The whole place is like a beehive of energy.
Kingdoms rise and fall, borders stretch and contract. Racial, religious, political differences hold the frontiers. Geography plays its part, so that rivers and mountains form natural barriers. We flew on north and east and so passed the massive lenk forests of Shirrerdrin. Ahead lay Khorundur.
“We approach areas where runs the writ of Hamal,” said Tyfar. He sounded half angry and ashamed along with his pleasure.
I knew why.
So I took no notice. We made a frugal camp and decided what to do. Now you can shoot a paly and feast on succulent roast venison. You can slingshot a bird down and eat that. And you call pull fruit off trees and enjoy the succulent flesh and juices. But you cannot easily come by bread, or tea, or wine out in the wilds.
“I will go in,” said Nath the Shaft. “With Barkindrar. We have money, good gold which these folk of the city will exchange for food-”
“Wine,” said Hunch.
“Shall we go in, Hunch?” said Nodgen.
“Me? Why? Barkindrar and Nath offered, didn’t they?”
“Buy only enough to last us over Khorundur. Beyond that kingdom we will be among friends and may ask for all we need,” Tyfar told his retainers.
“Quidang, Prince!”
So the two went off and we waited and waited and when so much time had elapsed that we knew they were not coming back, Tyfar said, “They have been taken up. I shall go in after them and fetch them out. They are loyal men — and comrades.”
Standing up, I looked at Tyfar, and there was no need for words.
Hunch quavered out: “You are going off and leaving me here, Jak!”
“You will be safe enough, Hunch. After all, Nodgen has his spear — and you have your bill, I see.”
The two Pachaks started laughing, and then Hunch, staring around, laughed, too. But it was a dolorous sound, for all that.
The city stood beside the banks of a pretty little river which wound between wooded slopes. Built of a bright yellow brick, this little city of Khorunlad. That yellow is a fine, strong color, yet not harsh, not offensive… The yellow of just that tint is called tromp in Kregish, a fuller tone than the more subtle yellow called lay. Domes were burnished with copper, green and glowing, and the avenues opened out into stone-flagged kyros where striped awnings promised refreshment for thirsty throats. We two, Tyfar and I, walked in past the open gates. They were stout, fabricated of bronze-bound lenk, and the watchtowers were manned. Many of the roofs of buildings uplifted landing platforms for airboats. I perked up.
We had both chosen to wear the armor taken from the dead lords destroyed by the flutsmen. We looked a resplendent pair. That was all to the good, for we had to get to Nath and Barkindrar before anything too unpleasant occurred to them.
Tyfar was all for going up to the magistrates and asking.
I pursed my lips.
“We-ell, Tyfar, we are strangers. D’you see the looks we got from the guard? And they looked handy fighting men, not your local city militia at all.”
I considered it odd that we had not been questioned, were not already in some iron-barred cell charged with some nameless crime, and our weapons gone and our pockets emptied. The armor I wore was of that superb supple mesh link manufactured in some of the countries of the Dawn Lands. Armor of the highest quality is usually made to fit the wearer. I was glad that the dead lord had been large across the shoulders. All the same, I had had to let the shoulder thongs out to their fullest extent to get the harness on. Tyfar’s dead lord’s armor was of the plate variety, a kax of exceptional beauty which snugged on Tyfar’s brawny yet supple frame. We wore the green and yellow cloaks that came with the outfit, our helmets glittered in the suns, our weapons jutted with a fine panache, and, in short, we presented a splendid spectacle of two of the lords of the land. Well, maybe that had not been such a good idea, after all.
Maybe had I done as I so often did, and padded in barefoot with a breechclout and weapons, I would have avoided the mischief. But, then, I would have avoided an adventure that afforded me enormous joy — even though I was not aware of it at the time.
Chapter seven
The first kyro to which we came was a plaza of pleasing proportions. The flags were uniformly arranged in blue and white hexagons. Tyfar stopped and stared at the tables beneath the bright umbrellas outside a tavern with the promising name of The Bottle and Morrow.
“Ronalines,” he said, and smacked his lips. “I have a penchant for them — and with thick, clotted cream.”
I sighed. People in clean and colorful clothes sitting at the tables were spooning up the ronalines smothered in thick cream. Ronalines are very much your Kregan strawberry, and highly tasty, too. Tyfar strode across and started opening his scrip ready to dole out money. Deb-Lu-Quienyin suddenly appeared at my elbow.
A wash of coldness shriveled in the heat of the day.
“Jak — our two comrades. They are lodged in a hayloft in Blue Vosk Street. Barkindrar is injured.”
I could see right through Quienyin.
One or two people at the tables were beginning to look more closely toward me. The Wizard of Loh had gone into lupu back in our camp and had thrown his astral projection to advise and warn us. How many times I had been hounded by the infernal projection of Yantong!
“Thank you, San. We will hurry. Best you-”
But Quienyin’s projection moved into the shadows by the far wall of the tavern — and vanished. His going was a matter of the supernatural; I just hoped the clients spooning up their ronalines and cream would disbelieve the evidence of their eyes and believe common sense. I started after Tyfar.
He sat down and leaned back in the wooden chair and looked around. Before the little Fristle fifi in her yellow apron could reach him I stormed up and whispered in a modulated bellow in his earhole, “Tyfar!
Our comrades are in trouble and Barkindrar is injured. You’ll have to forgo your ronalines.”
He stood up at once, quelling the flash of fury on his face.
“That Barkindrar! Let us go, then, Jak — and mayhap we can stop here on our way back. By Krun!
Ronalines and cream!”
We walked smartly off.
A Rapa slave in the gray slave breechclout stepped out of our way as we rounded the comer out of the kyro. He carried an enormous table on his back, and his beak was thrust forward. Perched on the table was a wicker basket and in the basket, wrapped in soft moss, lay two tiny Rapa babies. The Rapa lowered his eyes as he walked by.
“Rapa,” I said, “tell me where is Blue Vosk Street.”
He could only have been able to see our lower halves; but he could see the polished boots, and the sword scabbards, and the ends of the expensive cloaks.
“Masters,” he quavered. He dare not straighten up for the babies would slide off the table. “Masters. Straight along the Avenue of a Thousand Delights, and turn left — no, masters, turn right — a hundred paces along, by the river.”
I found a copper ob and pushed it into his hand.
“Thank you, Rapa.”
What he said I did not know, for I went off quickly, with Tyfar tailing along. We walked up the Avenue of a Thousand Delights, and while there might only have been nine hundred ninety-nine on display, the place warranted the trademark of a thousand. Following directions we turned a hundred paces along by the river, which here was confined by wooden stakes and a mass of overgrown foliage, and so entered Blue Vosk Street. Here, it was clear, lived the folk who catered to the customers for the thousand delights.
Tyfar put a hand to his sword hilt.
“Ignore the cutpurses,” I said, “and slit the throats of the cutthroats — first.”
“What a place! I did not know such a place could exist.”
“You mean because it is a hundred paces or so from refinement and civilization?” The stink didn’t bother me; Tyfar put a kerchief to his nose with his free hand. “No, Jak. I did not mean that.”