Eventually, Karadur came to a packet of powder. "This is the Powder of Discord, which I obtained from Goania in Othomae. But—ah— you may not have it, because we shall need it in Trimandilam."
"It's just what I need," said Jorian. "For the others, I can see no use in my present plight. But your Powder of Discord would, methinks, serve very neatly here."
"No, no! I have told you why I cannot—"
"No powder, no escape. I'll hold you here until dinnertime. Then the drawbridge will be up, and you'll not be able to leave."
"But—but if you plan to abide beyond that time, how shall you escape?"
"Leave that to me. You may go when you give me the powder, not before—what's that?"
A hollow, metallic boom resounded through the edifice. Karadur squeaked: "That is the gong that summons the Brothers to meat! Let me go at once!
Jorian held out his hand. Muttering something that—had he not known Karadur's stern views on blasphemy—Jorian would have suspected of being a Mulvani curse, the wizard put the packet into Jorian's hand. Saying: 'Tell Strasso to send his dinghy in close to shore to await me." Jorian opened the door.
The lamps in the main hall had been lit, and a fire crackled in the fireplace. Some of the Brothers, yawning and stretching, were drifting into the hall, where tables had been pulled out from the walls. Prominent among them was the gigantic chairman. As Jorian and Karadur emerged from their chamber, Khuravela caught Jorian's eye and beckoned.
"Doctor Karadur is unwell," said Jorian smoothly. "He begs to return to the ship, where his medicines are."
Khuravela grunted. "If he will, he will. Your captain, also, sent word he could not attend. Hmph. Too many think themselves better than their origins."
While Karadur scuttled out, Jorian accepted a flagon of spiced wine and answered questions about the news from the Twelve Cities of Novaria. He was tempted to give a thrilling account of the escape of the king of Xylar but suppressed the urge.
When the chairman took his seat, the other Brothers sat down also. They seemed a taciturn lot, communicating in grunts. Jorian, however, found himself next to a tall, lean, skull-faced man with a fondness for gossip. The latter whispered:
"See how Mehru strives to bait the chairman, and how Khuravela ignores him. Mehru is ambitious to become chairman in the other's room. He is eternally buzzing about our ears, saying that Khuravela is but an old, dead oak—impressive to look at, but without sap in its bark. And, in truth, none knows if any thoughts do stir behind our chairman's noble brow, for he goes for days on end without uttering a word. On the other hand, see you Brother Ghos, he of the purple turban? He heads a third faction…"
The tale of the endless bickering and intrigues of this ingrown little world became boring at last. Jorian finished a plain but plentiful repast in a silence unusual for him.
When the women had taken away the plates, wiped the tables, and poured fresh mugs of beer, a buzz of talk arose. Chairman Khuravela, in his armchair, made a sign. Several Brothers rose and left the hall.
Presently two came back, one balancing a red-painted headsman's block on his brawny shoulder while the other bore an ax. Another man returned with a coil of rope, with a noose on its end, over his arm. He climbed on a table and tossed the noose end of the rope over a beam. Jorian said to his neighbor:
'Tell me, sir: Are the Brothers about to demonstrate their skills?"
"Why, of course!" said the skull-faced man. "Methought you knew."
"Using those slave girls as subjects?"
"Certesl We cannot practice on free men like yourself; that were a crime. Do you think us murderers?"
"Is this a contest?"
"Aye; the other Brothers will judge the skill and dexterity displayed in each execution. Thank the true gods of Mulvan, it is the first break in the maddening boredom of life here in many a moon."
"Why does not everybody take a turn?"
"The Brothers refused to vote money for a larger number of slaves; a matter of internal politics. Khuravela ordered the largest number for which funds were to hand, and we cast lots to see which amongst us should be chosen to take part in the contest."
Two men staggered into the hall, bearing a rack from the armory. Jorian stood up and watched Khuravela. When the latter glanced in his direction, Jorian caught his eye and called:
"Master Chairman, may I speak?"
"Speak!" growled Khuravela. "Silence, pigs."
"Gentlemen!" said Jorian. "Permit me to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the sumptuous repast and the delicious potations you have served me. In fact, I am so full I can scarcely stand. Though I live to be as old as the eldest amongst you, I shall always remember this even as one of the high spots of my life—"
"If he have aught to say, I wish he would say it," growled a Brother to his neighbor. Jorian heard it but continued:
"And so, to make a very meager and inadequate repayment for this delightful entertainment, I should like to tell you a story."
The Brothers straightened up. The boredom vanished from their faces, and their eyes shone with new interest. Jorian stepped out into the clear space, in the midst of the tables.
"This story," he said, "is called the Tale of the Teeth of Gimnor. Many centuries ago, it is said that there reigned in Kortoli a small but lively and quick-witted king named Fusinian, sometimes called Pusinian the Fox. The son of Filoman the Weil-Meaning, he came to the throne quite young and wedded the daughter of the High Admiral of Zolon. If you know not, Zolon is an isle in the Western Ocean, off the far coast of Novaria, and Zolon counts as one of the Twelve Cities. Being an island, it is a maritime power, and being a maritime power, it is ruled by a High Admiral. Therefore, it was a suitable match for the king of Kortoh.
"This maid, who hight Thanuda, was divinely tall and famous for her beauty. King Fusinian fell in love with her picture and dispatched his chamberlain to sue for her hand. She made no objections, despite the fact that she was the taller of the two. They were wed with all the usual pomp and settled down to such happiness as is granted to royalty, who marry for reasons of statecraft.
"Soon thereafter, war broke out betwixt Kortoli and its northern neighbor Aussar. It was some footling squabble over a bit of territory, and as usual, between them the two combatants had soon spent blood and treasure worth a hundredfold as much as the land. And in these struggles, Aussar, which began the hostilities, had the better of it. First the Aussarians drove the Kortolians out of the disputed area. Then, when Fusinian counterattacked, they routed him in two great battles. Fusinian's sire, Filoman the Weil-Meaning, had been full of humane ideas about reducing the army and spending the money thus saved to uplift the masses, so that Kortoli had fallen behind the other Twelve Cities in the arts of war.
"Had Fusinian been older and craftier, he might have yielded to Aussar at the outset and used the time thus gained to strengthen his army, eventually to take the land back. But, being young and ardent and full of romantical notions of honor, he plunged into a war to which his forces were not equal. So he was beaten three times running. And then word came that the Aussarians meant to invade Kortoli proper, to get rid of Fusinian and put some puppet on his throne.