A quick, a very quick, trip to speak to Nath ti Javvansmot at The Speckled Gyp yielded no new information save the man who dubbed himself Zankov was a right slender spark, with dark hair, and merry eyes- “Brown Vallian eyes, prince. But, I swear, when he laughed, they went so dark as to be black. Odd.” Thus Nath ti Javvansmot.
Thanking him, I mounted up again on Shadow and trotted smartly back to the palace. As ever, my weather eye rolled leeward and windward; but I fancied my dealings with the stikitches had borne fruit. Although Kregans can tell the time to remarkable limits of accuracy by the positions of the suns or the moons, and many kinds of mensuration devices are known and used, truth to tell, I fancy, most Kregans tell the time by the state of their insides. Good square meals dominate the time-structure of Kregen. And, provided all get enough, who is to say this is not an admirable system? The trouble is, there are many who do not have enough, many who starve, many slaves who subsist miserably. These evils Delia and I had vowed to remove from the fair land of Paz, and, if the gods smiled, to eradicate entirely from all of Kregen.
But that objective — that dream — lay decades in the future.
Decades! Well, I was still, despite the length of time I had lived, still a comparatively young man then, and I was naive, hurtfully naive. .
So I knew the twin suns were telling me that my interior clock was true; I went roaring into the palace and toward the stairway that led to our private wing. The palace is enormous and convoluted, as I have said, and to save time I slid through a cross corridor that would chop off a whole section of the ornate courtyards. The Crimson Bowmen of Loh stood guard, where they were accustomed to stand, and of the Chulik mercenaries only a few were left. Their proud dark eyes looked alertly about, their sharp fox-like faces with the bristling whiskers reminding me that they were a race of diffs well-thought of as mercenaries. Their Hikdar was a paktun, the silver mortil head, the pakmort, looped on its silken cord over the shoulder of his corselet.
These were newly hired mercenaries. Kov Layco Jhansi, the emperor’s Chief Pallan, had been busy. A Crimson Bowman standing beside a tall balass door with silver chavonth heads adorning the bosses recognized me and stamped to rigid attention, his three-grained staff flashing into the salute. He was Log Logashtorio.
Seeing the old professional salute me, the Khibil paktun bellowed an “eyes right” and brought his sword into the salute.
I was hungry. But these niceties of military protocol are overlooked at one’s peril. But it was no venal thought of that kind that made me return the salute with all punctilio. I called out to the Hikdar as we passed: “A smart turnout, Hikdar. Congratulate your men for me, please. I welcome you to Vondium.”
He was a waso-Hikdar, that is, he had climbed five rungs up the rank structure within the rank of Hikdar, which is, I suppose, nearly an equivalent to an Earthly captain, in that he commands a pastang, or company, usually of eighty or so men.
Going rapidly on I gave a half-turn to look back and saw the Hikdar speaking to Log Logashtorio. So he was finding out who I was. That was all a part of the duties he and his men must perform here. Being hired by the Emperor of Vallia to serve in the imperial palace was a plum job. A parcel of slaves, all wearing the gray slave breechclout with red and yellow armbands, went past carrying an Azdon which they treated with all the care and frightened anxiety such a precious object always demanded. Past them I hurried, with a respectful salute from the Chulik matoc in charge of them. His tusks thrust up from the corner of his mouth, and he’d savage any poor damned slave who caused the slightest trouble.
A Relt stylor hurried past, his scrip bulging with ink and pens, his robe stained with blobs and spatters of ink. Everyone hurried in the palace. There was always a toing and a froing. I made my way along past the Chemzite doors and saw one of the emperor’s Lesser Chamberlains scurrying toward me. He looked puffed and immensely relieved, and he shook with the release of some pressing fear.
“Majister! The emperor has been calling for you these last two burs! He awaits you in the Sapphire Reception Room. Majister! We must hurry.”
I try to be polite to these fussy, pompous little fellows; for they have been made as they are. His red and yellow robes with the silver embroidery fluttered as he waved his arms, his balass, silver-banded rod of office almost hitting me on the nose.
Having studied a deal of the palace architecture when I’d first taken up residence here, I had a fair idea where the Sapphire Reception Room was. I glowered at the little chamberlain whereat his knees knocked. It was in my mind to tell him to say he hadn’t found me — him or his fellows who would be out looking — and bash on to my apartments, for I was sharp set. But that would only prolong whatever lay in store.
“I am hungry,” I said. “Is there any food there?”
“Yes, Majister. A spread buffet — and the Princess Majestrix, upon whom Opaz shine the light of his countenance, also awaits you there, Majister.”
That settled it.
So I followed the gaudily-clad Lesser Chamberlain to the Sapphire Reception Room, more interested in the spread food than in what my father-in-law wanted.
The Reception Room had been decorated out in colors that were predominantly green. Well, I have no need to elaborate my ambivalent attitude to that color. Long tables were spread with food. I barged in through the door. People stood about in groups, talking, eating and drinking, laughing. It was a proper reception. The air smelled sweet with perfumes and, best of all, with the appetizing aromas of exquisite food.
Four clowns in gaudy uniforms at the door slapped long silver trumpets to their mouths and blew blasts that nearly took my ears off. The major domo in his fantastical rig of red and yellow, silver and gold, burnished, awash with feathers and lace, bellowed in a voice that would have stood a trick on the quarterdeck of a seventy-four off Biscay.
“The Hyr Jikai, Dray Prescot, Prince Majister of Vallia.”
He knew everyone and bellowed their styles as they came in. I gave him a dirty look, and rubbed my ear, and then headed straight for the food. Bargom’s cook’s tea and cakes had merely sharpened up my appetite.
This scene presented the refined, polite, society face of Kregen. Men and women in their early-evening attire stood about, daintily sipping and nibbling. The conversation was light and frivolous, and yet, here and there, serious talking went on as people disposed of Vallia’s wealth and slaves and mines and ships. Politics was never a taboo subject here, either. A knot of people, somewhat larger than the others, contained the emperor. His leonine head towered, massive, purposeful, and he threw that powerful head back, laughing.
Well, let the old devil have a good time. He’d been at death’s door until Delia had carried him into the Sacred Pool. He did not see me and, as I could not spot Delia, and the food beckoned, I strode across to the tables.
He must have heard the trumpets and the majordomo’s bellow. He must have thought I’d go straight up to him and be introduced. Well, maybe I would have done had I known the purpose of the reception. There was no time for shilly-shallying around with a tiny plate and a few miscils, a few thin sandwiches, canapes, a spot of yasticum on the superb Kregan bread; I went for the real stuff. I piled the largest plate I could find with food. I stacked the biggest cup of tea available on the plate. Slaves hopped here and there trying to help people with silver trays of goodies; I brushed them away and got on with the job of loading the plate. Truth to tell; it was all light frothy stuff with not a solid mouthful all along the long table. The slaves wore white instead of slave gray, for they were privileged to wait on their masters here. I had to ignore them. The idea of slavery could always put me off my food, and I was sharp set. Come the day, I said to myself, and not the day which those damned racters dreamed, either. . So, wearing still the buff suit in which I had traipsed over Vondium, my hat hanging by its string down my back, girded with weapons, a monstrous plate of food in my hand, and a cup — it was a basin, really -