“Let the King of Anthor judge this matter,” said Vorish, formally giving Menish charge of the situation. It was no good the Emperor trying to dispense justice to an Anthorian woman.
“Release the woman,” said Menish. The guards released her as if she were a viper; and she glared venom at them. “Let the injured party speak first.”
The infantryman stumbled forward. There was also a graze on his arm, which turned into a cut where it met a bracelet, and a swelling on his face. He looked to Vorish first, but Vorish gestured towards Menish.
“M’Lord, this woman told me I'd pitched my tent wrongly. I told her it was correctly pitched. At that she drew her sword and tried to kill me. I only had my shield to defend myself and I'd be dead now if I'd not been rescued.”
Menish had been making an effort to recognise the woman. Althak would have remembered her name easily but Althak was not here. This time, however, he managed to recall her face. She was of the Thonyar clan, visiting Meyathal until they travelled to Gildenthal. He thought she was quite wealthy.
“Mara,” he fervently hoped that was her name, “is this true?”
“This barbarian had pitched his tent with the door facing east rather than south. Knowing them to be ignorant brutes and feeling pity for them I politely pointed out the error.” Menish could guess how politely. “In return he insulted me.”
“What words were used?” he asked the infantryman. “How did she tell you your tent was set wrongly?”
“She said, ‘You barbarians have the manners and knowledge of horse dung. The door must be on the south side, but you're as ignorant as the flies that hover about you.’” Menish noticed Drinagish grinning, threw a glance at Adhara who nudged him to a respectfully concerned expression.
“And what did he say in reply?” Menish asked Mara.
“Sire, I can't foul my lips to repeat it. Let him say it again and I'll tell you if it's the truth. After that I'll take pleasure in hacking out his tongue!”
Menish turned to the man. He assumed he would evade the question but he did not.
“All I said was, ‘a woman’s place is to keep her mouth shut and her legs open.’”
There was an outcry among the clan chiefs. Yarva began to draw her sword but Menish said “Wait!”
“That's near enough to it,” said Mara, her eyes flashing with rage.
“Flame of Aton! How are we going to work together against Gashan if we squabble amongst ourselves? You were wrong to attack him, Mara. This was no death duel. This was attempted murder. He did not have a sword.”
“He should have thought of that before he insulted me.”
“You must understand, their customs are different from ours,” Menish spoke to her in Anthorian, hoping she would follow suit rather than aggravating the situation with further abuse.
“Yes, and their customs are foul. Do you want us to supply them with maidens to slaughter?”
“They do not sacrifice maidens in Relanor.”
“They still buy and sell their women like cattle.”
“They're not buying and selling women now, Mara. You've wounded this man. I judge that you have had your honour satisfied. Leave the camp and cause no more trouble.”
The clan chiefs looked uneasy. Vorish’s man had delivered a grievous insult, but they saw Menish’s difficulty. Mara’s anger blazed to new heights.
“You find against me? What evil is this? Treachery from our own King before a council of clan chiefs! To what depths has Anthor sunk? But I'm not the first to feel the sting of your faithlessness, Son of Kizish. Your father would rise from the dead and cut you down if he knew. Your whoring in Relanor has got you an Emperor of your flesh, and now you bring him and his Vorthenki filth to rape our lands!”
She would have lunged at him but the guards grabbed at her and held her back.
“Who's hurling insults now?” stormed Barvolin, rising to his feet. His face flushed with anger. Menish was too shocked to speak. “How dare you insult our King before our visitors, before the Emperor himself? Are you trying to force a death duel with the King? Sire, I offer my own sword to settle this on your behalf.”
“Let him deny it,” spat Mara. “I only repeat what any woman knows who has been at Meyathal for the last few weeks.”
The Drinols had been looking confused for the last few minutes. They did not understand the Anthorian tongue well enough to follow what was being said. But all of the Anthorians, and Vorish, had understood perfectly. They looked at Yarva, Neathy and Adhara for confirmation. Adhara stared at her knees. Her hands covered most of her face. Neathy looked frightened. It was Yarva who spoke.
“She speaks the truth, though she still insults the King.”
“It's the truth,” said Vorish. “Menish is my father.”
“You knew?” said Menish aghast. “How did you know?”
Vorish shrugged, “It was something that became obvious to me years ago.”
“And you told them?”
“I didn't tell them.” Vorish looked past Menish, and Menish followed his gaze.
“I told them,” said Adhara.
Chapter 33: The Dragons of Kishalkuz
Kishalkuz rose sheer from the flat sea and climbed to a mist-wreathed pinnacle like an ancient fortress. There was just enough wind in the sail to move their boat slowly towards it, but even the gentle splash of waves against the prow was muted in the deep hush that emanated from the island. It was like the silence of a temple, though more so. This was no house built by men to hold worshippers, this was the abode of the gods themselves. This was Kishalkuz, the dragon isle.
As they drew near the island resolved itself from the blue haze into sheer black cliffs that plunged into the sea. Nowhere, it appeared, was there anywhere to land. They could hear waves splashing against the cliffs and the occasional cry of a gull, but otherwise all nature held a respectful silence.
Azkun’s blood pounded. Here again he would see his masters face to face. They would remove his guilt and fulfil the promises he had made in their name to save himself and his friends from the Gashans. At last Menish and Vorish would see the truth. Hrangil would not, and for this Azkun was saddened.
The dolphin chuckling irreverently into his mind interrupted his thoughts.
“Dragons, dragon place. Lead you here, what game now?”
“No games. This is most serious.” He sent an image of the most serious thing he could think of: death.
For once the dolphin stopped laughing and considered Azkun’s answer, then it chuckled and said “Land things, dolphins do not die. Not-dolphin not play.” Without further good-byes it streaked away from the boat.
Shelim muttered a curse and he wrenched on the tiller, trying to follow its lead as he had done for so many days, but Azkun stopped him.
“He is gone. We do not need him any more. This is Kishalkuz.”
Shelim nodded and steadied the tiller. He had known, of course, and his action had been a reflex.
“Where do we land, M’Lord?”
His question assumed that Azkun had been here before.
“Circle the island. There will be a place.” He spoke with the certainty that comes of proven faith.
They had to weigh sail to turn the boat across the wind, but Azkun left that to Althak and Thalissa. He stood at the prow, unwilling to take his eyes off the island of his masters. Tenari stood beside him, silent and impassive as ever, but her hand clenched tightly on his arm and the knuckles were white as if she too felt some of the awe of this place.
“The dragons will free you from the Monnar.” She gave no reaction to his promise.
The boat drifted lazily on the wind now and presently they rounded a bluff. Beyond it lay a small, shelly beach surrounded by cliffs. At one end of the beach a wide shelf of rock thrust out into the sea.
“The dragons smile on us, see? Here is our landing place. They have even provided a pier to tie up at.”
Shelim looked dubiously at the rock alongside but Althak, standing at the prow, assured him that the water was deep enough. It was crystal clear and they could see fish darting amongst the seaweed.