“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 d
id 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 take 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?”
“One thing only, by Likshu the Treacherous. Break the nulsh’s back!”
Now, I had hitherto on Kregen detested Chuliks as fierce and inhuman diffs. They had caused me much pain. But, then, so had other diffs, and apims, too, by Krun! Lately, certain experiences had modified my views on the Yellow-Tuskers, and, too, I did not forget that Chulik with whom I had spoken before the Battle of the Dragon’s Bones. So I could talk quite reasonably to Kimche the Lock, and treat him as a man first, discounting all my old hostile feelings toward Chuliks. Truly, life brings changes to the most flinty of characters!
“The marquee of Black Algon? And you say this fellow supports the Hamalese?”
“Aye. If you go there, take care. He has many friends among the wrestlers in the booth of Jimstye Gaptooth. He is the mortal foe of us at the Golden Prychan, who are comrades all.”
One of the cardinal principles of staying alive on Kregen is to remember names. Names confer power, not power for misuse, but self-power, the knowledge to orient a life-style amid dangers. If you forget or confuse names, you can end up skewered on the end of a rapier or have your head off in the slice of a cleaver — so be warned!
I nodded. “I shall tread carefully. Tell me, Kimche, does this Jimstye Gaptooth have any Khamorros in his booth?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllable shook me. The savagery with which Kimche spoke told me much. I did not press. What there was to learn I would find out. That was as certain as Zim and Genodras rose and set, by Zair!
Chapter thirteen
Of a Few Falls with Beng Drudoj
Black Algon’s marquee was tightly shut and his slaves told me he had gone into the city about important business. There was no sign of Turko. When I mentioned Saenci, the Khibil slave girl, the slaves ran off. Annoyed, I walked around the fairground, spying it out, seeing the bright booths and sideshows and all the gaudy come-ons and money-taking-offs revealed in the pitiless light of the suns. The air dried up the mud. Shortly after the hour of mid the rains would fall down in solid masses of water, and the mud would ooze again into its sticky consistency. I took myself back to the Golden Prychan.
“It is time for ale, Jak the Sturr,” Kimche greeted me. He took me through the wide, sawdust-sanded floor into a back snug. The bamboo-paneled room contained about a dozen wrestlers. They looked a ripe assortment of battered humanity. The ale was brought in by Fristle fifis, and we sat to drink. I was reminded of Dav Olmes and his penchant for stopping at the least provocation for a stoup of ale. These men were drinkers.
Food, very naturally, was brought in and no one seemed to be concerned if I would pay the reckoning. There were Khamorros among these wrestlers. Kimche wiped suds, and leaned forward, and said, “You know the story of Lallia the Slave Girl, Jak?”
“I know the story of Lallia the Slave Girl.”
“Well, it is not quite like that, Kimche,” put in broken-nosed Naghan the Grip.
“I know, I know. But Andrinos and Saenci worry our Turko. That is what concerns us. He is our best Khamorro and Jimstye Gaptooth has three high kham Khamorros — and what may a mortal man do agai
nst them?”
The other wrestlers, florid and bulky and coiling with muscles, grumbled and grunted, and drank. Truthfully, there are few mortal men who may go up in handgrips against a Khamorro and stand a chance in a Herrelldrin hell of winning.
I asked the obvious questions, and learned that the wagers dictated the relative powers of the contests. In catch as catch can the ordinary wrestler, with Turko available, handled his opposite number and called in Turko in the inevitable crisis. As Jimstye Gaptooth could put more Khamorros onto the canvas than the consortium operating from the Golden Prychan, Turko was called on frequently. The smell of sweat in the bamboo-walled snug was barely noticeable, for these wrestlers were particular about themselves. But the smells of oils and liniments rose pungently. Some of the men wore bandages, tightly strapped and pasted, and two carried broken arms in slings of clean yellow cloth.
“And,” said Nolro, a young Khamorro whose headband indicated he had barely begun his climb through the khams, “where is Turko, anyway?”
“And Andrinos?”
“By Morro the Muscle!” declared Nolro. “We fight tonight and if Turko is not here-”
Kimche reached for the ale. “He will be ready to step onto the canvas, Nolro. You, of all men, should know that.”
“I do. But — I worry…”
When they questioned how I had come to know Turko I simply said we had met in the past and as I was passing through I thought to look him up. I made no big thing of it, and went on to question them as to the advisability of all this ale-drinking if they fought this night. They guffawed.
“This ale gives us our strength, dom!”
Well, it might, too, given that it was brewed from top-quality Kregan barley and hops and was filled with good things. I drank and wiped my lips, and we talked of this and that. And still, Turko did not appear. He was never once referred to as Turko the Shield. A couple of times they called him Turko the Rym, and I will not advise you of what that means. So the time passed and then the note of exasperation in their voices sharpened. They were a consortium of wrestlers, and if one let the others down, his shares were forfeit. Also, his honor was smirched, that was plain. I sighed. I had no desire to step into a ring and take Turko’s place. But, if I had to, I had to…
A Victory for Kregen dp-22 Page 12
