move.
Which was the wiser course for them. We went up the stairs, and retainers and servitors shrank away as the trylon called, hoarsely: “Let us pass. This mad leem means me ill.”
“Right, trylon,” I said. “Absolutely right!”
“You will spare me my life? I can give you wealth—”
“A voller is all I need. And, Trylon Nath Orscop, I may return your voller to you, one day, and play another game of Vajikry with you. It is, I own, infuriating and fascinating.”
A thought struck me. They had in the nature of these things stripped my splendid mesh steel from me and taken my weapons away. I am so used to padding about in the old scarlet breechclout I’d clean forgot I owned a pretty little arsenal, and fine armor.
“Oh, trylon. Bid your people bring my belongings. All of them.” And the bright curved kalider twitched against his skin.
“You heard!” shrieked Nath Orscop. “Run, you nulshes! Fetch this — this man’s armor and weapons!”
So, as we emerged onto a flat roof between two spires and I fastened my gaze on a chunky little voller, retainers ran up bearing the mesh steel and the armory. “Into the voller with them!” I snapped it out, and they obeyed. I wondered why no one had challenged that dagger at the throat of the lord. Surely, some one of all these folk would wish to see the trylon dead?
But I climbed into the voller gripping Orscop by the neck.
He slumped down and his gaunt face turned up, pleadingly.
“You said...”
I looked over the side. The landing chains were cast off. I moved the control levers and the voller lifted a couple of feet into the air. I nodded, satisfied.
“Over you go, Orscop. And thank whatever gods you pray to that I spare you your miserable hide.”
He clawed up, gibbering, and as he went over the side I assisted him with an ungentle foot.
Then, roaring with laughter, I sent the voller skimming into the night sky, racing away under the Moons of Kregen.
Chapter twelve
Of an Invitation at the Golden Prychan
Why is the air of one continent or island so different from that of any other? Each country’s air holds its own essences and aromas. Does the air over Valka smell sweeter than the air over any other part of Vallia? I believe so — but to ask me to explain it — ah, there you should better question the Todalpheme, the wise mathematicians and meteorologists of Kregen.
I know that as I breathed in the air of the island of Pandahem, I tasted the difference, and vivid memories of Pando and Tilda rose up to torment me. Yes, at that time on Kregen I still owed dues to many people. I gave thanks that Deb-Lu-Quienyin had eased my mind on the score of Que-si-Rening.
But, when I went to Hyrklana this time, I vowed, as well as seeking out Balass the Hawk, Oby, and Tilly, I would make more strenuous efforts to discover what had befallen the Princess Lilah. All the agents I had sent off to make inquiries had reported a total absence of news. All that was known then, all I had heard here and there, were merely rumors. Rumors of the “tragedy” that had overtaken Princess Lilah of Hyrklana.
So I marched down from the jungly foothills where I had hidden Trylon Nath Orscop’s voller. And, of course, he had not lost on the deal. The airboat I had left in the clearing, the one of the three we had liberated in Khorunlad was fair recompense.
The island of Pandahem, between Vallia to the north and Havilfar to the south, is divided into two halves by a massive east-west chain of mountains, variously named along their rambling length. Kingdoms divide up the northern portion of the island, lands some of which I knew well. The southern half’s kingdoms were virtually unknown to me, and were mostly smothered in thick, lush, hot, and mostly inhospitable jungles.
Walking along the overgrown path toward the town of Mahendrasmot I fell into conversation with a lanky Relt. He was clad decently in loincloth and sandals, with his rolled coat over one shoulder. Looking like skinnier replicas of their distant cousins the fierce and voracious Rapas, the Relts do have beaked faces, but these are of altogether a gentler aspect. He carried a hollow bamboo filled with pens, and a scrip with paper and three bottles of ink, bamboo bottles, swung at his girdle.
He was a stylor, and so we fell into easy conversation, as I had been a stylor at one time, working for the Overlords of Magdag. He, this Relt called Ravenshal, knew nothing of the inner sea of Kregen, of course.
“The fair, Jak?” he said, striding along easily, with the deep green of the foliage each side of the path framing his eager birdlike face. “It is a dire place, dreadful, sometimes. There are a large number of seafaring folk who go there, and, well, you know how rough they are.”
“Yes, Ravenshal. They lead a rough life.”
“People come from a long distance to the fairground. The sailors from the swordships are almost as bad as the renders they chase.”
“Do pirates frequent these coasts?”
“Naturally. Commerce is brisk.”
“Of course. And do you know the Golden Prychan?”
He gave his beak a brisk rub with his fist. Then: “I would not wish to know the place. It is infamous.”
Well, I commented to myself, that sounds a capital place to hoick Turko out of.
In Trylon Nath’s airboat I had stumbled on a bundle of clothes, and so had selected a plain brown tunic and a short blue cloak. I had without any regrets laid aside the splendid mesh steel. That was like to get me into trouble where I was going, among wrestlers. But I carried my weapons. They, of course, would attract no undue attention.
Ravenshal told me he had been up to take a deposition from a tree-tapper who lived up in the hills. His wife had run off and he wanted the lord of Mahendrasmot to send men to find her and had offered a reward of a hundred silver dhems.
“He must care for her—” I said.
“Perhaps.” Ravenshal, belittling his nervous ways, had seen most of it. “But it is lonely up in the hills.”
“That’s why she ran off, then. Some young spark from the city, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“If Notor Pergon lays hands on him, he will wish he had not seduced another man’s wife away.”
“Strict, is he, this Notor Pergon? And with this notorious fairground in his city?”
Ravenshal fisted his beak again. “Yes, strict. He is a strom, and proud of that. The fairground brings in money. But Notor Pergon will take the hundred silver dhems for his trouble, and take his pleasure out on the hide of the young man.”
“If he catches him.”
“He will, he will, if such a man exists. He runs his city as the suns cross the sky, does the notor.”
So as we walked down the overgrown track to the city we talked and I learned a little something of the place my Turko passed his life away in a fairground booth.
The mild Relt stylor was anxious to get back to his wife and children, saying he lived in a pretty little house near the men’s quarters of the steel works. “There is a modicum of regular work to be had there, Jak.” And then, with that gracious little lift to his beak that Relts have, he said, “I do not know why you go to Mahendrasmot, but you would do me honor if you supped with me and my family this night.”
Well, now...
I said with a gravity that was not assumed, “It is you who do me the honor, Stylor Ravenshal. I shall be delighted.”
So that was how I, a desperado of desperadoes — as you know only too well — entered this strict city with its gutter side discreetly hidden in the fairground, in the meek company of a Relt stylor.
His house was delightful, small and cheerful, his wife was charming, and
the kids splendiferous, a squeaking bunch of charming mischief. We ate well, wine was brought, the lamps were lit, and when I broached the subject of going to see about finding an inn for the night, nothing would halt them in their protestations that I must use their guest room and welcome, seeing it was now little used after Rashenka’s sister had moved so far away, fully fifty dwaburs along the coast, with that husband of hers.
Rashenka brought the lamp to the guest room, neat and tidy, and fussed only a little, and Ravenshal came along to bid me a good night’s sleep with Pandrite, and gently drew his wife away, and they went off full of smiles.
I slept with my usual caution, weapons at hand.
In the morning they greeted me with smiles, and a cup of superb Kregan tea, and small octagonal biscuits they call sweet Ordums. I stretched. After the toilet we sat down to a fine breakfast of crisp vosk rashers, and loloo’s eggs, and more tea, and red honey and palines.
You see — there are good simple folk on Kregen, just as there are on this Earth.
The mention of payment would have been insulting.
I went out and found a tiny Banje shop in the nearest souk where they sold baubles for children, and candies and knick-knacks of that kind, and went back to Ravenshal’s little house, and insisted they take the trifles I had brought. The children squealed, tiny bundles, all beak and feathers, and fell on the candies.
“And again my thanks. Remberee!”
“Remberee, Jak — and you have brought us luck. I have a commission today that will bring in at least five dhems. Five whole dhems! You have brought us good luck, praise to Pandrite.”
Shaking my head and wondering about the way of the world, I took my hulking old self off to the Golden Prychan.
Had I saved Ravenshal from footpads on the road he and his wife could not have been more attentive.
And they were diffs and I was apim. Truly, I thought, as I passed along the crowded streets where people shouted and jostled and the mytzer carts clattered by without thought for the unwary pedestrian, truly, that was the spirit and attitude sorely needed in all Paz to confront the menace of the Shanks.
The fact that the stylor had been able to walk down that lonely, jungly road and not be attacked by footpads also gave a good idea that this Strom Pergon, strict as he was reputed, kept an iron control on his stromnate. That could work for me, in some areas; but it was far more likely to make any mayhem more difficult. Just what had Turko got himself into here?
The notorious fairground of Mahendrasmot was not what I expected. For a start, it was fenced in by a tall lapped-wood barrier, and uniformed guards patrolled outside and stood sentry at the gates. This early in the morning the place held a lackluster look. Marquees and tents flapped a trifle in the early morning breeze; but the pennons hung limply. The ground was still soft and puddled with the marks of last night’s feet. When the daily rain came drenching down only the boardwalks gave pedestrians a reasonably mud-free walk. I went in. That was not difficult. The corollary came to my mind, to be pushed away.
The Golden Prychan looked a formidable inn. It stood four square just inside the eastern gate. Many riding animals of the lesser kind stood hitched to rails; but there were three totrixes and just the one zorca.
The walls were built of baked brick. The roof was tile. The chimneys were twisted brick. And the windows were glazed. All these signs of affluence were emphasized by the sign swinging at its grandest on a tall pole. The prychan, which is the tawny-golden furred version of the black neemu, showed up there in bold style, painted by an artist of imagination. The neemu again brought my thoughts back to Hyrklana, for fat Queen Fahia loved to have her pet neemus, fierce, independent four-legged hunting cats, lolling on the steps of her throne.
Standing with my head cocked back studying the sign, I became aware of a shadow at my side and then a voice, saying: “You stare overlong at the prychan, dom. Do you wish to have your ribs crushed? Or would you prefer a broken arm — only the one, since you have only two?” I looked down.
He was big. He was burly. He smiled with his lower jaw swinging like a jib boom in a gale. He wore a pair of tights colored bright purple, and a wersting breechclout. Otherwise he was naked — naked and hairless. He was a Chulik. I drew in my breath.
“Llahal, dom. I was admiring the sign. You are a wrestler?”
“Come now, dom. Do not refuse my offer. I am sharp set, for I bested Tranko last night, and I owed him that.”
This Chulik’s tusks had been sawn off close to his gums. That is a cruel and horrendous thing to do.
Much as I deplore the activities of Chuliks, I had grown to a better understanding of them and their ways.
Trained to be mercenaries from birth, they are superb paktuns, demanding high rates of pay. With their merciless black eyes and pigtails, their oiled yellow skins, their fierce three-inch tusks thrusting up from the corners of their mouths, they earn their hire. But — this one, tuskless — a wrestler in a fairground?
Oh, my Turko!
As I did not reply immediately, the Chulik said in a less friendly voice, “You are impolite. I am Kimche the Lock. I shall have to teach you manners.”
“Look, Kimche the Lock, I do not wish to fight you—”
“I did not say fight. I said wrestle.”
“Why should I? By the Blessed Pandrite! Why?”
“Why?” Now that really puzzled him. He shook that bald yellow head. “Why? You mock me. Me! Is this not the Golden Prychan?”
“So I believe.”
“Well, then! Onker!”
So, of course, very late in the day, I fell in.
“Oh — the Golden Prychan — you are all wrestlers here—”
“Take up your guard. It is the third syple of the Hikaidish. Protect yourself!”
“I,” I said, “carry weapons.”
Now he was truly puzzled, puzzled and angry. His chest swelled. The yellow skin, oiled and glistening, stretched like a drum.
“You talk of weapons, here? You are decadent or mad.”
If I’d had a hat I’d have taken it off and jumped on it.
By Zair!
“I am not a wrestler. I came here seeking someone—”
“If you are frightened witless to try a fall with Kimche the Lock, why, dom, you should have said so.
There is no shame in fearing to grip wrists with me.” His face broke into an oily smile. He clapped me on the back. “Now I understand!”
“If that is how you will have it.”
“Of course!” His bad temper evaporated. “There is no shame in it, dom. By Likshu the Treacherous! I understand!” And then he stuck his thumbs into his mouth and began to massage those pathetic stumps.
I looked about. Nothing much was happening, save a couple of gyps starting an interesting friendship.
Kimche took his thumbs out of his mouth, spat, and said with a wistful air, “All the same. I could have gone a fall or three with you. I am fair set for it.”
“Perhaps you know the man I seek?”
“There is such a man?” He looked puzzled again and I guessed he was considering the reason he had found for himself for my lack of response to his genial challenge.
“There is. His name is Turko—”
He looked about at once, and put a finger to his lips.
“Ssh, dom! Have you no wits! Caution!”
He drew me out of the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio into the shadows under the eaves. He looked about again, with much eye rolling. For a Chulik he was evidencing much non-Chulik behavior. But, then, his tusks had been sawed off, and that must profoundly change the mental attitudes of any self-respecting Chulik.
For a start, how could one call him a Yellow-Tusker now?
The dependent fronds of a brilliantly green tree, a fugitive from the jungle — or the advance guard of the jungle returning — concealed us from prying eyes out along the boardwalk. Kimche stared at me, and his tongue crept out to lick his lips.
“I did not tak
e you for Hamalese. If you are, I shall surely fight and slay you — you do understand that?”
“I do.”
One factor I had not overlooked was the simple problem of the island of Pandahem now being in the vulture-like grip of Phu-Si-Yantong. With the duped help of the iron legions of Hamal he, under his cloaking alias of the Hyr Notor, had conquered the various and separate kingdoms of the island. Queen Lush of Lome had been his tool, coming from Pandahem, and was now with us of Vallia. Other rulers had been subjugated or slain. Yantong ran the island working through human tools. If there was a resistance to Hamal, then Turko would be up to his Khamorro neck in it, that was for sure.
“I am aware of the problems you Pandaheem face—”
“Tell me your name, rank, and station, dom.”
He had no fear of me or my weapons. In a twinkling he would have my back across his knee, and, snap!
— one more Hamalese cramph gone to the Ice Floes of Sicce.
“I am Jak the Sturr. And I fight against Hamal.”
He stared at me with those feral black Chulik eyes.
He nodded. “Very well. And Turko is in trouble. Do not think you can deceive him, for he is a man among men.”
“When can I see him? Where is he?”
“Early this morning, before dawn, he went to Black Algon’s marquee to reason with him once again. I do not think he was successful.” Kimche screwed up his mouth. “I think Turko must take my advice and break the yetch’s back.”
I sighed.
Problems, problems...
“Tell me, Kimche the Lock.”
The story was simple and straightforward and not at all pretty. One of the wrestlers’ comrades, a young Khibil called Andrinos, was deeply in love with a Khibil maiden who was slave to Black Algon. She worked in a fire-eating and magic act. Black Algon, gloating in his own power, would not release her or sell her. Andrinos was in despair. His comrades had vowed to help him; but short of violence, gold being of no assistance, they had so far failed to secure the maiden Saenci’s release.
“Trust Turko to become embroiled in an affair like this. Can nothing be done to convince Black Algon to part with the girl?”
A Victory for Kregen Page 12
