The Kildoi who led this brilliant and barbaric group wore link-mesh of that superb quality that is manufactured in the Dawn Lands of Havilfar. He affected a gilt-iron helmet. He wore a short slashed robe of white liberally encrusted with cloth of gold. His cape was short and flared spectacularly when he galloped. It was a bright hard yellow in color, edged in gold and silver. His feathers blew in white and yellow, fixed into a golden holding crest.
Yes, he looked magnificent, proud, barbaric, blazing with light under the suns.
“Who,” I had said to Sishi, “is that man?”
Sishi knew all the gossip of the caravan, and the scandals, too. She had looked and her color mounted.
“Is he not splendid? So brave, so bold and handsome-”
“Who is he?”
“Why, everyone must know! He is Prince Mefto — Prince Mefto A’Shanofero, Prince of Shanodrin!”
As she continued to stare after the Kildoi and his companions I shook my head. Shanodrin was a country situated in the heart of the Dawn Lands, west of Khorundur. It was a full rich land with great wealth to be won from the rocks and rivers.
Then Sishi heaved up a great sigh.
“Oh,” she said. “I do so love a prince!”
“And why not?” I said, I fear somewhat drily.
If there was one thing certain sure about Prince Mefto, he liked to show off. He and his swarthmen would gallop around the caravan like gulls circling a ship, affording visible proof to the people of their presence and the sharpness of their weapons.
And then Sishi, still enraptured with the dazzlement of the prince, said: “Prince Mefto — he is the best swordsman in the world.”
Well, for all I knew, he could be. I will have no truck with this nonsense of proclaiming boasts about the best swordsman of two worlds. I have expounded some of my philosophy anent the perils of swordplay and the doom by edge or point that lurks — if expound is not too pompous a word. So I made some light quip, whereat Sishi flounced around, blushing, and tried to hit me with the length of sausages she happened to be carrying for the lady Yasuri’s midday snack. With that deeply philosophic reminder, I went off to see about my duties as a paktun earning his hire.
The rich personages in their carriages had taken the obvious and sensible precaution of providing a supply of water for their own personal use. We knew Yasuri had her amphorae stacked in her coach, which we louts of her escort were not permitted to enter. Ineldar the Kaktu was cognizant of this trick, of course, and he did his best to share out the water on an equal basis. But, as Master Scatulo was not slow to point out with his sharp Jikaidast’s wit, the caravan water was paid for and for the use of all. What he, Master Scatulo, happened to have in his coach was by way of an extra and, by the Paktun’s Swod’s Gambit! was none of anyone else’s damn business.
These sentiments were shared by the lady Yasuri and the other upper crusties of the caravan. Poor old Deb-Lu-Quienyin, for all he was an apparently dried up old stick, seemed to be in need of water, and I had fallen into the habit of sharing my ration with him. I am often wholeheartedly glad that I can scratch along with little to drink, although preferring unending cups of tea, and when it comes to push of pike and there is a serious shortage of drink — I can manage, somehow. We had passed the stage where he would say how kind I was, and that people who assisted a Wizard of Loh usually wanted something in return, and now we would sip the water companionably and talk while our mouths were moist.
“Do you notice that our famous Master Scatulo usually talks in terms of Jikaida?”
“I had noticed.”
“An affectation. He plays all day. He plays against his slave, Bevon the Brukaj, and always he wins.”
“Well, he is a Jikaidast. They are professionals. They have to win to eat.”
“True. But watch Bevon. He is a skilled player. I believe he makes stupid moves deliberately so as to lose.”
“Scatulo would see that at once!” I protested.
“Maybe. Maybe he is too puffed up with pride.”
It was not exactly true to say Scatulo played all day. The board would come out the moment we halted and the Deldars would be Ranked; during traveling periods he read from the many books of Jikaida lore he carried with him in his coach.
I had fallen into friendly conversation with Bevon the Brukaj and had learned some of his history. His gentleness seemed to me to sit strangely with his evident craggy toughness. He carried no sword, although he confided to me that he could use a blade, and as a slave was equipped with a stout stave to defend his master. I knew Scatulo had a sword in his coach that Bevon might use if pressed. The Jikaidast’s orders to Bevon resounded with the ugly word “Grak!” It was grak this and grak that all day. Grak means jump, move,obey or your skin will be flayed off your back or you must work until you drop dead. It is, indeed, an ugly word.
I said to Bevon one day: “Are you a Jikaidast, Bevon?”
“No, Jak.” He fetched up a sigh. “I might have been back home but for my tragedy.” He looked mournful as he spoke. Well, his story was soon told, and ugly in the telling thereof. He had been accused of a cowp, and, as you know, a cowp is a particularly beastly and horrible kind of murder, in which sadism and mutilation form part. The people had cried out against him and he had been locked away and would have been slain in lawful retribution. “Had I been guilty, Jak, I think I would have stayed and let them kill me. But I was innocent, so I escaped.”
“I can’t see how anyone could think you would commit murder, Bevon.”
“The man who died had made advances to a girl with whom I was friendly. I do not know, but I think she slew him. But I was blamed. So I ran away to be a soldier and was taken up as a slave. I do not really mind, for my heart is not in life-”
“By Havil!” I said, incensed. “Now that is just not good enough. So you are slave. Why not escape when we reach Jikaida City-?”
“You know little of that place, I fear.”
“I know nothing.”
“They play Kazz-Jikaida there.” Kazz is Kregish for blood.
That did explain a great deal. It also explained a little of Prince Mefto’s vaunted nickname, for he was traveling to Jikaida City to play in the games, and his sobriquet was Mefto the Kazzur. That splendid prince was pirouetting his swarth about a little to the side of the space where the caravan had halted. I looked at him, and grew tired of his antics, and resumed our conversation. Whenever Bevon found the time away from his master’s Jikaida board we would talk, and he joined Deb-Lu-Quienyin and me at night around our fire. The Wizard of Loh regarded the Brukaj not as he did his own slave but rather as a potential Jikaidast who had temporarily fallen on evil times. Often Pompino would join us, and, to tell the truth, we played Jikaida as well as Jikalla and the Game of Moons. This latter is near mindless; but it amuses many folk whose brains for whatever reason are not able to grapple with Jikaida or any of the other superior games.