He had fought a duel with Rees, wounding him, under the orders of Rees’s enemy, Vad Garnath. Leotes had been Garnath’s second. Garnath had pleaded an inability to fight, had succeeded in convincing the judges, and so Leotes had fought . . .
But, first, I had to find Casmas the Deldy. This fat and unctuous money-lender had been deprived by me of his unwilling bride. But he did not know that. Once all this pettifogging intrigue had been settled, then I would take a certain amount of the money I intended to win and so bribe my way again to the secrets of the cayferm, that mysterious non-substance that went into the paol silver box, thereby giving a voller that magical power to ride the upper levels of the empty air.
It was all worked out, you see, all planned. Well, man sows and Opaz reaps, as they say on Kregen.
Now that I was no longer under the protection of Rees, the Trylon of the Golden Wind, for he lay abed sorely wounded, I found men anxious to be unkind to me. As my part still called for me to screw up my face into that imbecilic grin of good nature and to take no offense at the most blatant affront, these men passed by without a challenge. I did not want a score of fights on my hand. I wanted the one big killing — and I hasten to add I mean killing in the gambler’s sense and not in the Bladesman’s more bloody meaning.
Although the House of Ponthieu in Zenicce was still a bitter foe to my own House of Strombor, yet I had no wish to slay this Leotes ti Ponthieu. A little prick with the rapier, a drop or two of blood, and the bout would have been won and the Hamalese dueling laws respected. A single drop of blood would be enough to prove I had won.
Walking circumspectly, for I had already had to swallow down my anger as dandies and fops made mock of me, I came to the respectable tavern,
The Golden Talu.
Here had been the scene where I had publicly failed that remarkably beautiful girl, in the looking-and-not-touching style, Rosala of Match Urt, when she had sought my aid. Afterward I had, with the twinkle of rapier-play under moonlight, rescued her from Casmas the Deldy. Now she was safely away, I hoped, with my own people in Djanduin, of which wonderful country I was king.
Neither Vad Garnath nor Leotes ti Ponthieu sat in the elegantly appointed rooms of
The Golden Talu,
sipping fragrant Kregan tea. There were others there I would avoid. I saw the two Stroms, friends with each other and detested by many more folk than I alone, Strom Lart ham Thordan, whom I had wounded in the duel, as though by accident, and Strom Hormish na Rivensmot, whose boorishness had first prompted me to this present disguise of a foppish fool.
I ignored them. Poor creatures both, they would have instantly baited me, secure in their knowledge that the Trylon Rees lay sick abed, and secure, also, in their knowledge that either could dispatch that onker Amak Hamun with the sword in a duel at any time. Then I would have had to be unpleasant with them, shedding my disguise, and Vad Garnath and his schemes would have slipped away.
I ran this Vad Garnath to earth, at last, as he was shouting and beating his fist on the arm of his chair, one of a disgusting crowd taking huge enjoyment from a variation of the blood sports of Ruathytu. In a private arena — it was not over-large and seated perhaps fifty people in luxury — the central sanded area witnessed the mortal combat between wersting and manhound.
Manhound versus wersting!
Yes, I, Dray Prescot, admit the thought made the blood jog more rapidly through my veins.
Those vicious black-and-white-striped hunting dogs are, indeed, ferocious for their size and weight. But a manhound! A jiklo, a human being, an apim, so trained from birth, and his parents structurally adapted generation by generation, that he runs on all fours, with a streaming clotted mane of hair flowing out behind, his nails grown into ripping claws, his teeth sharp and jagged! Pricked of ear, the jiklo, savage of eye, with a squashed pug nose that scents its prey with unerring accuracy! Human beings, jiklos, but hunting dogs in their feral nature, their cunning hunting skills, their primordial barbarism! I had met the Manhounds of Antares before. I had run from them and I had battled them with a wooden stave. There yet remained a score outstanding with the manhounds.
I stood in the shadows at the rear of the private arena, my status as an Amak and my foppish clothes securing my entry, with Elten Nath of Maharlad allowing his chamberlain to take my golden deldy and to order up a Fristle slave girl with a cup of wine for me.
“Who do you fancy, Amak Hamun?” Elten Nath laughed easily. He was rancid with fat, jowls sagging, thinning hair lank over a shining skull. He made a good thing out of this private arena of his, here deep within his villa in the sacred quarter.
“How did you come by a jiklo, Elten Nath?”
He gestured. “The Queen, whose name be revered, sometimes allows a private Horter to buy a jiklo from her. She is thinking of breeding them herself, you know, instead of importing them.”
The noises from the arena, a succession of howls and ululations from the wersting, and a staccato succession of spits and snarls from the manhound, grew so that conversation became difficult. I forced myself to watch the spectacle. Vad Garnath sat with his companion, Leotes, amid a gang of cronies in the front row of seats. Since Garnath had employed Leotes and Leotes had proved himself a killer and a swordsman without peer in Ruathytu, it was a wise thing to remain on friendly terms with the Vad. His dark hair was combed and jeweled with brilliants, his cheeks were painted, his rings flashed against his very white fingers, and he laughed a great deal.
I will not weary you with details of the fight between the wersting and the jiklo. It was bloody and savage and horrible in the extreme. Truth to tell, there is much more to say of the manhounds than this single encounter in the arena, as you shall hear.
The werstings are most ferocious. The manhound was covered in rips and scratches, an eye torn out, his hair all clogged and matted with blood. The noise spurted up, horrific, spiteful, a decadent accompaniment to a decadent spectacle. The wersting — well, what was left of him — was swept up and carried off in four baskets. Each basket dripped dark blood through the wicker.
“By Lem!” shouted Vad Garnath, sweating, shaking, a silken kerchief mopping his thick face. “A brave sport, Elten Nath! A fine showing! You are to be congratulated.”
Elten Nath of Maharlad smirked.
“I am pleased you enjoyed my poor efforts, Vad. We are thinking of matching the manhound against a chavonth.”
“Capital, my dear Nath, capital. Make sure you let me know and reserve me this excellent seat.”
“It shall be done.”
“By Lem!” cried Vad Garnath again. “This makes life worth the living!”
He swore by Lem, still officially proscribed, here in this vile company. I moved down toward his seat.
He saw me.
He stared. Then he threw back his head, the sweat running down the creases, the gems brilliant in his hair, and he laughed.
“May the all-glorious Lem witness what we have here! The Amak of Paline Valley! The poltroon! Now that his protector, Rees the Infamous, slugs abed, this nulsh crawls to me to beg my overlordship! By Lem! But it is a rich jest!”
I said, “The Trylon Rees lies abed because he is sore wounded fighting his country’s battles.”
Garnath hooted at this. “Rees the lion-man, the forsworn? He ran from the battlefield, his tail between his legs. I know! He is a coward and a thief and an abomination in my sight!”
“Yet he is a man, Garnath, which you scarcely are.”
“What?” He surged up, astonished.
Leotes put a hand on his arm.
“I will spit him for you, Vad, if you wish it.”
I stared at Leotes ti Ponthieu.
“You could try, Bravo, you could try.”
“Ha! What is this? The mewling poltroon turning bantam cock?” Vad Garnath couldn’t believe his ears. The clustered nobles and Horters were listening, avid to see me rush upon my death.
“It is you who are the abomination, Garnath.”
“I — I am the Vad Garnath! Remember that, yetch!”
“You are the yetch.” I spoke in a low conversational tone, but everyone could hear. “You, Garnath the filth, are a boaster, a nulsh, a yetch, a rast, a cramph.” I stood there before him as he bloated and swelled with anger, the dark blood rushing to his face. “And this thing you hire to kill for you, this Leotes of infamy, he is a kleesh.”
I have before remarked how this word “kleesh” upsets the men of Kregen, although apparently not affecting me.
Leotes roared at me, ugly with passion, his face a single scarlet blob. I hit him on the nose, once. I said, “Arrange the duel as soon as you care. Vermin like you should be exterminated, along with your foul Lem.”
Death of a Bladesman
Yes, it was petty, beneath a man’s dignity, selfish. But, all the same, it was damned liberating, I can tell you.
When, at last, I ran across Casmas the Deldy, the news had outrun me.
Night hung over Ruathytu, and the Maiden with the Many Smiles and the Twins glinted golden-pink reflections back from the ocher waters of the River Havilthytus and the black waters of the River Mak. Lights sparkled everywhere, and the link slaves escorted their parties of Horters and nobles through the streets. Casmas lived in the Shining Quarter, in the angle of the Walls of Kazlili and the Black River. A slight eminence arose here, around which the walls curved, and south of the walls and outside them lay the scattered shanty towns of the clums. The Shining Quarter lifted on its little hill, festooned with lights and waterfalls and graveled pathways; very secluded, very rich, a haven for the most wealthy class of Horters who were not yet nobles.
The way led from the sacred quarter westward through one of the numerous gates let into the old walls and along a main east-west boulevard to the Kyro of the Horters. All this section of the city is laid out in parallel streets leading from the main avenues, a concentrated series of blocks of houses and apartments varying from the luxurious to the merely comfortable. This is the Horters’ quarter. It is, of course, perfectly clear the word “quarter” is used in Ruathytu to describe a section of the city and not a numerical one fourth. The way led south from the Kyro of the Horters, where I stopped to partake of a cup of tea in one of the ever-open tea shops, for this is a weakness of mine, and then on over the Bridge of Nalgre the Penitent. Torchlights and cressets lit most of the way, and the blaze reflected back from the black waters sliding past below. I hurried on, turning sharp right over the bridge and following the paved embankment on the south side of the river.
Directly to my left towered the massive and noisy edifice of the Jikhorkdun of the Thoth. Not as large as the Great Jikhorkdun to the north, the Thoth Jikhorkdun is nonetheless a massive affair, the amphitheater capacious and endowed with kaidur barracks and beast pens and coy cages. The noise wallowed into the night sky: fierce yells, and the drumming din of thousands enjoying a nighttime spectacle by the lights of thousands of torches and lamps.
Up the incline into the Shining Quarter, under the trees and along the graveled paths, where the villas lay secluded with watchful werstings prowling, and then at last to Casmas’ villa. I was barely in time. When last I had been here I had been rescuing Rosala, fighting off werstings and guards and enduring the passionate urgings of Rosala’s maid, Paline.
Casmas was about to step into his preysany litter. The cloth was solidly picked out in gold embroideries, the hangings of silver, the embossed and carved ornaments of bronze. The two preysanys stood patiently, for they are a superior kind of calsany, much used for this work. Casmas’ guards mustered with links, ready to light and guard him on his way.
I shouted and ran up and a guard offered to stop me, so I took his stux away, gently, and poked my head between the curtains. Casmas looked up with his fat chins rolling.
“Amak Hamun! By Havil, we all thought you gone to the Ice Hoes of Sicce!”
“Lahal, Casmas. I am like to, in truth.”
“Lahal, Amak — and I know! I have heard! I must hurry. The bets will already be being laid.”
“Then,” said I, jumping into the litter, “I will ride with you, Casmas. For there is much I must talk about.”
“You have made your will, of course?”
The preysanys started as the chief guard yelled, and the whole cavalcade started off to retrace the journey I had just made. There was reason for Casmas thus living at a distance from the sacred quarter, for many a dandy had felt it too much of an infernal nuisance to walk that distance, to plead for an extension of credit, having already sold his zorca or sleeth and not having the wherewithal to hire a preysany litter or ride the amith-drawn trolleys.
“I hadn’t given it a thought,” I said. This Casmas in his unctuous and lubricious way owned very many of the young bloods, body and soul. Most of them went in fear of their fathers, the men with the titles and the money. Casmas was not called the Deldy for nothing. He would make a fat killing out of this encounter. “I have a scheme, Casmas, and you must play a part.”
He listened to me with his fat eyelids crinkled and half shut. His pulse was on the money markets. I told him I had been having lessons with the rapier and fancied my chance against Vad Garnath and wished to bet heavily on myself.
“If this is your wish, Amak.” The litter jounced over the cobbles, the link lights flaring beyond the curtains. The gold gleamed dully bright. “But how do you know Vad Garnath will fight?”
“As to Leotes—” I did not finish the sentence. I let Casmas believe I staked all on beating Garnath. In the end I convinced him to take many bets on my behalf.
“It will cost you a great deal of money, Amak Hamun. Can you honor your debts?”
“Yes. Paline Valley is not without resources.”
He grunted. We talked amiably then, and he told me he was engaged to marry a widow, whose husband had been slain while serving with the air squadrons fighting in Nivendrin, one of that tangled skein of kingdoms and Kovnates between the Shrouded Sea and the mighty River Os, often called He of the Commendable Countenance. “She is comfortable and fat and jolly, poor soul, and a Ranga. Her husband, the late Rango, was not a wealthy man.” Here Casmas spread his plump white hands with their freight of golden rings. “But, what would you? She has the title, I have the money. Very soon, I think, my dear Amak, the queen, whose name be revered, will see fit to issue my patent.”