Oh, my Turko!
As I did not reply immediately, the Chulik said in a less friendly voice, “You are impolite. I am Kimche the Lock. I shall have to teach you manners.”
“Look, Kimche the Lock, I do not wish to fight you-”
“I did not say fight. I said wrestle.”
“Why should I? By the Blessed Pandrite! Why?”
“Why?” Now that really puzzled him. He shook that bald yellow head. “Why? You mock me. Me! Is this not the Golden Prychan?”
“So I believe.”
“Well, then! Onker!”
So, of course, very late in the day, I fell in.
“Oh — the Golden Prychan — you are all wrestlers here-”
“Take up your guard. It is the third syple of the Hikaidish. Protect yourself!”
“I,” I said, “carry weapons.”
Now he was truly puzzled, puzzled and angry. His chest swelled. The yellow skin, oiled and glistening, stretched like a drum.
“You talk of weapons, here? You are decadent or mad.”
If I’d had a hat I’d have taken it off and jumped on it.
By Zair!
“I am not a wrestler. I came here seeking someone-”
“If you are frightened witless to try a fall with Kimche the Lock, why, dom, you should have said so. There is no shame in fearing to grip wrists with me.” His face broke into an oily smile. He clapped me on the back. “Now I understand!”
“If that is how you will have it.”
“Of course!” His bad temper evaporated. “There is no shame in it, dom. By Likshu the Treacherous! I understand!” And then he stuck his thumbs into his mouth and began to massage those pathetic stumps. I looked about. Nothing much was happening, save a couple of gyps starting an interesting friendship. Kimche took his thumbs out of his mouth, spat, and said with a wistful air, “All the same. I could have gone a fall or three with you. I am fair set for it.”
“Perhaps you know the man I seek?”
“There is such a man?” He looked puzzled again and I guessed he was considering the reason he had found for himself for my lack of response to his genial challenge.
“There is. His name is Turko-”
He looked about at once, and put a finger to his lips.
“Ssh, dom! Have you no wits! Caution!”
He drew me out of the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio into the shadows under the eaves. He looked about again, with much eye rolling. For a Chulik he was evidencing much non-Chulik behavior. But, then, his tusks had been sawed off, and that must profoundly change the mental attitudes of any self-respecting Chulik.
For a start, how could one call him a Yellow-Tusker now?
The dependent fronds of a brilliantly green tree, a fugitive from the jungle — or the advance guard of the jungle returning — concealed us from prying eyes out along the boardwalk. Kimche stared at me, and his tongue crept out to lick his lips.
“I did not take you for Hamalese. If you are, I shall surely fight and slay you — you do understand that?”
“I do.”
One factor I had not overlooked was the simple problem of the island of Pandahem now being in the vulture-like grip of Phu-Si-Yantong. With the duped help of the iron legions of Hamal he, under his cloaking alias of the Hyr Notor, had conquered the various and separate kingdoms of the island. Queen Lush of Lome had been his tool, coming from Pandahem, and was now with us of Vallia. Other rulers had been subjugated or slain. Yantong ran the island working through human tools. If there was a resistance to Hamal, then Turko would be up to his Khamorro neck in it, that was for sure.
“I am aware of the problems you Pandaheem face-”
“Tell me your name, rank, and station, dom.”
He had no fear of me or my weapons. In a twinkling he would have my back across his knee, and, snap!
— one more Hamalese cramph gone to the Ice Floes of Sicce.
“I am Jak the Sturr. And I fight against Hamal.”
He stared at me with those feral black Chulik eyes.
He nodded. “Very well. And Turko is in trouble. Do not think you can deceive him, for he is a man among men.”
“When can I see him? Where is he?”
“Early this morning, before dawn, he went to Black Algon’s marquee to reason with him once again. I do not think he was successful.” Kimche screwed up his mouth. “I think Turko must take my advice and break the yetch’s back.”
I sighed.
Problems, problems…
“Tell me, Kimche the Lock.”
The story was simple and straightforward and not at all pretty. One of the wrestlers’ comrades, a young Khibil called Andrinos, was deeply in love with a Khibil maiden who was slave to Black Algon. She worked in a fire-eating and magic act. Black Algon, gloating in his own power, would not release her or sell her. Andrinos was in despair. His comrades had vowed to help him; but short of violence, gold being of no assistance, they had so far failed to secure the maiden Saenci’s release.
“Trust Turko to become embroiled in an affair like this. Can nothing be done to convince Black Algon to part with the girl?”
“One thing only, by Likshu the Treacherous. Break the nulsh’s back!”
Now, I had hitherto on Kregen detested Chuliks as fierce and inhuman diffs. They had caused me much pain. But, then, so had other diffs, and apims, too, by Krun! Lately, certain experiences had modified my views on the Yellow-Tuskers, and, too, I did not forget that Chulik with whom I had spoken before the Battle of the Dragon’s Bones. So I could talk quite reasonably to Kimche the Lock, and treat him as a man first, discounting all my old hostile feelings toward Chuliks. Truly, life brings changes to the most flinty of characters!
“The marquee of Black Algon? And you say this fellow supports the Hamalese?”
“Aye. If you go there, take care. He has many friends among the wrestlers in the booth of Jimstye Gaptooth. He is the mortal foe of us at the Golden Prychan, who are comrades all.”
One of the cardinal principles of staying alive on Kregen is to remember names. Names confer power, not power for misuse, but self-power, the knowledge to orient a life-style amid dangers. If you forget or confuse names, you can end up skewered on the end of a rapier or have your head off in the slice of a cleaver — so be warned!
I nodded. “I shall tread carefully. Tell me, Kimche, does this Jimstye Gaptooth have any Khamorros in his booth?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllable shook me. The savagery with which Kimche spoke told me much. I did not press. What there was to learn I would find out. That was as certain as Zim and Genodras rose and set, by Zair!
Chapter thirteen
Black Algon’s marquee was tightly shut and his slaves told me he had gone into the city about important business. There was no sign of Turko. When I mentioned Saenci, the Khibil slave girl, the slaves ran off. Annoyed, I walked around the fairground, spying it out, seeing the bright booths and sideshows and all the gaudy come-ons and money-taking-offs revealed in the pitiless light of the suns. The air dried up the mud. Shortly after the hour of mid the rains would fall down in solid masses of water, and the mud would ooze again into its sticky consistency. I took myself back to the Golden Prychan.
“It is time for ale, Jak the Sturr,” Kimche greeted me. He took me through the wide, sawdust-sanded floor into a back snug. The bamboo-paneled room contained about a dozen wrestlers. They looked a ripe assortment of battered humanity. The ale was brought in by Fristle fifis, and we sat to drink. I was reminded of Dav Olmes and his penchant for stopping at the least provocation for a stoup of ale. These men were drinkers.