A Sword for Kregen (17 page)

Well — yes.

The drikingers had played us and now they drove in to finish us completely and steal all we had.

Logic indicated they had chosen their time well. We were at rest, we were short of water, we were tired and apprehensive, and we ought all to have been asleep but for the sentries, and they, poor devils, would no doubt be sprawled with slit throats. The fight had given the bandits pause and some intemperate hothead had loosed at us and so the alarm was raised.

The drikingers were blessed by me, then, I can tell you.

And, to be honest and all the same — that second arrow would have pinned me but for the instinctive move I’d made when the first one shafted Mefto. Speed — that was all I had as advantage over Mefto, and it was speed of reaction that in the end had saved me.

The caravan roused and the paktuns turned out and Bevon took up his sword from Master Scatulo’s carriage and we fought.

The fight was savage and unpleasant with much carving up of leathery hides and stripping of bright feathers; but at last we drove the drikingers off and collapsed, exhausted.

These skirling events were just those I had been missing as emperor in Vallia... How far removed this brisk little encounter was from the ordered and planned evolutions of the Phalanx!

But, death attended both in equal measure.

In the morning we buried our dead or cremated those whose religious convictions demanded that ingress to the Ice Floes of Sicce. Various gods were apostrophized for good fortune for the ibs of the departed. As for the drikingers, we found only three of them, twisted in death by the wagon wheels, and these, too, we buried. They had been lean hardy men, apims, with leathery skins and ferocious bunches of hair dyed purple, and with scraps of armor looted from previous caravans. Of the other bandit dead, they had been all carried off by their comrades.

So, groaning and protesting, the caravan moved off and safely reached the water hole and from then on the journey across the Desolate Waste proceeded as such a journey should — filled with alarums and excursions but with a happy arrival at the end.

The country opened out and grew fat and rich once we crossed the River of Purple Rushes. There was a ford and a strong fort and parties of warriors of Aidrin to escort us in. They greeted us in jocular mood, making light of our problems, telling us of the troubles that previous unfortunate caravans had endured. There were caravans that set out from Songaslad, the town of thieves, that never reached the River of Purple Rushes. White and yellow bones scattered over the Desolate Waste marked their endings.

From the fort by the ford, Prince Mefto was carried swiftly ahead of us, with his men, to Jikaida City. He left the caravan. He had not spoken to me and was reputed badly injured — and at the time I suspected that an arrow in the cunning double-joint had done more harm than it would do to a fellow with only two arms to fight with. I had kept a strict watch for revenge; but nothing transpired. What honor code he followed, if any, I did not know. But I had the strongest — and nastiest — suspicion that I had not heard the last of Prince Mefto the Kazzur.

If I do not dwell overmuch on my reactions to that fight I think you will respect that. I had had a shock, all right; and, too, I had grown in understanding. In future, fights would not be quite the same again; but I fancied I knew enough of Dray Prescot to guess what he would do. One is as one is, and like the Scorpion, must hew to nature’s path.

The Wizard of Loh, Deb-Lu Quienyin, was overjoyed to have reached his destination safely.

“I shall seek out San Orien at once. He, I feel sure, I hope, will be able to cure me — to retrieve my powers.”

Saying remberee to him I brought up the subject I had been harboring for long. “I am confident he will do everything he can to aid you, San. Tell me, do you know of a Wizard of Loh called Phu-Si-Yantong?”

“Dear San Yantong! I have not heard of him for ages.”

Well, now...

How Wizards of Loh kept in touch was a subject not for ordinary men. But old Deb-Lu-Quienyin burbled on happily about Yantong, the biggest villain unhanged, and I wondered if there could be two Wizards of Loh with the same name. But now, Quienyin would have none of that. He had not heard of Yantong for many seasons, and when last he had been in contact Yantong had been building up a useful practice in Loh. “Of course, I always felt he was marked for great things. There was an aura about him, despite his difficulty. I do hope he prospers.”

There was no point in arguing about that; but I did pick up one or two useful hints from Quienyin. He was reticent about this “difficulty” of Yantong’s, and would not be drawn, and I wondered if Phu-Si-Yantong was indeed the cripple he had pretended to be and that was his difficulty.

We watched Master Scatulo’s coach trundling off to the superior inn where the Jikaidast would stay until, as Bevon put it: “He has established his credentials.”

LionardDen, Jikaida City, was given over to one thing in life. Jikaida. The game consumed the people. Of course, they lived by it and it paid them handsome dividends. Their country of Aidrin was rich in worldly goods, the fields and mines and rivers yielded a bountiful harvest. People flocked from all over to play Kazz-Jikaida. There were enormous fortunes to be made. There were reputations to be made.

Standing saying remberee to the Wizard of Loh, Pompino said to me, “I do not fancy staying here overmuch. But it seems we may have to.”

Quienyin nodded. “When a caravan returns across the Desolate Waste, I think. It is suicide to attempt the crossing alone or in small numbers. And all west of here across the lakes is dreadful, so I am told by those who know — leem hunters and the like.”

I said: “D’you fancy the life of a leem-hunter, Pompino?”

Quienyin laughed and my fellow kregoinye made a face. “By Horato the Potent, Jak. No!”

“You could take employment in the games.”

“How so, San?”

“Why, stout fighting men are always wanted. I, myself, do not care for Kazz-Jikaida. But it has its attractions.”

“We will, I think, find out a little more first,” Pompino told me, whereat, feeling my wounds still a little sore, I nodded agreement.

Jikaida City certainly was beautiful, with airy kyros and broad avenues and with houses that were graceful and colonnaded against the heat and thick-walled against the cold. The climate, by reason of the lakes, was not too extreme this deeply in the center of the continent. Everywhere the checkerboard was used as decoration. One could grow tired of the continual repetition. Even the soldiers’ cloaks were checkered black and white.

Quienyin shook his head. “If you go as a warrior you will be expected, as part of your duties, to act in the games. That is understood.”

“I have no wish to be a soldier,” said Pompino. Truth to tell, we two kregoinye were stranded here.

And there was not a single sight of a golden and scarlet raptor circling arrogantly above us, mocking us with his squawk.

The lady Yasuri paid us off, and she had the grace to thank us for our services. But paid off we were, and so were at a loose end. I said to Pompino: “I am for going back across the Desolate Waste. I have urgent business that will not wait.”

“No business,” he said sententiously, “is more important than that of the Everoinye.”

One could not argue with that sentiment. But I was serious.

“If we can buy or steal a couple of fluttrells—”

“They are more precious than gold. And how many have you seen since we arrived?”

“None.” There were volroks and other flying men abroad on the streets of the city; but we saw no aerial cavalry. That there must be some seemed to me probable. I’d have a saddle-bird, I promised myself; but in the interim until I gained one we had to find something to do. So, as we had known, the games drew us.

“Anyway,” I said as we hitched up our belts and went off to find a suitable tavern, “Ineldar the Kaktu will be taking a caravan back across the Desolate Wastes. We have only to sign on with him as caravan guards.”

Chapter Thirteen

In Jikaida City

Before we patronized a tavern there was a duty Pompino and I must do vital to any good Kregan. We retained the shirts and trousers given to us by the lady Yasuri; but all else had been returned. We could feel the golden deldys wrapped in scraps of rag and tucked into our belts. Our first port of call was the armorers.

The fashion of rapier and main gauche imported from Vallia and Zenicce into Hamal had not yet reached this far south into Havilfar. We chose good serviceable thraxters, and swished the cut and thrust swords about in the dim shop with its racks of weapons and armor. The proprietor was a Fristle. He stroked his whiskers as we pawed over his goods.

“Nothing better in Jikaida City, doms. Friendly Fodo — that’s me — can set you up with an arsenal for the finest caravan across the Desolate Waste.”

“Just a sword and dagger,” I said, pleasantly. “And a brigandine, I think?” with an inquiring look at Pompino.

“I have this beautiful kax,” said Friendly Fodo, giving the breast and back a vigorous polish. It was iron, with scrollwork around the edges. We did not even bother to inquire the price as we refused. We had to make our pay spin out until we found fresh employment.

The reason I had chosen a brigandine, in which the metal plates are riveted through the material, instead of an English jack, where the plates are stitched and threaded, was simply that even a cursory inspection of the workmanship of the jack Friendly Fodo displayed showed it was Krasny work, inferior. Pompino chose a brigandine and then he touched the forte of his thraxter. Neatly incised in the metal was that familiar magical pattern of figure nines interlocked.

“You’re in luck, dom,” said Friendly Fodo. “A high-class weapon. Came from a Chulik who died of a fever.”

Examination of the thraxter I eventually chose for its feel and balance revealed a tiny punched mark in the form of the Brudstern, that open-flower shaped form whose magic is whispered rather than spoken. I nodded, amused, and paid over the gold required.

Pompino bought solid boots and, after a moment’s hesitation, I bought softer, lower-cut bootees. Walking barefoot is no hardship for me, an old sailorman, within reason.

Then, after a few other necessary purchases in the Arcade of Freshness, we placed our new belongings into a small satchel and rolled off to the tavern to begin the next important duty laid on a good Kregan.

Truly, Beng Dikkane, the patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz, smiled on Jikaida City.

We had a whole new city and its inhabitants to explore, a happy situation, and after the rigors of the journey Pompino certainly, and I, I confess a little wryly, without too many reservations, set about easing the dust from our throats and seeing what there was to be seen and generally winding down. The wounds I had taken, although superficial, itched nonetheless, and the soreness persisted. Pompino did remark with a twitch of his foxy face that, perhaps, that rast Mefto the Kazzur used poisoned blades. But that is unusual on Kregen.

Very soberly I said, “He has no need of that kind of trick. He is the best swordsman I have ever met.” I drank a long swigging draught, for by this time we were on our second and the alehouse was filling up with mid-morning customers. “But he is a rast, more’s the pity. All his prowess and skill has not taught him humility.”

“He’s a yetch who ought to be—”

“Quite. He is the best swordsman. But he is not the greatest.”

“Yet, Jak, if I had his skill with the sword would I feel humble?” Pompino pondered that. “I do not think so.”

“If you had been picked by the gods to be favored with a great gift, as Mefto surely has, would you feel arrogance over that? Or would you feel awe — and a little fear?”

Pompino stared at me over the pewter rim of his goblet.

“Jak — we are kregoinye. We have been marked!”

“By Havil!” I said, and I sat back, astounded.

After a space in which sylvie glided over to refill our goblets and Pompino spilled out a couple of copper coins, I said, “All the same. It is not the same — if you see what I mean. Mefto’s gift and our tasks cannot stand comparison.”

Pompino was staring after the sylvie and licking his lips.

“I’m surprised a place like this can afford to hire a sylvie — slave or not. They tend to — to distract a fellow.”

That was true.

“We should, I think,” I said, “find Ineldar the Kaktu and make sure he will hire us for the return journey. We must know when he is starting.” I looked around and lowered my voice. “I begin to think we will not find a fluttrell or mirvol to steal in this city.”

“Agreed. But another stoup first, Jak.”

By the time we left to explore the city, Pompino was very merry. We quickly discovered that Jikaida City was not one but two. Twinned cities under the twin suns flourish all over Kregen, of course. The extensive shallow depression between low and rolling hills cupped the twin cities in a figure-eight shape. Between them rose edifices of enormous extent whose function was to house the games. We strolled along in the sunshine, admiring the sights, and Pompino kept breaking into little snatches of song, half to himself, half to any passersby who took his fancy. Despite myself, I did not pretend I was not with him. After all, he had proved a comrade.

Many of the more important avenues radiated away from the central mass of the Jikaidaderen and the buildings reflected the architectural tastes of many nations and races. In one avenue we saw a low-walled structure over the gate of which hung a banner, flapping gently in the light breeze, which read: NATH EN SCREETZIM.

Underneath, in letters only slightly less loud, was the Kregish for: “Patronized by the leading Jikaidasts.”

Pompino ogled the sign owlishly. “Are you a leading Jikaidast, Jak? I can rank my Deldars and — and reach the first drin. But after that—” He paused to bow deeply to a couple of passing matrons, who eyed him as though the flat stones of Havilfar had yawned and yielded up their denizens. “After that, dom, why — it all gets confusing.”

“Stick to Jikalla.”