In the full circle of vaol-paol all things must come to pass.
One night I felt my chains shaking, and I cursed and turned over irritably, for sleep was a precious boon to a slave. I heard a whisper and a curse, and someone said, "Sleep, you Grodno-gasta!" and the soggy sound of a blow. Another voice hailed, it seemed from a distance. Closer at hand the first voice said with great viciousness: "May Makki-Grodno devour his intestines!" The chains shook again, I heard a clink of metal, and then all was silent. I turned over and found a softer patch on the ponsho-fleece covered sack of straw and slipped back to slumber. No use to ask me where the swifter in which I slaved sailed. I had no idea. I had no desire to know. I believe I did not even understand quite what this all meant, somehow regarding all the toil and agony as a part of a dream in which Zorg, Nath, Zolta and I slaved and labored through all eternity. During the periods when the breeze blew fair and the square sails on the two masts could be set, the slaves might rest. On one evening when the suns sank into a metallic sea and sheened from horizon to keel in a single sheet of burnished bronze, I realized we were at sea. I thought Zorg must have the better share of our onion. Nath and Zolta would share theirs. We were down to half rations. As for water, a mere mouthful and no more must last us.
We pulled ourselves up on the benches as the sails were furled and we settled to the looms. The drum-deldar beat out his rhythm and, all as one, like beating wings, the oars dipped and rose to dip again. Silently we stole into the coast.
Nothing meant anything. When the final beat from the drum and the oar-master’s whistle signaled a cessation to our labors, every slave drooped over his loom. I squirmed about for a softer spot on the ponsho-fleece, for without these sacks and the fleeces a man could never last at the rowing benches. I prepared for sleep and knew I would dream my nightmares.
I dreamed that Zorg was telling me how he had secreted a piece of cheese; he wanted to divide it between all four of us, but we must do it when the Rapas on the next oar could not see, for it had once been theirs and they could not understand where it had gone. Nath and Zolta had chingled their chains in one of the many signals we oarslaves used to pass messages.
The thing must be done furtively. Not only must we not alert the Rapas, but the whip-deldars walking the narrow deck would delight in any excuse to lash us with old snake at a time when we should be resting.
"Hold still, Stylor!"
That was Nath, breathing in my ear.
We spoke in whispers.
"Split it fairly, Zorg," I said, and instantly Nath said: "Quiet, Stylor! For the love of Zair! Quiet!" And Zolta, strangely near for his apostis seat, whispered: "Hurry it up, you great fambly!" And Nath, breathing hard: "It takes a man to do this, you nit of nits." Well, they would always argue and insult each other, and each ready to hurl himself to death to save the other.
"Is the Grakki-thing free yet?"
"In a mur — in a mur-"
And I said, sleepily, "Make the cheese a nice juicy Loguetter, Zorg. In the name of Diproo the Nimble-Fingered, we’ve earned it."
"Quiet, numbskull!" And: "Clap a fist over his wine-spout, Zolta, while I" — grunt of effort — "finish this."
And, oddly, I felt a hand over my mouth. How, I wondered in my dream, could it be Zolta’s? He sat at the apostis seat, almost fully over the water. But it was a dream; anything could happen in a dream. The night breathed about us, a night of Notor Zan, when no moon shines in the sky of Kregen. In the darkness I dreamed that Zorg partitioned up his cheese and the Rapas had not seen. I reached out for my portion. I felt a fist under my fingers, a fist that spread into a hand that grasped my hand.
"Where-"I began, and the other hand clapped back over my face. I squirmed. My chains did not rattle. I was being lifted up.
This was indeed a most miraculous dream. Was I astride a fluttrell or a mirvol or even a flutduin? I rose into the air and I felt hands grasping me and movement. I tried to turn over to find another comfortable place on the ponsho-fleece, but the hands gripped me so I could not move. The strange swaying persisted. Then I was being passed down like a sack from a freighter. I felt a bump and something hard struck into my backbone. Before I could do anything or cry out a great evil-smelling canvas was thrown over me. I lay there, wondering when I would wake up and, however nightmarish the dream, preferring it to the reality of slaving on the rowing benches. The softly swaying movement beneath me told me I lay in a small boat. Well, they might not ask me to pull an oar then.
I heard a voice, somewhere high overhead.
"Weng da![4]Speak up, speak up!"
From close by my head Nath bellowed back: "Provision party, sir!"
"Carry on then, Palinter."
I heard a low chuckle in the boat. Why should the officer of the watch call Nath Palinter? Palinter was the title for the fat and jovially wicked fellows who were the pursers in — but no matter. This dream intrigued me through my madness.
The boat pushed off. There were two oars, I could hear.
The stroke was steady, the kind of rhythm that only two old comrades who had slaved together could row. I moved beneath the odiferous canvas.
"Lie still, Stylor. Only a few strokes more."
I lay still. I wanted to go to sleep and sleep dreamlessly. But this dream persisted, it pursued me, it would not let me go. The boat grounded. The canvas cover was thrown back. The night sky blazed above. I stood up. Nath and Zolta gripped my arms and helped me from the boat.
"All very nice, Nath, Zolta," I said. "But where is Zorg?" They looked at me.
"I need my sleep. Let me go back to sleep."
Nath took my arm. "This way."
"Grace of Grodno." I stumbled along after Nath, with Zolta supporting me from the side. My legs felt like smashed bananas. "Zorg will row." The dream began to coil in my head. I panted. I felt the pains in my chest, in my head. My legs weren’t there. "Zorg! Nath! Zolta! We must row — must pull — pull-"
"Nearly there, Stylor, nearly there."
I tried to haul up but they pulled me on.
"Nearly where, you two rascals? Is it wine and a wench you are after? I know you two, two oar comrades, two great rogues. ."
We passed through a screen of trees, dark, massive and mysterious lumps in the star-flecked blackness. A clearing showed, with an arm of water curving into it hidden from the sea. A rickety hut of leaves and branches leaned over the water. I stopped, thunderstruck by a thought.
"Why do you call me Stylor? You know my name is Dray-"
"Yes, Dray, but we knew you first as Stylor. Now you are Dray Prescot. ." Then, in a lower tone, Nath said, "Into the hut with him before he wakes the whole damned crew."
"Where is Zorg?" I said again. And then the thought finally rooted. "Zorg is dead! We have roistered in Sanurkazz, many and many a time, with Nath and his wine and Zolta and his wenches — and Zorg is dead!"
"Aye, Dray, Zorg is dead — and so will we all be if you don’t stop yowling like a chunkrah in calf and get a move on!"
I felt my legs then. I felt the ground beneath my feet.
I trembled.
I touched Nath. I touched Zolta.
They were real!
I wrenched away from them. I pawed my eyes. The trees, the hut, the stars, remained. I hit myself in the chest. I did not wake up.
They were staring at me, there in the starlight.
"Yes, Dray, who we called Stylor. You do not dream." Nath smiled in the old reckless way.
"By Zair, Dray Stylor! We’ve rescued you from the Krozairs of Zy and they’ll have all our heads if they catch us!" And Zolta seized my arm and ran me into the hut.
Rescued? Rescued? Rescued!
Chapter Thirteen
Two rascals of Sanurkazz
The succulent palines dropped one by one into my mouth: luscious cherry-like fruits, palines, sovereign remedies for the black dog.
I lay back on the rough pallet of the hut and marveled.
I was alone. Nath and Zolta, giving me no tim
e to express my wonder, my fierce pride in them, my joy, had whispered ferociously that I was to stay hidden in the hut and they would be back as soon as they could.
For the first time I noticed they were clad as Zimen, the lay brothers of the Krozairs of Zy. Their dull red tunics bore the Krzy emblem decorously on the breast and back. Thick belts cinctured their waists and they swung seaman’s knives there. They did not carry swords. They looked just the same as I remembered them — and then they were gone, melting back into the starlight.
"If all goes well on Zulfirian Avenger," were Zolta’s last words. And Nath’s were: "By Zantristar the Merciful! Zair would not will it otherwise!" So I was learning. The name of the swifter was Zulfirian Avenger. Nath and Zolta were still alive, were Zimen, a fact which before my downfall I would have gloried to know, and were acting against all their vows to the Krzy in thus helping me, who was Apushniad.
The penalties they faced were real and dreadful.
The mere fact of freedom, for however short a duration, began in me a process of drawing back from that frightening and bottomless black pool of madness. I began to think again. Of course those two dearly beloved rascals had called me Stylor. That had been my name when we’d met, a name bestowed on me by the Overlords of Magdag in those festering warrens. But how had they come here? I knew it could not be by chance.
I began to think of that tragic meeting with Delia. I had met her. I had spoken to her there in that dark cell in the rock wall with its trash of litter on the floor. Yes, yes, I had! I began to think of things she had said, items of information spoken quickly, in whispers, while I held her in my arms and tried to blot out the grim prospect of the future.
The thought of her presence dizzied me. By Zair but she was marvelous!
Yes, yes, she had said Drak and Zeg had written that the Call was out. As Krozairs of Zy they had responded. She had been engaged in a legal struggle over encroachments on Delphond, Dayra had received a bad report from the Sisters of the Rose — who the hell was Dayra? — the trouble with the scheming leem the Strom of Vilandeul, the samphron crop had been particularly bad in Valka and she had had to arrange to buy supplies from Vallia, her father the Emperor had been complaining bitterly that she neglected him — a myriad things of importance had been claiming her attention. She had cast them all to the winds.
She had taken the fleetest voller to Esser Rarioch. There she had arranged as much as she could and, on the very night she was due to leave, she had been visited by Krozairs. They had sailed in a ship of Vallia all the way through the Grand Canal and the Dam of Days, around the west coast of Turismond and past Donengil, and so up the Cyphren Sea past Erthyrdrin and on to Vallia. From there they had flown to Valka. From this record of a perfectly ordinary sea passage of one of our galleons I knew the letters of my sons had been delayed. So now with two purposes, Delia had set out for Zy. First, she knew in her heart of hearts I was not dead, so she knew I would answer the Azhurad. She would meet me in Zy.
Second, until I came she would plead my cause with the Grand Archbold. I quelled all hatred for Pur Kazz. He had acted as his instincts, his vows, his duties prompted. I wondered if Pur Zenkiren, had he become Grand Archbold as I had expected, would have acted any differently. I would find out why Pur Zenkiren had been passed over. Could he be dead? No, I would have been told by someone in Zy.
The peripatetic Krozairs who had visited Delia knew where I was supposed to be found, of course, from my sons. They had wanted to know why I had not answered. Had I been dead, they would have known. That is a small part of the mysticism of the Krozairs. At that news my Delia had known so great a happiness that all else mattered little. Only the dire truth as she was told of my condemnation could penetrate, and even then she had scarcely been able to believe.
I was not dead. I would answer the summons to Zy.
By Zair! I had not done so in all ignorance and, in all truth, according to my vows, deserved to be condemned to Apushniad.
The suns declined over the trees. Nath and Zolta had warned me to lie close. Rising, I went swiftly from the hut with many a careful scrutiny of the foliage and secreted myself among the trees. If Nath and Zolta were discovered and men came for me, I would be ready. Aye! And if my two oar comrades did not return I would go back to Zulfirian Avenger and seek those who constrained them.
They panted up, jog-trotting, bearing provisions and weapons. They saw I was almost back to the knave they had known, and we were able to greet one another in a seemly way, with much hugging and belly-punching, quite like my Djangs, and to drink hugely, eat and talk. They told me much which I will relate at its proper time in this chronicle of my life on Kregen. Suffice it to say the passage of fifty terrestrial years seemed to pass in that first starlit meeting.
They were Zimen, and proud of that, and I sensed that much of their pride came in remembrance of Zorg of Felteraz, who was a Krozair of Zy. I mumbled my lame excuses for not returning and then said,
"I did not receive the Call. This is true. I have been banished from the order and I cannot tell you where I have been, or how. And yet you put yourselves in the path of peril for me. I am not worthy." Nath chewed reflectively on a chicken bone. He belched. "You may not be worthy, Dray. I will not pretend the decision was easy."
Zolta frowned. "No, Dray. We have served the Krozairs of Zy long and faithfully. And we have not seen your face for many seasons."
Then they both chuckled and drank wine. Spluttering, Nath said: "But we hold you in our ibs and, anyway, you are an oar comrade. That is what counts."
"Also," said Zolta, and I glanced swiftly at him. He had the grace to smile as he spoke. "Also, we spoke to your lady."
"Ah!" said Nath.
My heart leaped. I made them tell me everything. I licked every honey drop I could as they spoke to me of Delia. She had waited in the fortress of Zy, quartered in the lay apartments on the outer face of the rock, unwelcome in many senses, yet in a peculiar and delicate position. When my two odd comrades had discovered what had happened they had seen her at once; without anything definite being said, the compact had been made.
"Now, Dray," said Zolta, "I understand why you left the Eye of the World. I would stride the Stratemsk for such a lady."
Nath belched again. "I would never touch another drop."
When we turned to other matters, after a time, I discovered we were on a small island near the western end of the Eye of the World in an area I had seldom visited previously. This was a small and secret watering place used by the Zairians. The Grodnims had at last achieved a significant ascendancy over the red southern shore. They had actually established outposts and brought troops across. They had won battles. Now they were pushing along the southern shore, from west to east. Nothing could stop them.
"That is when the Call went out. The Krozairs fought but they lost. The Zair-forsaken Grodnims strut on our southern shore and advance steadily eastward. Soon immortal Zy will be besieged."
"Aye! And then it will be the turn of Holy Sanurkazz."
We remained silent for a while, contemplating the impossible.
Nath took up a jug and upended it. The glugging did not stop until the jug was empty. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips.
"By Mother Zinzu the Blessed! I needed that!"
I chilled at his words. The lightheartedness had gone. The euphoria of my escape was fled. I roused myself as Nath said they would have to be leaving.
"No suspicion attaches to you over the escape?"
Zolta shook his head. They were a pair of ruffians, with the black curly hair of Zairians, with the mahogany brown faces of sailors, with the merry eyes and reckless ways of those of Sanurkazz. But I marked them. The defeats were wearing them down.
"No, Dray. I am a chief varterist, and Nath, for his potbelly, is in charge of stores. We have a certain leeway."
"And a missing slave?"
Nath made a face and Zolta looked fierce.
"Slaves die. Slaves are replaced. We brought up a
spare from below. They are mostly Magdaggians, criminals-"
"Criminals — like me!"
"Aye," they both said equably and went out. I saw them off. Their plans might work. They bid me remberee, but they would be back later on, either the next day or the following night. A boat was hidden in that curve of water. They had brought provisions. We would sail out and carve a fresh life for ourselves. I knew that my future, for all its darkness and somber brooding, could go only two ways. There was much to brood on the following day and I took the same precautions when Nath and Zolta reappeared. They carried further provisions. This time I had taken a longsword into the trees with me.
"The swifter is due to sail tomorrow night, Dray. There are four of them and they plan a descent on a Grodnim convoy. News was brought in by a scout, a dinky little three-twenty swifter. It will be a notable blow."
They were still caught up in the struggle against the green here in the inner sea. We sat and drank companionably. If they came with me my course seemed marked out. I welcomed them. I would shake off the whole world of the inner sea, forget it, drive from my mind any remembrance that once I had been a Krozair of Zy.
I said: "Did Delia tell you anything of what I’ve been up to in the outer world since I left here?" They looked at me oddly.
Nath drank and wiped his mouth and declared roundly: "The Lady Delia is a princess! By Buzro’s Magic Staff! She is a princess from the top of her head to the tips of her feet, and she says you are a prince — the Prince Majister of Vallia, no less."
"For my sins, Nath, old comrade."
"Aye," said Zolta, putting a finger to his beak of a nose. "And she says you are a king of some place called Djanduin. If that is to be believed."
"What, you great onker!" roared Nath. "Do you doubt the word of Lady Delia?"
"No, no, you great oaf of a chunkrah! I doubt that this poor fellow here, this Stylor, could ever be a king!"
Nath subsided, rumbling. By Vox! How I needed their fierce heartwarming clowning, but how hollow it all struck me as I insisted on contemplating the future I beheld.
The Tides of Kregen dp-12 Page 12
