"Yes," I said.
"You wear the green. You carry a Ghittawrer longsword with the device removed. You fight well — or so I am told. Do you not think to ask yourself, you who call yourself Dak ti Foreng, why you were not thrown below, chained, whipped at the looms?"
I looked up at him. "Why?"
His smile mocked me.
"I am a renegade, yes, once of Zair and now of Grodno. And you — you were of Zair, also!"
Chapter Four
The secluded courtyard of the Jade Palace echoed with the clash of combat, the quick breaths of fighting-men, the spurting gasps of effort. The streaming lights of Antares flooded down to illuminate the yellow stone wall and the vines rioting in gorgeous colors on their trellises, sparkling in the upflung jets of water from the stone lips of stone fishes surrounding the lily-pool.
I switched up the shortsword and felt the shock of Gafard’s point hitting just below my breastbone. We were both stripped to the waist. Gafard’s muscular body glistened with sweat. He bellowed to me.
"Again, you fambly! You do not have a great long bar of steel in your hand! You have a shortsword -
a Genodder, the great slayer — fashioned by the genius of King Genod himself!" He stamped his right foot and lunged at me again with every intention of spitting me once more. I clashed the wooden sword across and this time I deflected his lunge. I had to force my muscles to lock. I had to stop myself — with some violence — from doing what was natural and looping the sword and riposting and so dinting Gafard in the guts, as he so delighted in dinting me.
He slashed at my head and I ducked, he sidestepped and I let him drive his wooden sword into my ribs. It was damned painful. I thought I had done with this kind of tomfoolery after those days I had acted the ninny among bladesmen in far Ruathytu.
Gafard leaped back and saluted me, ironically.
Slaves advanced to take his sword, to sponge him down with scented rose water, to press a glass of parclear into his hand, to fan him, to fuss about him as dutiful slaves should fuss about a kind master.
"I am a longsword man," he said, sipping his sherbert drink, and then with a single swallow downing the lot. Slaves handed me a glass of parclear, for which I was grateful. I do not usually sweat a great deal. I had had to leap about in the sunshine to work up a glow. Gafard threw the glass casually over his shoulder. A nimble numim girl caught it before it hit the flags. I wondered what the slave-master would do to her had she missed. Now this Gafard, this Rog of Guamelga, this Prince of the Central Sea, this man of many ranks and titles, this man of enormous power and wealth in Magdag — this renegade — looked at me and repeated: "I am a longsword man. But I recognize the power of the shortsword. The Genodder is a formidable weapon."
"Aye, gernu," I said. I wiped my gleaming body with a soft towel. Gafard had narrowed his eyes when I’d stripped off. "It is a knack, surely."
"A knack you must master if you are to be of use to me."
Only a few days had passed since Gafard and his swifter Volgodont’s Fang had rescued us from the renders. Much had happened in that time, but all the hurry and bustle amounted only to the one important thing. Duhrra and I, as one-time adherents of the Red, were now followers of the Green. Duhrra of the Days, and I, Dak, had turned renegades.
The scene in which I had tried to convince Duhrra of the wisdom of this course still had power to make me bristle. Of course I was right, and of course Duhrra was right. We’d been standing, facing each other, in the center of the bedchamber allotted to us in Gafard’s Jade Palace. The room was wide and tall and sumptuously furnished and we’d almost hit each other.
"Turn traitor! Bow and scrape to Grodno! You are mad!"
"Not so, and for the sweet sake of Zair do not shout so!"
"I am prepared to go out and cut down these evil rasts of overlords until I am cut down in my turn."
"You may be. I am not."
Duhrra eyed me. He was more worked up than when he’d lost his hand.
"I do not believe you lack spirit, Dak. But you talk like a mewling woman, heavy with child, with another at her breast, whining for mercy."
I compressed my lips. Then, unable to restrain myself, I burst out, "Sink me! Of course I’m after mercy, you great fambly! I’m long past the day when I will fight for the pleasure of fighting, or resist when resistance is hopeless! Have you learned nothing? To turn renegade now and pretend to follow the Green will not only save us from the galleys, or save our lives, it will give us the chance to escape — you great onker!"
"Now who’s shouting?"
Before Duhrra had finished his sentence I’d crossed the soft carpet in long vicious leem-strides and wrenched the sturmwood door open. The corridor beyond lay pale and empty, with a tall table bearing a jar of Pandahem ware, the cold sconces upon the tapestried walls, bars of mingled sunlight streaming in past barred windows at the end. I turned back and slammed the door.
"By the Black Chunkrah! I won’t shout if you will not shout."
"Duh — who’s shouting?"
I breathed hard, through my nose.
"You know where I want to go. We’ve won through so far. If we are to escape this little lot with our lives we have no choice but to do as Gafard wishes. He’s made a good thing out of it, by Krun!" And, as I said that, I saw a ruse I had overlooked. Well, you who have listened to these tapes will know what the ruse was and how I might have employed it in the argenter. As it was, it was too late now. So, here I was, a guest in Gafard’s Jade Palace, awaiting ratification of my application. King Genod welcomed with open arms all defectors from Zair. He took a dark delight in that. I didn’t have to be told that.
We went inside and Gafard insisted I play Jikaida. I like the game. We played jikshiv Jikaida, which is a middling size, for Gafard had an appointment later and could not spare the time for a larger and longer game. As usual we ranked our Deldars and set to. The game proved fascinating, for this Gafard had a cunning way with him that, if I was honest, was not so much cunning as straightforward ruthlessness applied cunningly.
[Here Prescot goes into some detail of the Game. A.B.A.]
Rising, Gafard motioned for a slave to clear the board. He looked not so much pleased by his win as puzzled. He nodded.
"Come into my chambers while I dress. I would talk with you." I followed him.
The rooms were furnished with a sumptuousness and display of luxury that clearly indicated cost had formed no part of the designer’s plans. Everything was of the finest. I did not go through into the bedchamber, and sat in a gilded upholstered chair as Gafard dressed. Silks and satins, gold lace, swathing artful folds of green and gold — gradually his clothes were built up. I noticed that he wore a fine mail shirt under his tunic of green and gold. That mail had never been made in the inner sea. That must have come from one of the old, old countries clustered around the Shrouded Sea, in southern Havilfar. He saw my interest, and smiled that slight, down-drooping smile that betrayed so much.
"Yes, Dak of Zullia. Only the best."
My short-lived pretense of being a Grodnim from Goforeng, naming myself as Dak ti Foreng, had given place to my naming myself from another well-known location. This time it was the small ponsho-farmers’
village south of Sanurkazz from which hailed my oar-comrade Nath. We had taken a trip there, Nath, Zolta, and I, riding lazily through the warm weather, drinking and singing. Nath had felt the urge to visit the haunts of his youth. One oldster — a man two hundred years old, with a white beard — recognizing Nath, had called him "You young rip Nathnik."
Zolta had near bust a gut laughing. "Nathnik!" he crowed, slapping himself on the thigh, rolling about. I can tell you, Nath and Zolta lost no opportunity to score off each other in the most outrageous ways, for all that each would gladly lay down his life for the other. They were far-off days now, long, long ago.