“A credulous fambly!” chortled Norhan. “Falling for the oldest trick in the world! A little Fristle fifi — she could have taken your uniform and weapons and armor while you snored, aye, and your keys! She gave them to her lover and they broke into the tower — you are a fambly!”
“It was not like that — and I warned you—”
“Save it,” I said.
They looked at me. Frandu took a breath and Norhan shook his head. Before they had time to lacerate me with their barbed wit, I went on: “This story is interesting. But unless you can tell me who it was who tried to rescue Princess Lildra from the queen’s imprisonment in the tower, I am going for a wet — now!”
“We will go for a wet, too,” rumbled Norhan.
“All I know,” said Frandu, “for they beat me severely, is that I overheard one of the queen’s guards say that it must have been a great lord, for the money and the skill and the knowledge. But who it was, no one could say.” He looked across the dusty alley toward our drinking den. “And all this talk has made me thirsty, by Harg!”
We went into the drinking den to slake our thirsts before we went to wash up. Frandu might not know who the great noble was. It was not Vad Noran, for a certainty. But I had an idea I knew who had tried to bring Princess Lildra out of imprisonment so that she might be made Queen of Huringa. By Kaidun, yes!
Concerning a Silver Sinver and a Water Jar
“Watch out!” called Hundal the Oivon, running into our barrack room. “Here comes Tipp the Thrax. Get lost!”
At once a scramble began to get out of the confines of the barrack room and into the labyrinth of alleys and arcades fringing the arena. Fifty men, all stout fighting kaidurs, struggling to run away from a little, limping, lopsided Gon! But, this shriveled-up, shaven-headed Gon was Kyr Tipp the Thrax. He was a Queen’s Cheldur. We all knew what he wanted and we all prayed he did not have our names written down on his note pad. He had a gimlet eye, and a nose and chin in too close proximity, and Queen Fahia looked on him with great favor.
We scattered into the alleys between practice rings and yards, running under the high walls of barrack blocks and armories, even getting away toward the menagerie areas. If our names were not written down then we had a chance. If Tipp the Thrax could not see us, he could not lift that crooked staff of his and beckon us over. We’d have to go. Tipp fixed up the bouts for the Queen’s Kaidurs, and as the youngest child in Huringa knew, the Queen’s Kaidurs always won. Or nearly always. While it was true that the queen would more often allow a champion beaten by her kaidurs the opportunity of his life, out there in the Arena, than she would in fights between the four color corners, no one could be absolutely sure she would not condemn the vanquished. Of course, if a kaidur got himself chopped in the heat of combat, well — wasn’t that always the possibility of this life? So, we rough tough kaidurs fled.
Frandu the Franch hauled up under a striped awning over an opening in the wall where soft drinks might be bought by those with money. Sometimes the cheldurs would give us small sums out of their winnings. Slaves moved about, busy as slaves always pretend to be busy, the suns shone, the shadows lay dark and slanting, and Frandu said, “By Harg! I’m not running anymore. If Tipp picks me I’ll—”
“You’ll come up against a Queen’s Kaidur,” said Norhan, “and he’ll thrash you. They always do.”
The queen recruited her own champions from the ranks of the greatest hyr-kaidurs. They were good, there was no doubt of that.
“One of these days, if I live, I will be a Queen’s Kaidur.”
“I wish you well of it, and may the glass eye of Beng Thrax smile upon you.”
So they started another wrangle. The four color quarters within the enormous space of the Jikhorkdun were like small towns in themselves. If Tipp didn’t have our names written down, selected by observance of performance, we were safe. This, of course, was another danger faced by any man aspiring to become a hyr-kaidur. But the managers selected promising material and would exclude them from those kaidurs sent up against the queen’s champions. To do otherwise would have been folly. When I’d been a hyr-kaidur, as Drak the Sword, I had gone through the danger zone fast, and in part that was due to the personal fracas and reconciliation I’d had with Fahia. I didn’t want to go through that performance again, by Zair!
Watchful guards prowled every exit from the secure inner sections, and to escape, as I knew, you’d have to have outside help. If you were a topman you had the run of the place. But I was not a topman, yet.
All the same, this incident together with what Frandu had told me of Princess Lilah’s daughter, Princess Lildra, made me look again at the chances of escape. I left Norhan the Flame and Frandu the Franch arguing away by the soft-drinks counter and walked off. I had resolutely refused to make friends, and this attitude was common enough. So I walked along with a new spring to my step, reasoning that now that I had a lead to a promising fresh series of plots and stratagems, the quicker I got out of here and shed the false glamour and allure of the Jikhorkdun the quicker I could be about my proper business. And, to be perfectly honest, with this resolve to escape burning in me, I experienced a touch of disappointment that I would not be here to see the red of the ruby drang finally ascend to the top of the victory pole...
We had overcome the yellow of the diamond zhantil, and had almost reached the green of the emerald neemu. Then it was the blue of the sapphire graint — and triumph!
The decision to make a break for it, right here and now, was sudden and unexpected. It swept over me like a rashoon of the inner sea, the Eye of the World. By Zim-Zair! What was I doing, allowing myself to be sucked in by the excitement of the Jikhorkdun? Instantly, with no further hesitation, I knew I would escape — now!
It would have to be daring and quick and without doubts. It would have to be simple. I like simple plans. Swift and direct, childish, even, and I’d walk out of here.
In the shadows of a low-domed archway leading onto the outer sections of the area where the public came to see and admire their favorites after the games, and to stroll in the reflected glow of the Arena’s thrills, I watched the guard. He was apim. He carried a stabbing spear as well as his sword, and his uniform might just fit. He was not alone. His comrade, a Rapa whose vulturine face appeared relaxed, laughed and picked up two pots swinging from long handles. He walked off with a casual remark about Beng Dikkane the patron saint of ale drinkers.
I looked back. Two slaves carrying a bronze cauldron on poles took no notice of me. A man stepped from the shadows of a doorway twenty paces back. He turned away at once, without looking toward me. At sight of him I bristled up, for he looked a fierce, barbaric, savage kind of man, in the way he walked and held himself, in the limber length of him and the breadth of his shoulders. But he took no notice of me and walked off. He was a man I’d not care to cross or to meet in enmity up a dark alley on a moonless night, by Krun!
I said to the guard, “I have found a silver sinver which is probably great wealth to the poor soul who lost it.” I advanced, my empty hand clenched as though on a silver coin.
“That’s funny,” said the guard. “I dropped a sinver only this morning and you must have found—”
He did not say any more by reason of the fact that the clenched fist he so dearly wished to inspect put him peacefully to sleep. His harness came off in the shadows like the skin off a rabbit. I donned the leather straps and gear, buckled up the sword, settled the helmet on my head and seized the fallen spear.
Then I set off boldly, marching as though on parade, out through the public sectors. There would be more gates to pass through, but a guard obviously on business could, with a word or two of gruff comradely greeting, pass where a kaidur would be instantly stopped. There was no sign of the man’s Rapa comrade. There would be time to get lost among the people out there and find myself a civilian’s outfit. If this sounds easy, do not believe it. Escapees made the same old mistakes and were caught in the same old way. That apim guard had been lax — he had been lax and a fool. But then, a silver sinver...!
Had I mentioned a golden deldy, he would have been suspicious on the instant, and a copper ob would not have moved him. No, I fancied I had pitched it just right.
By the time I was dressed in a neat blue tunic with a silver hem, the distant sounds of shouting wafted across the intervening walls. The owner of the tunic slumbered under a bench against a wall. I slapped his thraxter down into the scabbard, for the sword was a private one, of fine workmanship, far superior to the issue sword of the guard. Then I put a simple, innocent face on, which stung confoundedly, and walked casually off toward the flight of steps leading to the nearest exit. The noise faded. The Rapa must have found his comrade, and now there was hell to pay. I felt sorry for the guard, but he had been lax in his duty, through greed, no doubt of it. That was no justification, of course, but I recalled the way Prince Tyfar regarded these affairs.
Walking up to the villa, which was as sumptuous as Tyfar had indicated it was, I felt the freedom. There was more to this feeling of liberation than merely walking outside the walls of the Jikhorkdun. The freedom was a liberation of spirit.
The day was on the wane. But there was no point in delaying. Escape wasn’t quite as easy as I have indicated, and the Queen’s Guards would scour the city. The civilian would describe his clothes. Any others I filched would likewise be traced. I had to press on as quickly as I could, trusting in the truth of my deductions.
The villa looked impregnable, but there would be a way in.
My face was now bedeviling me with a myriad bee-stings. I let the facial control relax, and that old beakhead that is Dray Prescot’s glared out again. I’d put on another new face when the time was right. Getting over the wall was not too difficult, and only a few smashed frames and ruined fruit on the other side witnessed my descent. This was merely the outer wall. The man I wanted to see, if he was here, would be at ease in his own apartments. To reach those I could adopt the guise of a slave, or a guard, or try to bluff my way in as a horter on business.
Well, slaves get everywhere and are unremarked, especially if they are carrying something and look busy. There is the notorious case of the soldier who walked about camp all day carrying a piece of paper and looking important, and thereby escaped all manner of duties. The first slave I ran across was carrying a water jar. Now — laugh all you like — I realized I was extraordinarily reluctant to hit him. He had done me no harm, not even the negative harm the guard had done by merely being there. I looked the slave up and down and he trembled. “Slave!”
“Yes, master?” He was apim, with a gray slave breech-clout and he quavered, gray with fear. This was not promising.
“Is your master at home?”
“Yes, master. At home. I know, for Lettie told me—”
“Very well.” My first ridiculous notion had been to ask him to give me his breechclout and jar of water in exchange for my fine blue tunic. I sighed, I said, “Slave, I bear you no ill will. But it is necessary that I hit you—”
“Do not beat me, master! I know I did wrong, but I have been punished enough — I was forced—”
So, in something of a state of self-contempt, I put him to sleep. I stowed the blue tunic and the sword under a bush and put on his breechclout. I picked up the jar of water and hoisted it. Then, with a hangdog look on my face, I trailed off toward the house.
One way or the other, I was not going to be long about this.
Considerable activity was taking place at the front, with carriages and saddle animals arriving and guests entering. This was bad news. I pushed on and went in through the slave entrance at the back, the jar of water concealing my face, and walked along bare corridors toward the front of the house. The door that led out of the slave quarters into the master’s portions of the villa was marked by a hanging lamp and a thin-faced Rapa guard. I just hoisted the pot higher and walked on with that sad slave’s shuffle. I went through without a word.
The villa
was
sumptuous. Tyfar had been right. The layout followed that of many of the better-class houses, and I decided that if I found an imposing series of doors along the next floor where an outside balcony ran the length of the house, I’d be on the right tracks. Slaves pitter-pattered past. There were a few guards stationed at various doors. A parcel of women, all beautifully dressed and dripping furs and jewelry, passed me and I shrank back. They were laughing and talking, refined, the great ladies to the life, and they just did not see me. I was grateful for that.
Their menfolk would be off somewhere talking business while they enjoyed themselves with gossip and scandal — and also with arranging affairs to suit themselves when they talked to their husbands again, I did not doubt. Two Khibil guards stopped me at a door studded with gold, and with golden zhantilheads for handles.
“Water, masters, water,” I whined.
They let me through. They would be punished if they stopped the water being brought, as the slave would be if he spilled any on the priceless carpets of Walfarg weave. I walked on.
Voices sounded from the next room, which was large and domed, and with many lamps shedding a mellow light. I passed the open door and saw the men in there, brilliantly attired, full fleshed of face, assured, dominant. They were organizing the affairs of their world, without a doubt. I passed on and went through the small door at the side which would lead into the ablution area. My plan was simpleminded; it had worked so far, but now I was likely to come to a dead end.
The room was large and furnished with a variety of exotic wares — statues and ceramic pots of curious design, fountains and sinks of running water, ferns and flowers growing in tubs, and one whole area at the side was given over to the hot-air recreation lounge. The place was empty as I entered and, by Vox! I felt more than a little stupid with my pitiful pot of water. All the same, here I was, and no doubt in entirely the wrong place for the water jar. The door from the main room opened, admitting the buzz of conversation. The door closed. I busied myself with a mop snatched up from a corner, sloshing my precious water down and sluicing the mop back and forth. I did not look up. The two men talked in loud tones, ignoring me — not even seeing me, I had little doubt. Their conversation was of the foolish, fleshy, man-of-the-world kind so obnoxious in the real world. They finished up and looked about for towels. From a wicker booth offset to the side emerged a Fristle woman. She wore a decent robe of yellow, and there were thick-soled wooden sandals on her feet. She carried on a silver tray a pile of fluffy yellow towels.