Food, very naturally, was brought in and no one seemed to be concerned if I would pay the reckoning. There were Khamorros among these wrestlers. Kimche wiped suds, and leaned forward, and said, “You know the story of Lallia the Slave Girl, Jak?”
“I know the story of Lallia the Slave Girl.”
“Well, it is not quite like that, Kimche,” put in broken-nosed Naghan the Grip.
“I know, I know. But Andrinos and Saenci worry our Turko. That is what concerns us. He is our best Khamorro and Jimstye Gaptooth has three high kham Khamorros — and what may a mortal man do against them?”
The other wrestlers, florid and bulky and coiling with muscles, grumbled and grunted, and drank. Truthfully, there are few mortal men who may go up in handgrips against a Khamorro and stand a chance in a Herrelldrin hell of winning.
I asked the obvious questions, and learned that the wagers dictated the relative powers of the contests. In catch as catch can the ordinary wrestler, with Turko available, handled his opposite number and called in Turko in the inevitable crisis. As Jimstye Gaptooth could put more Khamorros onto the canvas than the consortium operating from the Golden Prychan, Turko was called on frequently. The smell of sweat in the bamboo-walled snug was barely noticeable, for these wrestlers were particular about themselves. But the smells of oils and liniments rose pungently. Some of the men wore bandages, tightly strapped and pasted, and two carried broken arms in slings of clean yellow cloth.
“And,” said Nolro, a young Khamorro whose headband indicated he had barely begun his climb through the khams, “where is Turko, anyway?”
“And Andrinos?”
“By Morro the Muscle!” declared Nolro. “We fight tonight and if Turko is not here-”
Kimche reached for the ale. “He will be ready to step onto the canvas, Nolro. You, of all men, should know that.”
“I do. But — I worry…”
When they questioned how I had come to know Turko I simply said we had met in the past and as I was passing through I thought to look him up. I made no big thing of it, and went on to question them as to the advisability of all this ale-drinking if they fought this night. They guffawed.
“This ale gives us our strength, dom!”
Well, it might, too, given that it was brewed from top-quality Kregan barley and hops and was filled with good things. I drank and wiped my lips, and we talked of this and that. And still, Turko did not appear. He was never once referred to as Turko the Shield. A couple of times they called him Turko the Rym, and I will not advise you of what that means. So the time passed and then the note of exasperation in their voices sharpened. They were a consortium of wrestlers, and if one let the others down, his shares were forfeit. Also, his honor was smirched, that was plain. I sighed. I had no desire to step into a ring and take Turko’s place. But, if I had to, I had to…
The secret disciplines under which the Khamorros train in Herrelldrin, the syples, their allegiances and their kham status, are all shown on their reed-syple, the headband with its symbols. I could read a paltry handful of those, from previous experience, and recognized none of the reed-syples of the Khamorros here.
Turko, of his own desire, wore a plain scarlet reed-syple. By this he proclaimed his allegiance, his disdain of other syple disciplines, and to hell with anyone who questioned his kham status. A bit of a rogue Khamorro, our Turko the Shield. And he had a fine mocking way with him, too!
I looked at Muvko the Breaker, who appeared to be the likeliest of the khamsters present.
“Muvko,” I said, with a smile. “I mistook good Kimche’s offer of a fall or three. After we have finished our bout, would you do me the honor of gripping wrists?”
He laughed good naturedly. I guessed these Khamorros were not high khamsters, lacking the refinement of skill to take them into the master class, and were happy to find employment in a fairground booth. For all that, no ordinary unskilled mortal in the arcane lore of wrestling stood a chance against them in fair combat.
“If Kimche leaves you with any bones joined together.”
“By Beng Drudoj Grip and Fall!” quoth Kimche. He was mightily pleased and showing it for a Chulik. But, remember, he was minus his tusks. “You are my man, Jak, after all!”
“Then let us begin,” I said, and stood up.
Their practice ring was functional. An alcove with a neat little bronze statue of Beng Drudoj, the patron saint of wrestlers, faced a broad table with medical impedimenta at hand. Most of the medical assistance, as far as I could see, consisted of bottles of liniment and unguents, bandages and slings, and copious buckets into which a man might spit his teeth. And over this table on which a defeated combatant would be laid out frowned the intolerant bronze features of Beng Drudoj Grip and Fall. These spartan surroundings were enough to perk a flutter through the heart!
Because I have had the good fortune to go through the Disciplines of the Krozairs of Zy, which teach a man wrestling and unarmed combat tricks — all the martial arts — that leave the best syples of the Khamorros far in the shadows, I had been able, without actually fighting Turko, to convince him that I had the besting of him and many a high khamster.
So, Kimche and I stripped off and began and it was not made too swift and there was a deal of grunting and straining before he gave me best. I stood back.
“You fight well, Kimche. But-”
“By Likshu the Treacherous!” he panted, standing up and shaking himself like a dog run from the sea.
“You must be a Khamorro!”
“No, Kimche. I am not a Khamorro.”
“Then,” said Muvko the Breaker, stepping forward, “let us see what you can avail against a true khamster.”
Muvko was, as I had suspected, competent within the syples. Again I made nothing great of it, and the contest prolonged itself long past the moment when Turko, for one, would have had Muvko flat on his back. But it is foolish to puff up one’s abilities if there are skullduggeries to follow.
“Now may Morro the Muscle be my witness!” declared Muvko, sitting up and staring at me. “If you are no Khamorro — what manner of man are you?”
Useless to answer, “A Krozair of Zy.” So I smiled, and said, “I had luck and the knack of it, Muvko. Now, who is for ale?”
My intentions were plain to them. And, having seen me in action, they were fully in agreement.
“And when Turko returns, we will have a few words to say!”
“Aye!”
The daily downpour had come and gone outside, no doubt adding a fair quantity of fresh growth in that voracious jungle, and we started to prepare seriously for the evening’s contest. Hoping that I had not created too great an impression, I joined in. After all, ordinary wrestlers stand no real chances against Khamorros. The wagers and rules reflected this, as they would have to do. So -
how could I be explained? As a freak, that seemed the only answer, and thus I was accepted. They made plain I was standing in for Turko, and could have no share of the consortium’s profits on my own account. This seemed reasonable.
A smart trot across to the marquee of Black Algon revealed the place open and girding its magical loins for the night’s doings. Black Algon, himself, was still not there. Neither were Saenci and Turko. And Andrinos was still missing.
Back at the Golden Prychan, Kimche expressed himself of the opinion that mischief was afoot but that, by Beng Drudoj Triceps and Biceps, he had no inkling what it might be.
“Sink me!” I burst out. “If he’s got Turko and the others chained up in some infernal chundrog, I’ll-”
“So would we all, Jak, if we knew if and where!”
“There is one way to find out, a very old and still reasonably efficacious way.”
“If you can find any rast to question.”