Krozair of Kregen [Dray Prescot #14] Page 13

  “Quidang,” he said and was off.

  I shouted in a voice pitched just to reach Pugnarses Ob-Eye, our oar-master. “At the signal, Pugnarses. Full speed."

  We had a few murs’ grace. The swifter ahead, two-banked, fast, designed for patrol and scouting duty, still held her oars leveled. In those few murs we must cast off our tow and hope Neemu would be able to retrieve it and continue to haul in the argenter. I turned sharply as Vax said, a little loudly, “Tow rope cast off."

  “Now, Pugnarses! Full speed! Use ol’ snake!"

  We all heard the drumbeat abruptly break, then rattle, and finally settle into a swift and demanding rhythm. The oars thrashed and for a moment I thought they'd lost it, and the rhythm had been broken—and then the blades churned the water all in line, level as though on tracks, and through our feet we felt the forward surge of Crimson Magodont, that exhilarating onward bounding like a zorca under a rider careering wildly across the plains.

  “Starboard!” I yelled at the helm-Deldars.

  The forecastle of the swifter moved out of line with the swifter ahead. I could see in the moons-shimmer her oars quiver and then fall, all together, and in a macabre counterpointing echo to our own I heard her drum rattling out the time.

  For a couple of ship-lengths we surged on and then I shouted to the helm-Deldars to bring her back to larboard. Crimson Magodont was of that style of swifter short-coupled, chunky, yet still retaining the long, lean lines of a true galley. She could turn on a golden zo-piece. Her starboard bank continued to pull frenziedly and we could hear through the ship noises the sharp sizzling cracking of whips, the shouts of that hateful word, “Grak! Grak!"

  The larboard bank dug into the sea. Crimson Magodont spun.

  Then every oar smashed into the water, the blades churning, and we leaped as a leem leaps.

  “Ram! Ram! Ram!"

  We took the Grodnim swifter on his larboard bow. We smashed and bashed down a full third of his length. The pandemonium racketed to the starlit sky. I did not think what was going on among the slave benches of the swifter. We spun into the Magdaggian and we wrecked a third of his oar banks and then we eased a fraction to starboard and so ripped away the remaining two thirds before we turned to free our own blades.

  The noises from the Magdaggian obliterated the shouts and yells of our men. Those noises spurted hideously against the pink moons’ glow. I held my jaw shut and I could feel my teeth punching into my gums, aching.

  Arrows arched. The varters let fly. There would be no boarding. The Magdaggian drifted past, wallowing, one entire wing ripped from her. And here came Pur Naghan! Driving on astern of us, flanking our argenter, he bored on with all his oars thrashing. Pearl surged ahead, like a living lance. Her rostrum struck the Grodnim swifter full abeam. The rending sounds as bronze sheared through wood racketed out. What they were doing aboard the argenter that Pearl towed I could only guess; but she went clear. Neemu had the first argenter's tow secured and was going ahead. I stared around in the moon-drenched darkness.

  There were no other Magdaggian swifters I could see.

  “She's going!” said Vax. He held the hilt of the Krozair longsword and I knew the young devil longed to dive into the fray and use that terrible weapon.

  The Magdaggian wallowed lower.

  I said, “We cannot abandon the Zairians in her. Take us alongside."

  It was madness. It was folly. The arrangements had been that if attacked Neemu would take our tow and Pearl would continue on. Nothing had been agreed about what to do with any victim of our ram.

  Fazhan said, “If there are other rasts of Grodnims abroad, the noise—"

  “Aye, Fazhan. We must be quick."

  We were quick. I commanded a crew of men who had been Renders, who knew how to raise a swifter's oar-slaves against their masters. We ravened onto the Magdaggians deck. Arrows flew. I saw Dolan the Bow calmly shooting from the forecastle, sending shaft after shaft in a flowing rhythm into the ranks of the Greens clustered to receive us. And from the quarterdeck, Nath the Slinger flung his deadly pebbles and lozenges of lead, trying to match the speed of Dolan. I drew the Ghittawrer blade and led the charge that cleared the foeman's quarterdeck. Pearl had ripped a ghastly hole in her side. She'd be gone very quickly.

  The slaves were pouring up from below, waving their chains, raving. Many a poor devil had been crushed by his loom, those who had neither the knack nor the knowledge to duck under as the cruel ram smashed down in the diekplus. Our successful diekplus had smashed the first third of the larboard banks; from these benches came very few slaves to join us.

  There were plenty of others, though, to join us as we dispatched the Grodnims. The freed slaves leaped joyously onto the deck of Crimson Magodont as the Magdaggian swifter sank in a smother of bubbles and breaking timbers.

  Neemu and Pearl, with their tows, had pulled ahead. We followed. I let the scenes of frantic joy blossom on the gangway and forecastle as we pulled in toward the Pharos of Zandikar. Any man released from slavery at the oars of a swifter from Magdag is entitled to leap and cavort, to shout and bellow, to scream his thanks to Zair.

  Many men fell to their knees and banged their heads against the flibre of the deck in utter thankfulness.

  I did not tell them, yet, that they were entering a city under siege, that when their bellies hungered they might yearn for the slop and the onions and crusts thrown to them on their oar benches.

  Among the sailors of the inner sea the saying runs: “Easier a thorn-ivy bush than the Ten Dikars."

  Truly, the maze of channels threading between islands and headlands leading to Zandikar are confusing and treacherous. We had come safely through, thanks to Dolan, and now as we reached a broad calm stretch of water the city rose beyond and patrolling Zandikarese swifters nosed in to attack. Now we did not mind heaving to. The swifters assured themselves we were who we said we were—well, who some of us said we were at the time—and very soon scenes of riotous joy spread from our decks and gangways to the battlements and quays and streets of the city itself. Torches burst into flame as hundreds of emaciated people flooded down to the quayside. I frowned.

  “Fazhan—anchor out in the center of the harbor."

  He nodded. If that lot of crazed and starving people sought to board we'd be done for. Now the mergem carried in the argenter proved of inestimable value. The ship carried enough to supply Zandikar's normal population for a season, possibly; the war and the siege had wasted away at the people; they would not starve now. As well, the chipalines would prove of great value, and the corps of crossbowmen welcomed the bolts. I told my men to let the provender go freely into the town. No one could argue over that. If it flushed out rasts, I would be happy.

  The Todalpheme who lived in a small stone house by the Pharos came aboard and were fervent in their thanks. These wise men who monitor the tides are protected by protocol and taboo from any harm from another man. They were indignant that in the siege Prince Glycas had starved them, too. We gave them mergem and sent them away, praising Zair, although I was coming around to a belief that the Todalpheme of Kregen worshiped no gods that other men worshiped.

  The rasts were duly smoked out.

  They came aboard on the following morning as the business of unloading went on. Fazhan and Pur Naghan had organized well. Boats pulled to the shore loaded with sacks of mergem. On the shore my men and the harbor crossbowmen formed a hollow space with the crowds pressing outside, shouting and screaming and raising a dust and tearing their clothes—but all with joy upon their faces. The sacks were handed out. All who asked were supplied. Any boats approaching the argenter were kept off with pointed bows. I knew that everyone of besieged Zandikar would eat well this night, even if it was only mergem, and no one would starve.

  The rasts came aboard, having shouted their own importance, and strode across my quarterdeck.

  I looked at them. Oh, yes, they were familiar faces, their bearing was familiar, their manner of talk. I did not know one of them; but I
knew what they were. I had met in my career on Kregen aragorn, slave-masters, overlords, great nobles, masters of the arena, Manhunters—in them there glowed the same self-satisfied and preening knowledge of self-importance.

  Their leader, a Ztrom,[5] flashily attired, adorned with many gems and much gold lace, carrying a Krozair longsword, marched up and I noticed how his right hand crossed his body among the ruffles of gold lace to rest on the hilt of the longsword. There was no doubt in my mind he could use the weapon, gold lace or no damned gold lace. His face, as I have indicated, showed quite clearly he was for Cottmer's Caverns when he was at last put where he belonged. I own I am intemperate in these matters.

  [5 Ztrom: Zairian equivalent to Strom—count. The Grodnim title is Grom.]

  “You are the master of this vessel?"

  “Aye."

  “You address me as jernu. We shall take over now."

  A commotion began on the quay. Armed men, mail clad, bearing swords, were beating the crowds away. They were not overlords of Magdag; but from their demeanor and behavior they might just as well have been.

  There were six of them on the deck, and in their boat alongside waited a dozen more with the oarsmen. I turned back as the Ztrom snarled—very adept at snarling are these people, the high and mighty of the land—and drew that great sword. The blade flamed before my eyes.

  “Cramph! Answer when I speak to you!"

  I said, “If you do not send your men away, you are a dead man.” I did not draw my sword.

  He gaped. He just did not believe his own two ears.

  “Rast! I am Ztrom Nalgre ti Zharan, the king's councillor! All Zandikar does my bidding."

  He swung about to order his five men. He stopped, abruptly, as a foolish ponsho stops when it butts its head against the wall. A dozen archers, and chief among them Bolan the Bow, drew their shafts back and held their glittering points upon the five.

  I said, very gently, “Secure them all. Bind them well. You, so-called Ztrom Nalgre, I do not believe are a Ztrom at all. You are a jumped-up devil, a sewer-rat, a cramph who steals food from starving people."

  He struck then.

  I slid the blow, stepped forward, and drove my fist into his belly. As he fell I took the sword away. One thing was for sure, he was no Krozair.

  He retched on the deck. I stirred him with my toe. “Him, too.” Over the side the men in the boat were shouting. I walked calmly to the bulwark by the quarterdeck varter. A rock rested in its beckets, like a shot garland, ready. I leaned over and shouted.

  “Go back to your cramph of a king and tell him if he touches the food for the people, his Ztrom Nalgre ti Zharan will be hanged in the sight of all. Schtump!"

  One of the fools loosed a shaft. I moved my head. The arrow flew past. They just did not believe anyone would cross them, deny their wishes. They had to be shown, and shown quickly. I lifted the rock over my head in both hands, bent back, and then catapulted forward. It was a nice little throw. It took the bottom out of their damned boat.

  The next second they were in the water all caterwauling and yelling. We threw ropes down to them and hauled them out and ran them down to the lock-up, a tiny brig that soon filled, and so we had to chain them down on the gangway of the thalamite tier. Some of the oarsmen swam for the quay. I bellowed my words after them. But so far, not so good. I had not done enough.

  “No more sacks ashore, Fazhan—tell the argenter."

  Very soon thereafter the crowds dispersed. The mail-clad riders dismounted and stood watching us. They were mostly apim, although a few Rapas and Fristles were in evidence. The walls of the city here along the shore remained firm, at the least. Those walls, all of a grayish-white stone, gleamed under the suns. The jumbled red roofs of the city, the spires and towers, clustered behind those walls. I could not see the farther walls inland; but that was where the siege was going on. If this newly appointed king did not make haste my own patience would be gone. I had not come here to act as a Palinter, important though that was.

  Pur Naghan had himself rowed across and came up onto my quarterdeck looking somewhat perturbed. I reassured him.

  “Normally a central rationing point is essential. But we have so much mergem that is not necessary. We must get the people and the warriors fed and back in health and heart again. I must get up to the walls."

  “This king will not take kindly to you."

  “I've already taken unkindly toward him."

  “Aye,” said Pur Naghan, who was a man not averse to a hearty chuckle, like any Zairian. “I had noticed."

  Presently a party of sectrixmen cantered down to the jetty and there was a deal of flag-waving and shortly thereafter a fat and sweaty Pallan was rowed out to us. He stood on the quarterdeck, panting, patting his face with a lace kerchief—prepared to be nasty, as I saw, or prepared to be reasonable, as I hoped.

  “The king bids you attend him in his palace at once."

  “Does he not inquire if Ztrom Nalgre is dead or alive?"

  “Let us not be hasty—give me your name and style and we may talk."

  This fellow's robes, although originally of red, were so smothered in gold and silver and chains and tassels as to make of him a tapestried object of ridicule. He wore a wide flat red cap, much folded, sporting feathers secured by a gold buckle. He stood and I let him stand. His pouched eyes rolled in search of a chair.

  “You are the visitor in my ship. It is for you to open the pappattu."

  His fat and greasy face regarded me and I saw something there I had not expected. He made a small bow.

  “I am Nath Zavarin, Battle Pallan to his most exalted and puissant majister, King Zenno, on whom—"

  “Yes,” I said with coarse rudeness. “I suppose like any jumped-up paktun he adorns himself with titles.” I own I knew I smiled away inside my skull like any fambly—me, Dray Prescot, badgering on about amassing titles! But there are ways and ways. I had decided what to say. “I am Dak of Zairia."

  That said all and said nothing, and this Zavarin knew it.

  “Do you think, Captain Dak, I might sit down? I am not as agile as once I was, and my stomach makes inordinate demands on my ib, demands I own I fail more often than not."

  “You will oblige me by stepping into my cabin, where I have a wine I would value your opinion of, Pallan Zavarin."

  Again he cocked those poached-egg eyes at me. He nodded. So we went into my cabin and he tasted the wine and pronounced it better than the muck they were forced to drink since all the best had been consumed and that cramph prince Glycas sat down before their walls. He had seen that a period of bargaining lay ahead. As to the idiot Ztrom Nalgre ti Zharan, well, Zavarin said, the king valued him as a fighting-man. That was all.

  “And you?"

  He smiled and drank, wiping his plump and shining purple mouth most prettily. I had expected to have to browbeat the messenger from the king. That I was not doing so pleased me.

  “I served King Zinna long and faithfully. I know Zandikar. The treasury—” Here he shrugged in a way more French than I cared for. “The king holds that with his own key. His paktuns took the important offices after Zinna was murdered—I mean, after King Zenno ascended the Roo[6] Throne. And for me—” Here he turned his lace-ruffled wrist meaningfully. “I know much of Zandikar. I am Battle Pallan, and thankful for it."

  [6 Roo: Eleven.]

  I knew what he meant. Battle Pallan is a somewhat lurid way of saying Secretary of War, or War Minister. I imagined Nath Zavarin had not willingly wielded a sword in earnest for many a long season. King Zenno had him under his thumb, and could draw on his knowledge of the city's ways, and, confirming my judgment, Zavarin said he personally enjoyed much popular support.

  “The people must be fed,” I said. “That is the first concern. The king's men have interfered with that."

  “I agree. But the king holds all food under his hand."

  “I agree that to be a sound method. We have mergem and to spare. I do not wish the king to charge money for my
food."

  'The king will do what the king wishes."

  “And you remember King Zinna?"

  He drank again, and I saw he did so to stop himself from speaking what boiled in his brain. He was very frightened. That was clear, yet he put a bold front on it, this fat ridiculous man.

  To divert that line of talk, he swallowed and said, “I am fat. I have always been fat. It is a misfortune. In time of siege it can be fatal."

  “Yes. I can see that."

  “The king commanded me to bring you to his palace."

  “Did he not stop to think why his onker of a Ztrom had not done so?"

  This fat Pallan looked at me, searchingly, and made a face, and said, “The king did not expect him to. Ztrom Nalgre was under instructions to slay you and take all the food."

  “I am not surprised."

  “You are a strange man. There is artillery on the walls. They could sink your ships."

  “Seawater and mergem can be mixed. I do not recommend it."

  The sweat shone on the immense rounded surfaces of his cheeks. He wiped his brow again, taking the red hat off and laying it upon the table. His fear had ebbed a little and puzzlement was beginning to replace the terror and revive his natural instincts. A political, this man. To my own vast surprise I found I was quite taking to him, fat and all.

  “Now that King Zenno rules in Zandikar,” I said, “and the people live under his hand, you must be proud that you assisted him to ascend the Roo Throne. I could understand that."

  He sucked in his breath, making all his chins wobble and his cheeks abruptly hollow. “I did not strike a blow or instigate one scheme against Zinna!"

  “Ah!” I said.

  He glared at me. “You are a cunning rogue, Dak of Nowhere. I cannot open my heart to you. Suppose Zenno uses his arts of torment upon you?"

  I ignored that unwholesome thought and put questions to him about the siege and the state of the city. The Grodnims had put in three major set-piece assaults and had been beaten off, each time with increasing difficulty. The food we had brought would put heart and strength into the soldiery. Yes, said Zavarin, the soldiers were loyal, for they fought for the city. As for Zenno and his pack of hangers-on, they made hay while the sun shone. Paktuns, employed to fight for hire, they had seized the throne and now lolled about in comfort. It was all one to them. The siege went on apace, for they wished to appear to keep faith with the city. In the paktun philosophy of living in the immediate present, they took what they could and let tomorrow take care of itself. “But—” said Zavarin, and paused, sweating.