by Brian Daley
Ferrian and Gil went over. Gale-Baiter was disputing the decision. “Come, sir,” he blustered to the president, “did you not see the man cover his target-parts with his shoulder? What swordsmanship is in that?”
The president, a dignified master-of-arms, held himself rigidly. “There was no covering, my Lord. We but officiated the duel as we saw it fought, well and fairly.”
The Mariner flushed. He whirled on Brodur, who was toweling his face. “You, sir; admit it! You touched me lucky, and not within the rules. Let us see who’s best two times out of three!”
Brodur regarded the Mariner with a grin. “Beg pardon, my Lord Envoy, but shall we go from there to three of five? I should be delighted to teach you how it is done, but alas, I lack the time.” He extended his palm. “My winnings, please.”
Interesting shade of heliotrope, thought Gil, watching Gale-Baiter’s face.
“Pestilence take your money, Brodur! You fight only for gold, then? Would it interest you if the bet were tenfold? Or did you beat me by guile and luck alone? Or are you afraid?”
Brodur balled his hands, compressing the towel. “If I beat you once, my Lord, I can do it twice. A man who can ignore your jigging and squawking could beat you every time and, if I may say so, with either hand.”
“So? Done! Jury to their places, please. Tenfold’s the bet, and if you can defeat me with either hand, let me see you do it with your left.”
Brodur looked around embarrassedly, a sense of error in his face. He stepped hesitantly to his end of the piste, taking his sword in his left hand.
“I thought Brodur was a sharpie,” Gil said to Ferrian.
The big Horseblooded laughed. “Nay, now, you are always and ever the one for private jests, eh? This time you must wait.”
Gale-Baiter and Brodur crossed points again. This time there was little hesitation. The Mariner advanced confidently, saying, “Now I shall instruct you!”
Brodur stopped the attack with a perfect stop-thrust, easily avoiding the double-hit. Gale-Baiter tried for a bind. Brodur passed his point underneath the envoy’s with surgical precision and met him with arm extended, point still in line. Gale-Baiter elected to retreat out of fencing distance, to ascertain just what was happening to him. Brodur attacked-in-advance into scoring range, pressed, and hit punctually on the redoublement, one fluid moment.
Neither man bothered to glance at the judges. Brodur lowered his weapon. Gale-Baiter held his up for a moment, staring at the younger man. Then, with a snort, he took his blade through an exacting salute. He motioned to two men at the sideline, his attendants. One was a red-bearded bear of a man, the other an apple-cheeked little guy with sandy curls. The smaller one dashed to hand Brodur a jingling purse. Gale-Baiter, spinning his heel, left without a word. Gil stopped the aide.
“I heard you used to work for the Lady Duskwind.”
Captain Brodur eyed him for a moment. “That is essentially correct. How is it of interest to you?”
“Do you still have contacts in the city? I want to know about Yardiff Bey, where he is and how I can get to him.”
“A hazardous line of inquiry.”
“Didn’t ask you that.” He realized he was being brusque again.
Brodur smiled knowingly. “Vengeance has spurs with sharpest rowels, has it not? Very well, meet me at the Arborway at the tenth hour this evening.” Taking his cloak, he left.
Watching him go, Gil said, “All right, Ferrian, cut me loose. What was the big joke?”
The Horseblooded laughed, full and loud. “Brodur, you see, is left-handed. He fought Gale-Baiter with his right to build his confidence and bump him to higher stakes for the left-handed match, a sure wager.”
The American guffawed. Shaking his head at the departing Brodur, he declared, “Now that, Ferrian, is what you call a hustler.”
Chapter Two
Thou shalt not swear falsely, but fulfill thy oaths.
St. Matthew
Chapter 5, verse 33
GIL used up the brass-bright afternoon and coral evening prowling Kee-Amaine, the city spread at the feet of the palace-fortress. He liked hanging out, voluntarily lost, in Kee-Amaine’s fabulous, twilight labyrinth of a bazaar. He browsed guardedly past the glitter of copper utensils and stained-glass lanterns, bolts of rich silks and bales of prize furs, the sparkle of jeweled hilts and the glint of blue steel blades. There was the omnipresent clink of vigilantly counted coins and pay-tokens. The place smelled of cheap incense, avaricious sweat, rare perfumes, old dung, hundreds of pungent foods, and unhappy livestock of every species.
He kept the heel of his left hand conspicuously on the pommel of his sword. It was a more certain insurance against trouble than his pistol; few people here would have heard of firearms, much less been able to recognize one, but all knew cold steel well. It was a simple, utilitarian blade, belonging to his friend Dunstan the Berserker. The American was determined that its owner would have it again.
The confused uproar in the bazaar was constant. Each vendor had a song or call, and bartering was animated, almost theatrical. Voices and chatter here interested him. People in the Crescent Lands spoke more rapidly, more vividly than he was used to. Theirs was a verbal culture, and this, very much, a world of the ear and the spoken word.
He sampled a skewer of grease-popping cubed meat. He found it—like many foods here—so highly spiced that it brought tears. Lacking preservatives, people fought gamey flavor with a tongue-searing array of seasonings.
He eventually threaded his way through the bazaar to the Arborway, main path through the rambling commons known as the Tarryinground. Trees of many kinds arched above, a corridor of the diverse hues and textures of leaves and bark.
At the entrance he met Brodur, just after the tenth hour had resounded. “You received my message?” the captain asked.
“Yes. I’ve got the money; I grubbed it off Springbuck.”
“Good. The man we want is to meet us in a taproom, the White Tern. I thought a walk there might be salutary. Too, I shall have to know more in order to be of assistance to you. Any dealing concerned with Yardiff Bey must be presumed to have its pitfalls.”
Brodur, who wore a hooded cloak, held up a broad brimmed hat. “I took the liberty of selecting this for you, apropos of our excursion. The man we go to see was in the throne room the night you and Springbuck and the others invaded it. May I point out that the brim can be tilted quite low across the face?”
Gil’s respect for Brodur increased. They set off, their way among the strollers lit by flaming cressets.
Gil began, “When Yardiff Bey bugged out in that airship of his, he had Dunstan prisoner. I think Bey’ll hang onto him as a hedge or hostage, or for interrogation.” Their boots crunched over the gravel path as he thought out his next words. “Thing is, I’ve got this feeling Dunstan’s alive, y’know? So I have to find Bey to spring Dunstan.”
Brodur glanced sidelong at him. “Pardon my saying this, but you are said to harbor another reason as well. It is rumored you require vengeance.”
Gil stopped and faced Brodur. “You knew her too, right?”
“Gil MacDonald, I conspired with the Lady Duskwind. I served her, held her in highest regard and in some measure, I tell you, she was dear to me.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, here.”
“That I, too, want requital for gentle Duskwind’s death. I shall advance your purpose and abet you in whatever manner you may need. Whatever manner. I trust I make myself clear?”
“Shake.” They clasped hands, then resumed their way.
At the end of the Arborway a fountain played in the glare of torches. There were wide playing fields, where children charged back and forth in giggling games of chase-ball, hampered by darkness. Others played a new favorite, “the Game of Springbuck,” re-enacting the Ku-Mor-Mai’s flight and eventual return. Gil could see their bright clothes intermittently, like Chinese kites on a night breeze.
Farther along, adults congregated to cha
t, see and be seen, or just linger. Food and drink were sold, but no other paying enterprise was permitted except entertainment. Beyond, in a meadow, musicians at the foot of a statue of Springbuck’s father Surehand mingled notes, accompanied occasionally by voices lifted in song. Off to one side a puppet show was in progress.
They passed through groves of trees onto a greensward. Public speakers were free to address matters of conviction or caprice here, an acclaimed innovation of Springbuck’s, but several pikemen were stationed nearby to squelch the brawls that often ignited from impassioned debate.
Skirting a quiet lake with a tiny, exquisite chapel of the Bright Mistress on its rim, they came to another access path, and left the commons for what Gil knew was a raunchy section of the city, Lowlintel Road.
Lighting was sparser, buildings more tightly packed. There were enclaves crowded together, of people from the many subdominions of polyglot Coramonde. Here, no bedding was aired on balconies by day, nor washing hung out at night, for fear of theft. Both loosened swords in their scabbards. Gil made sure his cloak didn’t impede access to the Browning.
There were loiterers, usually outside a hell-raising tavern or dimly lit house with a red wreath on its door and women beckoning from the windows.
They came to the White Tern. Its interior was a scene of faded charms; beautiful starmolding around the door had been allowed to crack and chip away and the rushes serving as a floor hadn’t been changed recently. Ceiling, rafters and tiny roundel windows were all coated with greasy smoke. Odors reported too many people, too close, over much too long a time. There was a sweetish thickness in the air. Gil knew it for the scent of the drug Earnai, the Dreamdrowse.
Boisterous arguments vied with harsh laughter. An arm-wrestling match between a Teebran archer and an Alebowrenian bravo spurred rabid rooting and wagering. Gil trailed Brodur into the snug at the back, and they took a booth.
Candles guttered low; customers were solo and silent. A harassed-looking girl brushed a lock of limp hair from her eyes and took their order, a toss of brandy for Brodur, jack of beer for the American. The aide made an elaborate ceremony of inhaling the brandy, eyes closed. Gil just drank.
The captain got back to their errand. “The man is called Wintereye. He is an Oathbreaker, stripped of sword and status, but I knew him in the days of his prosperity. Now he roots out his living as best he may. While Bey was in power he often—”
A man had come to their booth. He was unkempt; a stale stink drifting from him. His eyes darted nervously, reconning the room. At the captain’s invitation he seated himself next to Brodur, refusing a drink. He kept his head lowered, disheveled hair hiding his face.
“I am glad to see you, Wintereye,” said the aide. “It is some space of time since last we met. You are slimmer now but tired, I venture.”
Wintereye lifted his gaze. His cheek was branded with a stylized Faith Cup, broken at the stem, stigma of the Oathbreaker. The man scowled.
“These days, Captain Brodur, living’s lean and skittish. In fact, you may know someone who can use this?”
From some inner fold of his ragged shirt his left hand brought a pellet the size of a pea, of a waxy, kneaded material. Gil noticed Wintereye wore odd tubes of painted leather on his fingertips.
“Finest Earnai from the south, and at a reasonable price. No? What makes two gallants deny the Dream-drowse? Life is sweet but ah, visions sweeter still! Open the Doors that lie Between; here is the Key that unlocks fastnesses of the mind. With it, you’ll see inward, and Beyond, and find your Answers.”
Brodur refused a second time. “As you will,” Winter-eye surrendered. “The Dreamdrowse always comes to him for whom it is destined.” He left the Dreamdrowse conspicuously on the table.
“Permit me to present my associate,” Brodur went on. The American tilted his hat brim lower. “My associate’s name has no importance, but he is interested in where he might reasonably seek a former employer of yours.”
Wintereye thought a moment. “There are few things, very few, worse than the life I lead, yet one is the enmity of Yardiff Bey.”
“Ah, money could take you even beyond the reach of the Hand of Salamá.”
Wintereye shuddered. “Nothing can take a man that far!”
Brodur showed his teeth, his suave mask dropping. “You once drank a Faith Cup with Springbuck’s father. Then you betrayed the son, would have murdered him, given the chance.”
He caught Wintereye’s right forearm and held it up. The hand had been lopped off, its wrist bound in leather. “I convinced the Ku-Mor-Mai you were not worth executing, traitor. Others were impaled and hung outside the Iron Hook Gate for less.” The angry captain released the arm. “The hour is too late for you to begin protecting your trusts, Wintereye.”
It drove home to Gil just how serious oathbreaking was. In a world with few written contracts a man was, quite literally, only as good as his word. A violation of that word placed on him a mark no decent person would wear. Wintereye, with missing hand and branded cheek, would never know honest companions, and was ejected from the profession of arms forever. His face twitched with anger.
Gil looked away, and noticed a bulky man, face cowled and hidden like Brodur’s, enter the snug. The man seated himself, scanning the room.
Wintereye, glowering at Brodur, asked, “You have money?” Gil brought out the wallet of coins Springbuck had given him without inquiring how the American would use it. Brodur had his hand on his sword, insuring that Wintereye wouldn’t bolt. But when the informer had tucked his fee inside his tattered shirt, he set his forearms on the table and leaned forward.
“Now, as to my master Yardiff Bey—” He stopped suddenly, lurching at Brodur, catching the aide’s sword-hand. His accomplice must have stolen up very softly; a leering face and a burlap-wrapped arm and torso appeared around the edge of the high-backed bench. The man swung a heavy cudgel at Gil.
The American’s reflexes were good. If he hadn’t been so intent on Wintereye, he might have dodged. But he only managed to avoid having his head bashed open. The heavy, knotted cudgel connected glancingly with his outside shoulder, his right. He screamed in anguish and his arm went numb. The man tried to close on him, but Gil dragged himself farther into the booth. Whipping his drinking jack at his attacker, he got his legs up to fend him off, clawing futilely with his left hand for the Browning that hung beneath his left armpit.
Brodur broke Wintereye’s desperate grip and would have thrown him aside and swept his sword free, but the back room of the White Tern sprouted more enemies. Most of the patrons, wanting no part of it, stampeded for the doors, but four others rushed into the fight with daggers and clubs. Three swarmed up behind Wintereye at Brodur, who had just time to snatch his own dagger. Wintereye seized the dagger hand, beating the captain with his wrist, but inadvertently shielded him from the rest.
There was more movement, this time from the front wall. The hooded man whom Gil had noticed entering barreled into the fray, cutlass held high. Gil squirmed to avoid another blow, keeping his assailant at bay with kicking feet. The cudgel battered his thigh. Next thing, his opponent dropped to the floor, holding his side in a spreading pool of blood. His mouth appeared to work and strain, but no sound came.
One of the attackers reached around Wintereye, and slashed. His aim was off; the blade plowed along the flesh of Brodur’s upper chest, stopped by the collarbone with a nauseating grate. Gil got the Browning with his left hand. Extending it across the table, he fired point-blank at the informer. In the confinement of the booth, the report was more concussion than sound, slamming deafness. Brain tissue and bone chips exploded in a mist of blood. Wintereye crashed hard against the back of the bench and fell across the table, a hideous exit hole in his skull. His other cheek, covering the candle, snuffed it.
The assassins fell back, yowling. The smell of gunpowder replaced all others in the snug. Gil wriggled into a sitting position and swung the muzzle to bear on the man who had stabbed Brodur. His left hand
and pistol shook badly. The first shot had rung a world of silence down around him. With effort, he locked his elbow steady and shot the man, as Brodur tried to clasp his gushing wound together with his hands. The second shot battered Gil’s ears and began an acute ache. The man flew backward in a heap, a burbling puncture in his chest.
Gil managed to thrust his useless right hand into his shirtfront, crouching to hold it there, then slid from the booth. A thought occurred to him, and he groped around the darkened space, searching.
Brodur, in shock, was being helped to his feet by their benefactor, whose hood had fallen back. A dark beard of oiled ringlets glistened. It was Gale-Baiter, envoy of the Mariners. He supported the captain as Gil stumbled after. None of the other attackers remained. The door swung lazily on rawhide hinges.
The front room of the White Tern was empty. Gil thought dazedly that he’d never gotten more mileage out of two rounds. Gale-Baiter’s coach was waiting outside. The driver and footman had gotten down to help. Gil recognized them from the drill field, the towering red-beard and the little guy, the envoy’s attendants. They hoisted Brodur into the coach; all boarded and clattered away quickly.
Gale-Baiter banged the roof of the carriage with the basket hilt of his cutlass. “Skewerskean, rot you, don’t jostle this biscuit box around! This is a wounded man in here!” The ride steadied. Gil had scarcely been able to hear the command, his ears pounded so.
“Wound’s not too serious,” Gale-Baiter decided, which, Gil supposed, only meant Brodur wouldn’t die right away.
“You want to tell me about your being here just now?” the American hollered over the rumble of the coach and his own deafness. The automatic was still in his hand.
“I was trailing this fella here. I thought I had a right to call him out, after the way he did me this morning, but the Ku-Mor-Mai frowns on dueling inside the city anymore. I reckoned it that we could re-examine the outcome of the match, him and me. Still, I could not very well watch the pair of you laid by the heels and carved up, could I now?”
