Fropo and Dav were standing looking at me. The Brokelsh and the other apim were coughing their guts out.
“You were a mite slow, dom,” said Dav, in his affable way. “You need to sharpen up.”
“Yes,” I said. I took a breath. “My thanks-”
“Against them? The apim I took I know. Naghan the Sly, he was called. Look.” Dav bent and ripped away the big blue favor. Under it the hard yellow showed. “They tried to cowp you from the back, the yetches. Well, they’ll never report back to Mefto the Kazzur, may he rot in Cottmer’s Caverns.”
I said, “My thanks again. But I do not think they could have known you — who know them — would be here. They would not have been so bold.”
“Right, dom. They would not. And,” Here his big smile burst out. He wore a little tufty beard bisecting his chin, and he was burly, no doubt of that, genial. “And no Lahal between us. I am Dav Olmes. Lahal. This is Fropo the Curved.”
“I am Jak. Lahal, Dav Olmes. Lahal, Fropo the Curved.”
“And now I need three stoups of best ale, one after t’other,” quoth Dav. “Instanter, by the Blade of Kurin.”
So I knew he was a swordsman, and we went into the courtyard and found the ale and washed the dust away down our throats. And, for me, Dray Prescot known as Jak, the dust went down bitter with unease.
No need to ask where the sword with which Dav had made such pretty play had come from. The little Och was wailing away and scrabbling around picking up the scattered items of the harness that Dav had ripped to pieces from its hangings on the post. The beautifully polished kax had fallen with a crash. The gilt helmet with the brave blue feathers still rolled about, like a balancing act. Now Dav threw the sword at the Och, who caught it with the unthinking skill of the man who spends his life with weapons, free or slave.
“Thank you, notor, thank you,” chattered the Och.
“That,” said Fropo, “was the kov’s own blade.”
“Aye. And very fine, too. Now where is this ale?”
“The Och called you notor,” I said. Notor is the usual Hamalian way of saying lord. We say jen in Vallia. Before Dav had recovered from his gutsy laugh at my words, Fropo, with sudden seriousness, said:
“Aye. This is Dav Olmes, the Vad of Bilsley.”
A vad is a high rank of nobility indeed, and they had mentioned a kov. I said, “And the kov?”
Fropo sucked through his teeth. “Konec Yadivro, the Kov of Brugheim.”
Ineldar the Kaktu could have told me I was going to see a kov, by Krun!
Dav had found the ale and after he had demolished the first stoup in two swallows, he said: “The kov and I do not parade our ranks here in Jikaida City. We have work to do that-” Here he took the opportunity of destroying the second stoup. Then: “By this little fracas I take it you have run afoul of Prince Mefto the Kazzur the yetch?”
“Aye.” I told them I had fought Mefto, and lost, and had been saved by the drikingers. They expressed the opinion that I must be somewhat of a bladesman after all, not to have been slain in the first pass or two. And, I knew, I had stood like a loon, shaking, when I had crossed swords with these stikitches. Kov Konec and his comrades had reached Jikaida City a few days earlier in a caravan whose master was Inarartu the Dokor, the twin brother of Ineldar the Kaktu, and this explained Ineldar’s knowledge, I thought.
The kov turned out to be a strong, frank-faced man with charming manners. I formed the opinion that he placed great reliance on the opinions and advice from Dav. Their estates, those of Brugheim and Bilsley, lay in Mandua, a country immediately to the west of Mefto’s Shanodrin. At once I realized the rivalry existing, and determined that it had nothing to do with me. Mefto could go hang; Vallia counted for me, and nowhere else. I was wrong there, of course.
However, I did take the opportunity in conversation of remarking that I knew a Bowman of Loh who swore that shafts fletched with the blue feathers of the king korf were superior to any other. I thought it tactful not to mention that Seg had also revised his opinion and had been heard to admit that the rose-red feathers of the zim-korf of Valka were as good. He wouldn’t admit, as many a bowman felt, that they were superior.
“You know about the king korf, then, Jak?”
“A little. Not enough, kov.”
“You call me Konec, Jak, here in Jikaida City.”
“Konec.”
“You have no love for Mefto?”
“He bested me. It was a fair fight-”
“A man with four arms and a tail?”
It rankled; but I had to say it, if only to show myself that I was not blinded by self-esteem. “It was not that, Konec. He is just simply superb. I think, perhaps, with other weapons he might… But it would be a brave man who would go up against him, man to man.”
“Aye,” said Fropo, and he riffled his whiskers.
“His ambitions are overweening. He must be stopped before he brings ruin to all the Dawn Lands. It is here in Jikaida City that we stand the best chance, paradoxical though that may appear.”
Dav chipped in to say, “If you are with us, Jak-”
I said, “There is the story in the old legends, true or false who can say after thousands of seasons? The legend of Lian Brewis and his enchanted brush. He was the artist for the gods, he could draw and paint so beautifully that his creations came alive, and peopled the world, and what the gods spoke of, Lian Brewis created out of paint.”
“The story is known over Kregen and is very beautiful,”said Dav. “So-?”
“So when the evil gods grew jealous in their wrath they took up Lian Brewis. He was cut off in full flower, a plump, jolly, wonderful person. And the gods for whom he had created so much beauty arose likewise in their just wrath and placed Lian Brewis as that constellation of stars that adorns the Heavens of Kregen. He can never be forgotten.” I looked at them, at their serious faces, and understood the intensity of their determination to halt Prince Mefto in his career of conquest. “Be sure the gods do not-”
“They will not,” said Konec, and he spoke with power. “You may rest assured on that.”
There was always the chance that the Rapa, the Brokelsh and the two apims had been sacrificed by their master just so that he might infiltrate a spy into the enemy camp. The trick is known. So I was not accepted whole-heartedly all at once, and of course my hesitation in dealing with my opponent added to the suspicion. But Dav was genuine and genial and my mention of the king korf, which was by way of being a secret signal, allayed much of the natural suspicion. They did not think that Mefto had penetrated that far into their schemes.
As for myself, I pondered just why I was here; how could these folk help me back to Vallia?
In the succeeding days I came to know them better and Pompino made the pappattu as my partner. We shifted quarters and Konec placed a room in the hotel of the Blue Rokveil at our disposal alongside the others. We spent the time practicing at swordplay, and, by Zair, I felt I mightily needed that sharpening up. The remembrance of Mefto’s five blades seemed to have mesmerized me. This party from Mandua were here ostensibly to play Jikaida, and Konec was a player of repute. Their intrigues against Mefto were kept very quiet; but if assassination formed part of them, it stood little chance. Mefto was surrounded continually by his brilliant retinue of followers. He lay abed, recovering from his arrow wound. So Dav insisted we go with him to watch a well-touted game of Kazz-Jikaida. It was to be between rival factions of the twin cities, and was the usual Kazz game and not the Death game, that is, the pieces did not face certain death if they lost.