The atmosphere in that anteroom to the games clogged on the palate, the stink of sweat, the stink of fear
— and the silly bravado men put on in times like these to mask their deeper feelings. Well, Bevon and I endured.
We studied the Jikaida pieces waiting to go on. We tried to pick the stout from the weak, the brave from those who would be unable to perform adequately through fear — everyone knew the penalty for running. I said to Bevon: “One or two will run, I think, and welcome a Lohvian shaft through them rather than a chopped-up death at the hands of Mefto’s bully boys.”
“Yet some look capable. That Chulik, he’s here for slitting the throat of a Rapa. And that group of Fristles, and see those Khibils? They will fight.”
Rumors and buzzes swept through the men. There was weak ale to drink and no wine. There was ample food. We understood that the lady Yasuri had obtained the services of a lady Jikaidasta whose name, we gathered, was Ling-li-Lwingling, or something like that. Bevon listened to the swift gabble of a Fristle, and turned to me. I did not know if he was laughing or cursing.
“Who do you think Mefto has as his Jikaidast?”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, Bevon, now you have a personal grudge in it doubled.”
“Aye.”
Och slaves at last brought in the equipment. These formalities differed markedly for us from our previous experiences. Then we had been part of a noble’s entourage, playing for his honor and glory; now we were assembled from the academies of the sword and from the prisons and stews. The bagniossupplied their freight. The lady Yasuri apparently relied entirely on the resources of Jikaida City for her pieces, for we saw none of the small bodyguard she kept up. As for the equipment, that was simple. A blue breechclout, a thraxter and a shield. Plus a headband decked with varying numbers of blue feathers and, for some of the superior pieces, blue favors on sashes. Bevon and I each received a reed-laurium[6]with two blue feathers. This marked us as Deldars.
The swords were thraxters and Bevon and I, by arrangement as volunteers, received our own weapons. The shields were laminated wood, bronze rimmed but not faced, and were smaller than the regulation Havilfarese swod’s shield, being something like twenty-seven inches high by sixteen inches wide, and were rectangular.
The shields were painted solid blue with white rank markings as appropriate, and a fellow would take the shield fitting his position as a piece when he left the substitutes bench. The lady Yasuri had been obliged to play blue, as she was filling in and, no doubt, overjoyed at her own good fortune. She was a Yellow adherent, I knew; but the glory and profit of winning meant more to her, and it is proper that a Jikaida player should take either color for the experience of the different diagonals of play.
Wrapping the blue breechclout about me and drawing the end up between my legs and fastening it off with the blue cord provided reminded me, with a pang, of the times I had gone through this first stage of dressing with the brave old scarlet. But now there would be no mesh steel, no kax, no leather jerkin; now the blue breechclout was all. Well, by Zair! And wasn’t this what was required? Wasn’t it high time I went swinging into action wearing just a breechclout and with a sword in my fist?
“By the Black Chunkrah!” I said. “I think Mefto-” But I did not finish the thought. Black and white checks filled the room and we were being herded out. The smell of fear stank on the air, and, also, the sweat of men determined to fight before they died.
We all received a goblet of wine — a thick, heavy, red variety like the deep purple wine of Hamal called Malab’s Blood. I do not care for it; but, by Krun! it went down sweetly enough then, I can tell you. The preliminary ceremonies went as usual, with the prayers and the chanted hymns and the sacrifices. When we came out of the long stone tunnel from the gloom onto the brilliance of the board, the brightness of the light smote our eyes. Ruby and jade radiance drenched the playing board. This was a very select, very refined Jikaida board. There was no noisy hum from an excited crowd of plebs. Around the board and raised on a plinth extended a broad terrace, shielded by black and white checkered awnings. The thrones facing each other at either end were ornate. On the terrace were set small tables and reclining couches, and the high ones of LionardDen lolled there, waited on by slaves, sipping their drinks and daintily picking at light delicacies. They had chairs which could be carried around the terrace by slaves so that they might watch the play from the best positions. No action would begin until the representative of the Nine Masked Guardians was satisfied that all the spectators were in position for the finest view.
“By the Resplendent Bridzilkelsh!” growled a Brokelsh near us. “Why don’t they get on with it.”
“There is all the time in the world to die, as Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls knows full well,” a Rapa told him.
The Brokelsh spat, which heartened me.
A Pachak hefted his shield in his two left hands. “I have given the lady Yasuri my nikobi,” he said in that serious way of Pachaks. “And by Papachak the All-Powerful! I shall honor my pledge. But I think this is like to be the last fight for us.”
The Chulik slid his sword neatly under his left arm and then polished up his tusks with a spittled thumb.
“By Likshu the Treacherous!” he said. “I shall take many of them down to the Ice Floes of Sicce with me.”
“Numi the Hyrjiv fights with us,” said one of the Fristles. “But I wish I had my scimitar instead of this thraxter.”
So, as we waited to march out with our backs as straight as we could contrive and take our places on the board, we called upon our gods and our guardian spirits. This is human nature. And how the exotic variety of Kregen can respond! Truly is it said, on Kregen are joys for all men’s hearts. As we marched out we presented a spectacle at which, I suppose, many a person of limited intellect would scoff, dubbing us a collection of menagerie-men. Yet we were all men, all human beings, and we marched out to fight for our lives.
Even the Chulik shared some reflection of those feelings.
And, there was among our number a single Kataki.
“By the Triple Tails of Targ the Untouchable!” The Kataki swished his bladeless tail about like a leem in a temper. “Would that Takroti would slit all their gizzards!”
“Careful with your tail,” snapped one of the Fristles. “By Odifor, you nearly tripped me.”
The guards stepped in with upraised bludgeons to separate out the violently bawling combatants in the ensuing melee. Truly, we presented a horrifying and a pathetic spectacle as we marched out. As we stepped onto the board we saw that the Princess’s square was already occupied. The woman standing waiting wore a long white gown of sensil, lavishly embroidered with blue and yellow and black and white checkers. An enormous crowning plume of blue feathers rose above her head, surrounded by tufts of blue. She glittered with gems. As I passed her, and the carrying chair for her Jikaidasta, I saw her face. Most of the lines were gone, her flesh filled out, and I guessed many of those lines had been caused by apprehension for the journey across the Desolate Waste. Her hair was a dark brown, curled, and I caught its perfume. Her shape in the white sensil was a world away from the shape in the shiny black bombazine and lace.