Then a dratted strigicaw broke free.
Absolute bedlam. Pandemonium. We all ran this way and that, banging gongs and old brass trays, yelling and screeching, and scared right down to our toenails.
One thing about hunting-big-cats in captivity is that being fed by chunks of meat flung at them, they are half tame and half wild, and will eat meat they haven’t killed themselves. We found the strigicaw with his head buried in the intestines of one of the Rapa casualties of the bandits’ attack.
His brown and red hide glimmered splendidly by the light of our campfires and the scattering light of She of the Veils, pink and golden among the trees. Striped in the foreparts and double-spotted in the rear, with six pumping legs shading to black at the clawed paws, the strigicaw is a powerful and fast-running carnivore. We lassoed him from a respectful distance, and hauled, pushed and prodded him back to his cage. He kept his talons fast sunk into the remains of the Rapa.
“Still hungry,” commented Froshak the Shine. “Meat no good.”
“Then lucky we are it’s all gone,” said Unmok. “Tomorrow we’ll be asked to pay good money for supplies. And if I know that camp manager, he’ll cheat us rigid.”
Froshak touched his knife. “Let me talk to him.”
Unmok laughed, and then winced, and cradled the stump of his left middle. “What, Froshak, you leem hunter! And have the queen’s guards lock us all up on that pretext, and drive us out into the arena to be gobbled up by our own stock?”
“She would too,” said Froshak. “She-leem.”
And he didn’t even bother to cast a guilty glance over his shoulder.
Next day a bur or so after the hour of mid we rolled up to the gates of the transit camp. A slope of a hill ahead cut off any view of Huringa. I should have expected this. But I had been firm in the belief that we’d just drive the stock up to the Jikhorkdun and be let in. Easy.
The formalities were formidable. Paperwork threatened to bog us all down. Certificates had to be produced. The medical men checked the animals thoroughly. Some were put to one side as being second-class specimens, and these would find their way to other Jikhorkduns. Only the best were good enough for Huringa.
Perforce, I sweated it out as Unmok drove the hardest bargains he could. The managers and the inspectors insisted on everything being done correctly, which meant being done their way. An attempt at bribery was met with an impossible demand. There were other wild-beast purveyors to be thought about. There were a few of the inevitable fights. I stayed well and truly clear.
But, slowly, we and our stock were processed.
We received permission to take the thomplods in to Huringa. Enough nobles were interested. Money was paid over. Unmok was able to discharge the mercenaries, who would soon find fresh employment. Froshak was left in charge at the camp. Unmok looked me over.
“Best foot forward, Jak the Shot. Best clothes. We have to create an impression.”
“My wardrobe consists of the tunic in which you found me, after I was washed overboard, as I told you. And a jerkin from a dead drikinger.”
Unmok guffawed. “We’ll outfit you, Jak.”
“One thing puzzles me. What happens to the totrixes and the other juts when these thomplods enter the city?”
He winked, in that foolish yet extraordinarily knowing way Ochs have. “The managers of the Jikhorkdun know all about thomplods, and all the other animals you care to name. They will give us a phial or two at the city gate.”
So, and with an excitement I did not bother to mask, I went with these meandering haystacks down toward Huringa, which is the capital city of Hyrklana, where they joy in the Jikhorkdun.
Beasts for Huringa
Huringa had grown another enceinte since I had last seen the place. The outer lines of walls were not, to my perhaps too-critical eye, quite tall enough. We thomplodded along the dusty road and left everything smothered in the white dust as we passed. The new walls stretched out of sight on either hand. Built of a gray-white stone, they looked impressive, curtains relieved by towers in a long sweeping curve to north and south out of sight. Beyond these walls rose the older walls. Beyond them the remains of the old walls were visible here and there. The city jumbled. Dominating it all, of course, the high fortress of Hakal.
Rearing from the solid rock, tall, dominating, the high fortress of Hakal brought back a host, a flood, a tempest of memories. The lip of the Jikhorkdun was visible, and a hint of the many walls separating off the practice courts, the smaller arenas, the secluded gardens, the ball areas.
During the day the gas jets along the four main boulevards would be extinguished. Vollers crisscrossed through the air above the rooftops. The sense of bustle and urgency, of people about their daily business, of life being lived, gave a zest to the scene — a spurious zest in my view.
Slightly offset from the old Boloth Gate in the inner walls — what were now the inner walls — the gate giving ingress through the new walls lofted immensely. Massively serrated architecture allowed many arrow slits to frown down and murdering holes to dominate the gate’s main tunnel. The thomplods passed through the opening with room for two more at each side and above and to spare.
“The Gate of The Trompipluns,” said Unmok. He sniffed.
I gathered that though he valued his thomplods, he would dearly love to have brought a dozen trompipluns into Huringa.
Officials, backed by blank-faced guards, halted us. The arrangements were made and a boskskin bag containing golden deldys changed hands. The phials, buckets and water were brought.
Then we emptied the phials into the water and sloshed the resulting mixture all over our perambulating haystacks.
A few casual inquiries, a coarse joke or two, and the chingle of deldys brought me the information that the phials contained jutblood mixed with a variety of herbs. I let my memory jot down the names and descriptions. Unmok’s tame slaves jabbered and scurried and the buckets were emptied. I could smell nothing fresh, but when we went on, a string of calsanys and a group of totrixes took no notice of us at all.
Unmok had brought just one couple of werstings with him, two dogs he particularly favored, and they stalked along, black and white terrors from which people automatically shrank to allow their sharp white teeth plenty of passageway.
The noble with an interest in the thomplods turned out to be Noran. A strom no longer because his father had died, he was now Vad Noran. He did not recognize me. Why should he? He had seen me for perhaps a couple of burs many seasons ago.
Noran had lost that first bright flush of youth. Lines indented his forehead. He was thicker in the gut. But still he retained the awareness of his position as the leader of his particular set.
“By Gaji’s bowels! And these are the famous beasts I have waited to see! They are a mangy lot.”
The thomplods stood with drooping heads in the walled courtyard of Vad Noran’s villa. Missal trees lent a merciful shade. The sanded area was neatly raked. Watchful guards, mostly blegs and Rhaclaws, stood at the gates. Noran was bright and contemptuous and he did not deceive Unmok.
“The queen...” said Unmok, and paused, artfully.
“Yes, yes, I shall buy them. But the price—”
Casually, I eased away and walked a little space as though to examine the ornate well in one corner. A slave — she was a Fristle woman much bent over — hauled up the gleaming copper bucket and poured water into a copper bowl for me.
I placed an ob on the stone coping. The small coin vanished into her ragged slave breechclout like a fly on a lizard’s tongue.
The haggling could be left to Unmok. That was his trade. As a beast purveyor he had no real need to wear one of the colors of arena allegiance. Just about everyone in Huringa wore a favor. A man sauntered across to me. He wore fancy clothes and his thraxter in an embroidered scabbard thumped his thigh. His face was over-red, filled out and petulant. But he was still Callimark. Again, I had absolutely no fears that he could possibly remember me, a man seen for a few burs one evening seasons ago.
“You wear no favor, horter.” His own red cockade shone.
“Lahal,” I addressed him, and by omitting the double L indicated his lack of politeness. His eyebrows drew down, but I went on smoothly, “I have had my red so long its stitching has quite worn through. It lies somewhere now, no doubt being trampled upon by a green, or a blue or—”
“By Clem! That is not to be borne!”
Instantly, by reason of this exchange, we were on friendly terms. He rummaged around in his scrip and produced a red favor, small, crumpled, but wearable.
“You would do me the honor—” he began.
I found that grizzly old smile and nodded, and took the red favor.
“I am in your debt, Horter…?”
“Callimark.”
“Jak.”
Unmok had completed the preliminaries, and Callimark, looking across, called out cheerily. Noran and Unmok joined us and there was mention of sazz or parclear, depending on one’s preference for white or colored sherbet drinks, and palines, and perhaps banber sandwiches. Unmok winked at me. The atmosphere was genial, and that augured well for our partnership’s financial well-being.
Here in Hyrklana we were somewhat closer to the equator than we would be in Vallia, but because of the enormous spread of Kregen’s temperate zone the temperature remained comfortable. Noran’s villa proved to be the sumptuous palace one would expect. We sat in cane chairs in one of his refectories and drank our sazz and talked. The conversation quickly turned on the execution — in the arena, of course — of the criminal lunatics who had attempted to burn one of Noran’s voller factories.
I perked up.
“By Gaji’s slimy intestines!” exclaimed Noran, flushed, vindictive. “They may not like the queen, but that does not mean they have to destroy my livelihood!”
“No, indeed, Noran,” said Callimark, sipping parclear.
Now, seasons ago I had told these people I was Varko ti Hakkinostoling. The name was mouthful enough, the land far to the south had been ravaged; no one was going to bother overmuch about it. I had learned enough to pass muster, and indeed, had told Unmok that I was from Hakkinostoling.
So it was that I could venture an informed opinion.
I said, “Surely they do this, vad, as much in resentment of Hamal as of the queen—”
“Yes. You have it right, Horter Jak. But it is I who suffers!”
“The vad is constrained to sell to Hamal,” put in Callimark, acting perfectly the part of the confidant to one in high position. “The Empress Thyllis is quite mad, of course, quite unlike our own dear queen. We must stay out of the insane war she wages.”
“Yes.” Noran exerted his own authority, overriding his friend. “We profit by her stupidities. But the thought of Hamalese skyships over Huringa — no. Better to sell to Hamal.”
Now a vad is a very high rank of nobility, and Noran was being very gracious and condescending in his manner. This, I judged, was to impress Unmok and to bring down the price. So I risked another shaft...
“I agree with you absolutely, notor.” I spoke in a soft, almost philosophical voice and trusted he would take no offense. “This, I am told, is the queen’s wish. The only trouble is that this makes Hamal stronger.”
Noran nodded. He didn’t like it, but it was the truth.
“If only—” he said, and stopped.
I went on, “If we could sell to other countries we would benefit Hyrklana immensely.”
“I know that! By Flem! It is enough to make a man take up sword himself!”
“Perhaps one day you will be afforded that opportunity.”
Both Noran and Callimark looked sharply at me. I saw their reactions, transparently reflected in their faces. The next moment might see a little hop, skip and jumping...
Unmok was a mere beast purveyor, but he had standing.
Slowly, Noran worked his way around to what he fancied might be an answer to my manner.
“You speak as though—” he started, and then: “You do not talk like a beast handler, Horter Jak.”
“The queen—”
“Ah!”
Unmok was looking at me as though I’d started spitting fire like the Spiny Risslacas.
I said, “A man has to turn his hand to many things in life, and must do what those in authority demand, in loyalty and affection. This is so, is it not, Vad Noran?”
“This is so, Horter Jak. But if you are not here as I had thought, have you anything specific to ask?”
This was brass-tacking with a vengeance.
“At the present moment, no. But your sentiments do you credit — and I mean no disrespect, as I hope you will understand.”
“Go on.”
Go on! I was fishing around desperately as it was, filling the air with noise. Go on... I’d had a hard time getting here! So I leaned back in the cane chair and sipped my drink and looked wise — emperors are good at looking wise when their heads are empty — and told him, “The time will come, and I hope soon, when the queen will make her decision.”
That appeared to satisfy him, for he banged a little silver gong, and we all rose as the slaves advanced to clear the tables. We went out to the courtyard and the business of the thomplods was concluded. As Unmok said to me, “Whatever was going on in there, Jak, he didn’t haggle afterward.”
So I said, “That’s what partners are for, Unmok.”
Of an Encounter in a Skyship
During the considerable time I had spent in Ruathytu, capital of Hamal, I had rarely visited any of the arenas there. Huringa was not so large a city as Ruathytu, and life was to a far greater extent dominated by the arena. Everywhere were reminders. Folk wore their colors of allegiance as a matter of course. They might live cheek by jowl, the baker being a follower of the diamond zhantil, and the cobbler an adherent of the sapphire graint, but always they were aware of the corners in the arena for which they shouted.
And they shouted. By Krun, but they made a din!
When the games were being staged the noise was clearly audible all over the city.
“For my part,” said Unmok the Nets, during the next games when we could not bring in any of the remainder of our animals, “I do not care to choose a color. I do my work, and although it does not please me, it gives me a living.” We were heading for an open-air eating place where we looked forward to roast vosk, momolams and enormous helpings of squish pie. “Now, when I get me my cage-voller...”