Bladesman of Antares dp-9 Page 13

  So I said, as gently as I could: “Oh, Chido, you are a great fambly! Rees will eat this Leotes and spit the pips out.”

  Chido shook his head, clutching his glass. “You have not seen the Zeniccean fight, Hamun!”

  The rapier-and-dagger-men of Zenicce are most skilled, as I knew, for I had once swaggered as a bravo-fighter of Zenicce. The fumbling attempts of the aristocracy of Hamal to take up rapier-work, to become, in their terms, Blades-men, would make a sword-master of Strombor or Eward — or Ponthieu!

  — smile the wide wicked grin of a shark. Vallians are most nimble with the rapier, and I have met fine swordsmen from Pandahem. Despite my brave words and despite my confidence in Rees, I felt strongly that if this Leotes ti Ponthieu was a sword-master of a high quality in Zenicce, he would do Rees’s business for him.

  There are twenty-four Houses in Zenicce, noble and lay. Chance had directed that Vad Garnath in his pursuit of revenge should choose a bravo-fighter from the noble House of Ponthieu, a House which at that time was a deadly foe to my own House of Strombor. I would have no compunction with this Leotes.

  The preparations for the inevitable duel went ahead, Just as they had before, with one exception. Nath Tolfeyr cried off from being Rees’s second. Chido would have jumped in, but Rees sternly bade him away. The lion-man looked in truth as noble as a lion does in the imagination, as he glanced around the upper room of the tavern where we had gathered on the night before the encounter. It was scarcely an affair of honor any longer, but it was holding up my own work.

  I said: “I shall stand as your second, Rees.”

  “Very well, Hamun. As I shall most certainly thrust this dog of a Zeniccean through the guts after a few passes, it will serve.” But he did not thank me, and I knew that he was more worried than he cared to admit. His confidence remained high.

  Chido swore most vilely, but Rees had a duty for him that had nothing to do with duels. Chido was packed off to the wide Plains of the Golden Wind to pick up the rudiments of military lore necessary for his appointment as a staffer.

  I had my own private thoughts about the regiment Rees was putting together, but I did not speak my thoughts to the lion-man.

  Casmas the Deldy announced, with an oily smile, that even though he was contracted to be married -

  and to a charmer! a marvel! a passion-lily of scarlet fervor! a most luscious armful! and rich into the bargain! — he would be taking bets. This time the betting so heavily favored the Zeniccean bravo-fighter that it seemed no one gave Rees a chance. I laid a bet and Casmas smiled and fingered his chin, chuckling, already counting the money as his. So, rather dolefully on the part of Rees’s friends, we trooped down to the hall ready for the duel.

  The first man I saw inside was Lart ham Thordan, Strom of Hyr Rothy. He started when he saw me, then sneered, and passed a comment to a crony that some Amaks ran away from duels and hid behind the rapiers of lion-men friends. I ignored him. I had to.

  Everyone crowded around. I carried out my duties as second, and, as everyone expected, Vad Garnath successfully satisfied the judges that he could not fight and his second must do so in his place. Leotes ti Ponthieu stepped forward.

  Well, we know his type. He was a bravo-fighter. He lived by his rapier. One day — and he knew it -

  he would die by a rapier or dagger. Rees faced him, and the bout began. I saw, at once, that Rees was quite out of his class. Even so, Rees balked him of a death, for Leotes’ blade took a chunk of flesh away from Rees’s side, and the blood being drawn, the bout might be called off. I leaped forward, shouting that honor had been satisfied. Rees looked abruptly shriveled. He was carried off and I swung about to follow him through the turmoil of shouting men and women, yelling to his attendants to carry him gently. The confusion was remarkable, for Rees had many friends as well as enemies. And the ladies of Ruathytu would not miss such a spectacle. I pushed after Rees, but the crowd pressed in, and the noise and bustle racketed from the high ceiling.

  “Rees!”

  “Keep back, keep back!”

  I saw the lion-man lift himself from the stretcher. He looked terrible. A doctor was working busily away, but a dreadful red stained his bandages with terrible rapidity.

  “Honor — Hamun,” said Rees, and I could just hear him through the din. “You. . keep off it. . old fellow. .”

  Then the crowd closed in and he was whisked from my sight.

  Strom Lart stood before me. I was aware of Casmas the Deldy, and Nath Tolfeyr, and Tothord of the Ruby Hills, in the press.

  “So your champion has fallen, Amak Hamun!” Strom Lart was enjoying this. He was dressed in the off-duty rig of a soldier, a totrix cavalryman, and that big bloated face was flushed scarlet with greed for the enjoyment of pain and humiliation. “We have a debt unpaid, you and I, clum-lover!”

  I went to push past. “Out of the way, you fat fool,” I said. “I must see how Rees is.”

  He did not roar or bellow, although the scarlet of his cheeks deepened even more grotesquely. He lifted his glove. I knew what he was going to do and could do nothing myself. Before them all, Strom Lart of Hyr Rothy slapped me across the face with his gauntlet.

  “And this time, Amak, do not run away!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amak Hamun upholds his reputation

  The person who was Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley, struggled with the person who was Dray Prescot.

  Dray Prescot might have bowed icily, and then seen about choosing a nice sharp weapon to redress the insult. He might — given that although these proceedings were lethal and savage in the extreme, we still were operating within the context of civilization — have smashed his fist into Lart’s face, and kicked him as he went down for good measure.

  Hamun, of course, could do none of these things.

  Hamun could only stutter, and look about, and excuse himself, and so flee with Strom Lart’s ominous words ringing in his ears.

  “This time you cannot run away, Amak! This time I shall spit you like a roasting vosk!”

  If I tell you that my thoughts of Vallia and Valka, of Djanduin and all my loyal peoples there, grew woefully thin and attenuated, shrinking beside the white flare of my rage, I think you will understand just how I felt. I do not pretend to take pride in things that have no moment. Pride is for the puffed up empty-headed of two worlds. But some things seem natural for me to do, and some things seem unnatural. Taking a blow in the face and then turning tail and running away are not things that seem natural to me.

  When I obey the injunction to turn the other cheek — as I do on occasion — that seems natural. This last scene did not strike me as right then, nor does it seem right now, when I believe I may have grown just a trifle wiser than I was then, still a crack-brained hothead despite all my vows and good intentions to think first and not bash out first. I had thought this thing through. Hamun would have acted as I had acted; therefore it had been necessary.

  The challenge was brought by the same pair of clowns who had come before, and things were arranged, and again I waived a second. These two, the Elten and the Kyr, sensed a change in my attitude. For one thing, I had withdrawn into my old taciturnity that had fallen away from me since my marriage. I shooed them away, collected Nulty with his hamper of wine and palines and sweetmeats and good things, and went off to see how Rees was coming along. His wound had turned septic and although Kregen’s doctors are past Earth’s medieval mumbo-jumbo about the necessity for a wound to be fouled with pus before it will mend, they tend to worry, not without cause, about infections. The wound had been cleansed and treated and everyone said it would knit and mend in no time. Rees managed a smile for me. Chido was there, having burst a fluttrell getting back.

  We spent what was, in truth, a pleasant bur or two in conversation. As a Trylon, Rees was not as rich as he might be. The cause of this was, I gathered, the introduction of cattle onto his savannah lands. The topsoil had loosened under too heavy grazing, and the ominous name of his land had
proved itself no idle nomenclature. The Golden Wind was a wind blowing Trylon Rees’s lands away. But he still kept up a reasonable villa within the sacred quarter, a villa tiny by comparison with some of the villas belonging to other Trylons, and Vads and Kovs. And so we sat talking and drinking on his balcony, where his bed had been wheeled.

  He expressed himself as much concerned by Strom Lart’s challenge. I tried to turn his mind to other things, for I had already decided what I would do.

  We spoke of this fine regiment he was forming, and against my better judgment, I said: “Are you sure it is wise to form a cavalry regiment of zorcas only, Rees?”

  His tawny eyes flashed gold at me. I could imagine the great lion roar he would have given at other times.

  “Do you think I should form a regiment riding totrixes?”

  The contempt on his face was not for me.

  “The zorca is a marvelous animal,” I said. Indeed, the zorca is royalty among saddle animals! But the zorca is so close-coupled, so slender as to leg, so dainty even within the toughness and the fiery spirit of the animal, that I always handle zorcas in a very special way. Voves, those massive eight-legged saddle-animals of Segesthes, were unknown here. Hamal did not even have the smaller voves of Zenicce. The totrix, now, that slate-hided six-legged animal of stubborn willfulness and damned awkward riding habits, that should figure in a cavalry regiment fighting in far Pandahem.

  “Well, Hamun,” said Chido, railing me, “would you have us ride out on sleeths?”

  “I do not like sleeths.” The sleeth, that dinosaur-like riding animal that walks like some menacing allosaurus and was the passion of the bloods here in Ruathytu as well as in Huringa in Hyrklana, does not please me. I am a zorcaman after I am a voveman.

  I had to make myself laugh — a most hollow sound — and turn the conversation. I was in the act of giving advice — and damned good advice — to an enemy regimental commander! Such things spies have to do, no wonder it is a jealous profession.

  “I’ll make a Bladesman of you yet,” said Rees. But I saw his wound pained him, and with a roll of my eyes at Chido I rose and bid him Remberee.

  He bellowed: “Young Hamun! Listen to me, you stubborn onker! Get Nath Tolfeyr for a second — he has even agreed — and then drop out. You’ll never face that cramph Lart.”

  “Don’t fret, Rees. Get better. I’ll handle the affair, as Havil the Green is my witness.”

  “Some damned witness he’ll make!” shouted Rees, most blasphemously. Only his own people could hear, thank Zair.

  We left and took ourselves off to a tavern where we spent the rest of the morning at Jikaida. Chido was good if a trifle reckless and I had no compunctions about beating him. Because the tavern was crowded and the table not overlarge, we played the smallest reasonable game of Jikaida, that called Poron Jikaida. The board has six squares upon it, two at the top and three at the sides, and each square is called a drin. Each drin is further subdivided into squares six a side. Poron Jikaida is an infantry game, very like chess with the addition of that useful Halma-like move, and despite my cares I found myself absorbed.[6]

  Pushing the blue and yellow pieces back into their velvet-lined box, I stretched, and bellowed for tea. Chido grumbled but paid up, the golden deldy that was the bet ringing most sweetly upon the sturm-wood table. The tavern was filled with men stoking for the afternoon’s activities. There was no Jikhorkdun this day, I remember; instead there was another of the interminable handicapped zorca-versus-sleeth races. Unless the faithful zorca is given an impossible handicap, he will beat that two-legged dinosaurian monstrosity of a sleeth every time.

  Our conversation turned on the wave of cults and faith-healing sweeping the country, and I was minded to tell Chido of Beng Salter’s bones and his grandiose claims at curing ailments, at which Chide laughed and said, stab him, he’d believe any of ’em in times like these.

  Even as I watched his bright chinless face all agog and listened to his artless voice, sipping my sweet Kregan tea, I suddenly saw that same Strom Hormish of Rivensmot who had jostled and insulted me at the shrine of Beng Salter. This was the boor who had put into my head the idea of acting the part of a weakling so as to make a more effective spy. I regretted that decision now. It had seemed a good idea at the time. So you may imagine with what bile I regarded the fellow as he minced into the tavern, dressed in foppish finery, a foam of green lace at his neck, a beautifully cut satin coat on his back, a baldric blazing with gems over his shoulder, and — and! — a rapier and main-gauche for arms. This promised. He had evidently patronized this tavern before — it was The Golden Talu, I remember — for servants ran about before him carrying chairs, pushing tables, and spreading cloths, and the landlord, a Lamnia with beautifully brushed golden fur, fussed about him, a brand-new white apron donned just for the occasion.

  There are, as I have previously indicated, a whole range of taverns and inns on Kregen, ranging from those which are fit for mere swinish boozing to others which provide meals and overnight stops, to those where ladies may go for refreshments secure in the knowledge that they are perfectly safe in a first-class hostelry. Here in the sacred quarter The Golden Talu was a place of the latter category; a number of Horteras and ladies of quality sat at the tables, at ease. The main drink at this time of the day, too, was good Kregan tea. So when Chido nudged me and said quickly from the side of his mouth, “By Krun, Hamun! Look yonder — old Casmas, the great usurious humbug! By Havil! What a beauty!” I took my eyes away from Strom Hormish of Rivensmot, knowing he would keep, and followed where Chido directed.

  Casmas the Deldy, oiled, sweating, profuse, was guiding a girl to a table by the window. She was beautiful, beautiful, as I had observed before, when I’d snatched her from the beak and talons of a snow-white zhyan, beautiful in the way of looking and not touching. What the hell she was marrying old Casmas the Deldy for I had no idea — unless his cognomen held all the answer necessary. I think she saw me almost as soon as she entered the tavern. Certainly, she could scarcely keep her eyes off me, but she did not make a mention of me to Casmas, for he had not seen Chido and me, and bent all his effusiveness upon his bride-to-be.

  As though in some shadow play of a Kregen village, with the samphron-oil lamps casting the grotesque or beautiful shadows upon the linen sheet, with entrance after entrance, Strom Lart, he with whom I would soon be crossing swords, entered. He saw Strom Hormish, already swilling wine among the tea-drinkers, and he went straight across. There was a sickly plethora of bows and blandishments, then both men sat down and put their heads together. Birds of a feather, thought I. This pretty pot might yet boil into an affair of light amusement, or deadly peril, with the steel flying and the blood spurting. In my mood I knew which I would prefer.

  The way it did go I would not relish to have to suffer again.

  Chido’s slender frame partially shielded me from the view of the two Storms at their table. Casmas was so wrapped up in his little passionflower that he had eyes for nothing else. The girl was pale, very pale. Her color came and went, it is true, but by the way her breast moved, and the little helpless fluttery movements of her hands, and by other signs, I knew she had no joy in this marriage with Casmas the Deldy.

  The genteel uproar in the tavern, so different from the full-throated bellowings of taverns when the moons have risen, sounded all about; there was much coming and going as the midday meal was served. Kregans like six or more good meals a day, as I have said. Chido and I tucked into good red beef from cattle that might, for all we knew, have been destroying Rees’s lands. There were momolams, green vegetables, a great fruit pie, and many cups of tea to follow the table wine, a poor stuff, to my surprise; then the inevitable and sweetly necessary silver dish of palines.

  With my mouth full of palines I looked up and there was the fair hair, rosebud mouth, and pale blue eyes of the girl I had pulled from the zhyan’s claws outside The Crippled Chavonth in the dusty town of Urigal in the lazy and half-forgotten Kovnate of Waarom. Before I
could stand up, over Chido’s sudden explosion of wonder, she was blurting out quick words.

  “I have only a moment, Horter. You saved me once, in Urigal. You risked your life for me, a stranger, and I could not thank you then, for my guardian and his men prevented, and you were gone. But now, Horter, I beseech you! I need a strong arm to defend me once again.”

  Chido was staring in bewilderment, beginning to stutter a question. She ignored him as I half rose, a serviette to my lips, bowing to her.

  “I am Rosala of Match Urt. My father was the Strom there, but he is dead now and my fortunes have fallen away, and I am being forced to marry that fat disgusting Casmas.”

  “Jolly bad show, that,” burbled Chido. We ignored him. She was imploring me with her great pale blue eyes, the tears dropping down her deathly white cheeks, pleading with me.

  “You are a brave warrior. I know that. You have proved it, Horter. . I do not know your name. No one knew. . or would not tell me. I beseech you, sir, help me! Take me away from that horrid Casmas!

  Please!”

  Of course! Nothing simpler! Just leap on the nearest zorca and away!

  But I was not Dray Prescot here. I was Hamun ham Farthytu, with a certain reputation to uphold. What a situation!

  I was aware of movement on the other side of the table and then of course laughter breaking through Rosala’s words as she pleaded.

  “Please, Horter! You are brave! You will find a way. I beseech you, for the courage you have already shown, the kindness to me — save me from that wretch!”

  “Courage, Hortera, courage?” Strom Lart bellowed his amusement. “The man is a poltroon!”

  “He is a ninny,” boomed Strom Hormish, “a swordless weakling, fit only for rast-nest fodder.”

  Rosala of Match Urt stared speechlessly at me, her hands clasped together, all her vulnerable beauty crying out for rescue.

  I put down the serviette.

  “I am Hamun ham Farthytu, Hortera. I regret I do not know you. You are mistaken. I cannot help you.”