“My father’s totrixes are renowned over all southeast Havilfar.”
“My father’s merchant house has agencies far beyond southeast Havilfar.”
“The Migshaanu-cursed Canops took Mackili, only last week, and impaled him over by the ruins of the temple.”
“The ruins are infested by rasts.”
“Methydrin is a wonderful country, with riches to spare!”
“In Dap-Tentyra we could be so happy. It is more of a city these days than a smot.”
“We starve if we do not work and work is only given to those who worship Lem, the silver leem.”
“And, dear Dray, you would not find me unappreciative.”
“And, my Dray, I would be kind to you.”
“It is death, slow and horrible and certain, to be found on the streets with a weapon.”
I leaned forward, to ask a question about the spears, which had been restowed beneath the benches. These spears were ash-shafted, with heads wide yet short, exceedingly sharp, and fairly heavy in the hand so that a cast from them would spit a target with most ferocious thoroughness. So I leaned forward and the soft breathy whispers in my ears sharpened.
“Dray! You’re not listening!”
“Dray! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”
“On the contrary, appreciation and kindness are fine. But they are not for me. I am not going your way.”
Their soft bodies, pressed so suggestively close to me, stiffened, and moved away, and bright color mantled their cheeks. Their competition remained as fervent as ever; for neither would give an inch and almost immediately I felt them approach to engage yet again in this allurement for their own ends. Standing up, I left them whispering sweet nothings to each other across six inches of empty air, and went across to Planath the Wine. He cocked his eyes up at me, somewhat apprehensively, I thought, so I sat down and did what I could about making my face less the unholy figure-head lump exposed to wind and weather it is.
“Tell me, Horter Planath. These spears of yours. You may not carry them openly on the streets?”
Turko butted in, mockingly. “They would be difficult, by the Muscle, to carry concealed.”
I ignored him.
“That is so, Horter Prescot. The casting spear, the stux, is our weapon — for we are a peaceful people and know little of swords and bows — and hitherto we have kept ourselves to ourselves. We hunt the vosk with the stux, for they roam in their millions among the back hills and forests.”
“A goodly weapon. And the Canops?”
Mog worked herself up into a denunciation, to which all the Miglas listened with profound attention. When she had finished, Planath the Wine said with grave politeness, “They are fierce and vicious and horrendous. They crushed us with ease. But we would have fought, despite that we would certainly have lost, but for-” Here he paused, in some distress, until Mog jumped up, swinging her arms, and finished for him.
“Aye! But for the degradation of your religion and the profanation of Migshaanu’s shrine and the defamation of your high priestess! Aye, they were reasons enough.”
They all began talking then, as Mog sat on the floor and drew up a crimson covering they had given her. I thought of the stux, the usual name for the heavy throwing spear of Havilfar and of how they would have fronted these deadly Canops and all hurled, with their deadly aim, and then the arrows would have whistled in and the sword-wielding mercenaries would have cut and thrust them to pieces. Maybe they were better off, now; at least, they lived.
With only a little more conversation, in which the name of Mag was mentioned — I did not pick up the reference and so pushed it away to be dealt with later — the Miglas rose and took their leave. They did not take their spears, however, and these remained secreted in the cavities beneath the benches. Even so, the adherents of Migshaanu took their lives in their hands as they made their way home under the lights of the moons.
We were quartered in a garret room under the crazy roof, and, as we had during the nights of our escape, we all slept more or less together. Mog, alone of us, was conducted elsewhere. Tomorrow, I told myself, before going to sleep, tomorrow I would start for home. In the night both Quaesa — first, and very prettily — and Saenda — second and most urgently — came to my pallet. I turned them both out, and I did not scruple to kick Saenda’s remarkable rear to help her on her way to her own pallet. In the morning neither girl referred to the night’s pantomime, but I knew they were storing everything up against me.
Discovering that the busy and highly populated country over on the eastern shores of the Shrouded Sea contained the homes of both girls, I could afford to forget them. That part of Havilfar, extending from the river border of Hamal in the north, the coast opposite Hyrklana in the east, and open ocean in the southeast, to the river running from the southern end of the mountain chain into the top of the Shrouded Sea on the west, had been settled for thousands of years. Kingdoms and princedoms and Kovnates riddled it with boundaries and capitals and petty rivalries. All the girls had to do was hire a passage aboard a voller or a ship and cross the Shrouded Sea and they would be home. Planath the Wine looked at my scarlet breechclout and my scarlet cape and clicked his teeth. He was not a human being of Homo sapiens stock, but he was a man.
“Crimson is the color of Migshaanu the Blessed. We wear it only on high occasions, for it is proscribed.”
Truly, this morning he wore a brown smock with wine stains upon it. “I think, Horter Prescot, if you will pardon, that the Canops will resent that brave scarlet.”
I pondered. As you know, previously I would have made some uncouth remark, involving a diseased portion of Makki-Grodno’s anatomy, and said that, by Zim-Zair, scarlet was the color of Strombor, my color, and the color of Zair. No monkey-faced Canops would tell me to strip it off. But I pondered, as I said, and thought of Delia and the twins, and so changed into a dull and offensive brown sack Planath called a robe.
But I kept the breechclout even as I unstrapped the sword.
Rapechak surprised me — but only for a moment.
“I am a mercenary. I could take service with these Canops. If they paid enough.”
“You could, Rapechak.” I eyed him.
“I do not think I am old enough to return home. Anyway, it is too cold down there. I have grown used to warmth.”
“Very sensible.”
“And I have not made my fortune — so far.”
“It distresses me to hear it.”
Turko stood by, listening, that mocking half-smile on his damned handsome face. Rapechak cocked his beaked head at the Khamorro.
“Turko has nowhere to go.” He rubbed that beak of a face of his, that Rapa face of which so many have been beakless and no longer faces when I got through with them. “You have not as yet said where you are going, Dray Prescot.”
“That is true. I have not said.”
There hung a silence in the back room of The Loyal Canoptic.
Both girls started in presently claiming that I was taking them home, and may Opaz rot the idea of going anywhere else.
“There are deldys enough to pay your passages,” I said. “And you may have all mine, except a handful for food and wine. I am not going your way.”
“Well, then! Which way do you go?”
“That is my affair. Come. I will see you to the voller offices — or the shipping agents, if you prefer.”
Backward though Migla might be, and relatively poor if compared with many of the nations of Havilfar, nevertheless I knew there would be passenger services operating.
Migla was a case of a mild and overly religious country being taken over and subjugated by a smaller but infinitely more ferocious group of people. The other nations around the Shrouded Sea would not help; probably they had all been relieved when after the earthquakes that destroyed their island home the Canops had gone to Migla.