Renegade of Kregen (6 page)
The anger and bitterness in me ought not to be present, save as a general principle. I had made up my mind to quit the inner sea. Why, then, worry my head over its intrigues, its deceptions, its treacheries?
When the ship-Hikdar finished and stepped smartly back to his place, this Gafard bent his eye on me and said, "Now you know."
"Aye," I said.
This man was no true overlord of Magdag. Had I spoken to an overlord as I had to him I’d have been run outside and something diabolical would be happening to me, had I not done as I intended and broken free among the slaves chained below. This Gafard had prevented me from doing that, whereat I cursed within me, impotent to do what I wanted. No novel situation, I know, by Zim-Zair!
Gafard said, "I wish to speak to this wild leem alone. Clear the cabin. Nath, stand close beyond the door with a guard. Come running at my hail."
"Your orders, my commands, gernu!" bellowed the Hikdar, saluting, turning, bellowing the others out. We were alone.
He sat for some time at the long shining table before the stern windows, his hands limp on the balass wood, his gaze unwavering, direct, on me. Then—
"You take terrible chances, dom."
"It is necessary."
"Do you not think you might raise a gernu?"
I had made up my mind as to my tack. It was a chance, but I fancied this Gafard would be in need of what I offered — or would seem to offer, to my shame.
"What do titles mean to such a one as you?"
"Ah!" He rose and walked about the cabin on the soft rugs, his hands at his back, his head jutting forward so that his arrogant beaked nose looked even more ferocious.
"And suppose I give the orders and you are stripped and thrown below, chained to slave at the oar benches."
I did not shrug. "You might try."
He sucked in his-breath at this.
"I need men like you," he began.
I felt a premonition that the banal words might cloak a real meaning, that I was on the way to winning. He could see I read the meaninglessness of his words, for he went on, "You say you know who I am. Very well. I own it proudly! The name of Gafard, the Sea-Zhantil, is known upon the Eye of the World. I am rich, wealthy beyond your dreams. I fight for King Genod. I am a Ghittawrer in his very own Brotherhood. All these things I am, but in Zairia I was nothing! Nothing! There was no Z in my name. I fought for the Red — aye! Fought well, and nothing was my reward. I was prevented from joining the Krozairs, from joining any Red Brotherhood."
"So you turned renegade."
"Aye! And proud of it! Now I take what is rightfully mine upon the Eye of the World!"
He stood before me, alert, his right hand resting on the hilt of the shortsword. He turned, ready to draw. It would be a fifty-fifty chance whether or not he could draw and present the point at my throat before I could get out the longsword. I would not attempt to draw. . .
"You do appear to be doing well. And I compliment you upon your swifter handling."
He saw the arrogance in my words. Yet he smiled.
"You know I am not an overlord of Magdag by birth. But I am an overlord now, by right! Any other Grodnim gernu would have had you chained to a rowing bench by now."
"Yes," I said.
"You wear the green. You carry a Ghittawrer longsword with the device removed. You fight well — or so I am told. Do you not think to ask yourself, you who call yourself Dak ti Foreng, why you were not thrown below, chained, whipped at the looms?"
I looked up at him. "Why?"
His smile mocked me.
"I am a renegade, yes, once of Zair and now of Grodno. And you — you were of Zair, also!"
Gafard, the King’s Striker, the Sea-Zhantil
The secluded courtyard of the Jade Palace echoed with the clash of combat, the quick breaths of fighting-men, the spurting gasps of effort. The streaming lights of Antares flooded down to illuminate the yellow stone wall and the vines rioting in gorgeous colors on their trellises, sparkling in the upflung jets of water from the stone lips of stone fishes surrounding the lily-pool.
I switched up the shortsword and felt the shock of Gafard’s point hitting just below my breastbone. We were both stripped to the waist. Gafard’s muscular body glistened with sweat. He bellowed to me.
"Again, you fambly! You do not have a great long bar of steel in your hand! You have a shortsword — a Genodder, the great slayer — fashioned by the genius of King Genod himself!" He stamped his right foot and lunged at me again with every intention of spitting me once more. I clashed the wooden sword across and this time I deflected his lunge. I had to force my muscles to lock. I had to stop myself — with some violence — from doing what was natural and looping the sword and riposting and so dinting Gafard in the guts, as he so delighted in dinting me.
He slashed at my head and I ducked, he sidestepped and I let him drive his wooden sword into my ribs. It was damned painful. I thought I had done with this kind of tomfoolery after those days I had acted the ninny among bladesmen in far Ruathytu.
Gafard leaped back and saluted me, ironically.
Slaves advanced to take his sword, to sponge him down with scented rose water, to press a glass of parclear into his hand, to fan him, to fuss about him as dutiful slaves should fuss about a kind master.
"I am a longsword man," he said, sipping his sherbert drink, and then with a single swallow downing the lot. Slaves handed me a glass of parclear, for which I was grateful. I do not usually sweat a great deal. I had had to leap about in the sunshine to work up a glow. Gafard threw the glass casually over his shoulder. A nimble numim girl caught it before it hit the flags. I wondered what the slave-master would do to her had she missed. Now this Gafard, this Rog of Guamelga, this Prince of the Central Sea, this man of many ranks and titles, this man of enormous power and wealth in Magdag — this renegade — looked at me and repeated: "I am a longsword man. But I recognize the power of the shortsword. The Genodder is a formidable weapon."
"Aye, gernu," I said. I wiped my gleaming body with a soft towel. Gafard had narrowed his eyes when I’d stripped off. "It is a knack, surely."
"A knack you must master if you are to be of use to me."
Only a few days had passed since Gafard and his swifter
Volgodont’s Fang
had rescued us from the renders. Much had happened in that time, but all the hurry and bustle amounted only to the one important thing. Duhrra and I, as one-time adherents of the Red, were now followers of the Green.
Duhrra of the Days, and I, Dak, had turned renegades.
The scene in which I had tried to convince Duhrra of the wisdom of this course still had power to make me bristle. Of course I was right, and of course Duhrra was right. We’d been standing, facing each other, in the center of the bedchamber allotted to us in Gafard’s Jade Palace. The room was wide and tall and sumptuously furnished and we’d almost hit each other.
"Turn traitor! Bow and scrape to Grodno! You are mad!"
"Not so, and for the sweet sake of Zair do not shout so!"
"I am prepared to go out and cut down these evil rasts of overlords until I am cut down in my turn."
"You may be. I am not."
Duhrra eyed me. He was more worked up than when he’d lost his hand.
"I do not believe you lack spirit, Dak. But you talk like a mewling woman, heavy with child, with another at her breast, whining for mercy."
I compressed my lips. Then, unable to restrain myself, I burst out, "Sink me! Of course I’m after mercy, you great fambly! I’m long past the day when I will fight for the pleasure of fighting, or resist when resistance is hopeless! Have you learned nothing? To turn renegade now and pretend to follow the Green will not only save us from the galleys, or save our lives, it will give us the chance to escape — you great onker!"
"Now who’s shouting?"
Before Duhrra had finished his sentence I’d crossed the soft carpet in long vicious leem-strides and wrenched the sturmwood door open. The corridor beyond lay pale and empty, with a tall table bearing a jar of Pandahem ware, the cold sconces upon the tapestried walls, bars of mingled sunlight streaming in past barred windows at the end. I turned back and slammed the door.
"By the Black Chunkrah! I won’t shout if you will not shout."
"Duh — who’s shouting?"
I breathed hard, through my nose.
"You know where I want to go. We’ve won through so far. If we are to escape this little lot with our lives we have no choice but to do as Gafard wishes. He’s made a good thing out of it, by Krun!"
And, as I said that, I saw a ruse I had overlooked. Well, you who have listened to these tapes will know what the ruse was and how I might have employed it in the argenter. As it was, it was too late now.
So, here I was, a guest in Gafard’s Jade Palace, awaiting ratification of my application. King Genod welcomed with open arms all defectors from Zair. He took a dark delight in that. I didn’t have to be told that.
We went inside and Gafard insisted I play Jikaida. I like the game. We played jikshiv Jikaida, which is a middling size, for Gafard had an appointment later and could not spare the time for a larger and longer game. As usual we ranked our Deldars and set to. The game proved fascinating, for this Gafard had a cunning way with him that, if I was honest, was not so much cunning as straightforward ruthlessness applied cunningly.
[Here Prescot goes into some detail of the Game. A.B.A.]
Rising, Gafard motioned for a slave to clear the board. He looked not so much pleased by his win as puzzled. He nodded.
"Come into my chambers while I dress. I would talk with you."
I followed him.
The rooms were furnished with a sumptuousness and display of luxury that clearly indicated cost had formed no part of the designer’s plans. Everything was of the finest. I did not go through into the bedchamber, and sat in a gilded upholstered chair as Gafard dressed. Silks and satins, gold lace, swathing artful folds of green and gold — gradually his clothes were built up. I noticed that he wore a fine mail shirt under his tunic of green and gold. That mail had never been made in the inner sea. That must have come from one of the old, old countries clustered around the Shrouded Sea, in southern Havilfar. He saw my interest, and smiled that slight, down-drooping smile that betrayed so much.
"Yes, Dak of Zullia. Only the best."
My short-lived pretense of being a Grodnim from Goforeng, naming myself as Dak ti Foreng, had given place to my naming myself from another well-known location. This time it was the small ponsho-farmers’ village south of Sanurkazz from which hailed my oar-comrade Nath. We had taken a trip there, Nath, Zolta, and I, riding lazily through the warm weather, drinking and singing. Nath had felt the urge to visit the haunts of his youth. One oldster — a man two hundred years old, with a white beard — recognizing Nath, had called him "You young rip Nathnik."
Zolta had near bust a gut laughing. "Nathnik!" he crowed, slapping himself on the thigh, rolling about.
I can tell you, Nath and Zolta lost no opportunity to score off each other in the most outrageous ways, for all that each would gladly lay down his life for the other. They were far-off days now, long, long ago. . .
So it was that I felt some confidence in naming Zullia. If Gafard had ever by chance been through the place and if by an even greater chance he remembered it, I could answer up.
A long white robe was lifted and set so that the shoulders projected on small wings. Gold chains blazing with gems were draped over his chest. Slaves belted on a broad emerald and gold creation, glittering and gorgeous, and from it hung the jeweled scabbard of a brightly shining Genodder. The baldric for the longsword swung over his right shoulder; the scabbard, brilliant with gems, depending on the left. Finally, two things: the iron helmet swathed in green velvet and silk, with flaunting green and white feathers, and a last sprinkling of scented water.
Gafard, the King’s Striker, was ready for audience.
He would be carried there in a preysany palankeen, with link-slaves, and body slaves, and a strong guard party of his men clad in his personal livery. He affected the golden zhantil as his emblem. I sighed.
"The Sea-Zhantil," I said.
"Aye. It is a proud title. It is one I cherish. A certain man once carried that title upon the Eye of the World. A great corsair of the inner sea. A Krozair — a Krozair of Zy. He was the Lord of Strombor."
"I have heard of him," I said. But my heart thumped.
Gafard, in the usual way of Kregans, showed no real indication of age, and could have been anything from thirty to a hundred and fifty or so. I fancied he was much less than a hundred. I, for all that my physical appearance had remained much as it had been when I was thirty and had taken the dip in the Sacred Pool of Baptism, could subtly alter the planes and lines of my face, as I have said. I could make myself look different enough to fool a lackluster eye. But beside the bulky magnificence of Gafard I looked the younger of us two — which I was, of course, as entropy if not chronology goes.
"Yes," he said, following my thought. "He disappeared from the inner sea before you were born, I imagine. A great man. The greatest Krozair of his time, this Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor."
"So I have been told."
I did not say that I practically never used the title of "Sea-Zhantil" conferred on me by King Zo of Sanurkazz. I believe I have not even bothered to mention it in these tapes. It was of no consequence. No title could mean anything in the inner sea beside the simple, dignified, immortal Krozair of Zy.
Instead, I said, "So you, a follower of Grodno, relish using the title of a Krozair of Zy."
He flashed me a look. I wondered just what I would do if he considered I had gone too far. But he boomed a laugh and gripped his longsword hilt where the gems blazed gloriously, and strode for the door.
"A title lost by the Zairians! A title won by the Grodnims! I glory in it! And, for another reason, another reason far too precious — I am behind my time. Practice your Genodder work with Galti. He is quick and strong and will test you well."
