Jam bad-Kone was just sighting along his cocked crossbow as Hasselborg brought the heads of the pins into line with the shiniest of the medals on the chest of the dasht. Jam seemed to hesitate; raised his head for a second to look at the antagonist who had fallen down without waiting to be hit, then squinted down the stock of His weapon again.
Hasselborg squeezed the trigger. The stock kicked sharply and the bolt flashed away with a hum, rising and falling a few centimeters in its flat trajectory.
Then something exploded in Hasselborg's head, and the light went out.
X.
Feeling hands trying to turn him over, Victor Has-selborg opened his eyes. His head ached frightfully.
"He lives yet," said one.
"Which can't be said for the other," said somebody else. Their general chatter made a dull roar in Has-selborg's head.
With great effort he pulled himself into a sitting position and felt of his pate. At least there did not seem to be any fragments of skull grinding together like ice floes in an Arctic storm, though his hand came away bloody. The dasht's bolt must have grazed his scalp and carried away his hat, which lay on the stones between him and the wall.
"I'm okay," he said. "Just let me alone a minute." He wanted no Krishnan fingers exploring around the roots of his dyed hair or his glued-on antennae.
"Look!" said a voice, "a new method of sighting a bow, by the stars! Had we such at the battle of Meozid—"
"… by Qondyor, not knightly; he should have warned Jam, so that—"
"… has the new dasht reached his majority?"
Hasselborg realized that the king was looking down at him. He got up, staggered a little, and finally found his balance.
"Yes, sire?" he said.
The king replied: "Master painter, you've riven me of a good vassal, a good stout fellow. Though since it had to be one or the other of you, I'm not altogether displeased 'twas he. While a strong and loyal right arm, there's no denying he was difficult. Yes, difficult. Kidnaping gentlewoman. Get you to the surgeon and have your crown patched, and then let's to the painting again. It had better be good, now. I suppose I shall have to attend his funeral; barbaric things, funerals."
"I thank Your Awesomeness, but with my head feeling the way it does, I'm afraid the picture would look pretty gruesome. Can't we put off the next sitting for a day at least?"
"No, varlet! When I say I wish it today—but then, perhaps you're right. I shouldn't wish my nose in the picture to wander over my face like the Pichide River over the Gozashtando Plain, merely because my artist can't see straight. Get you patched and rested, and resume your work as soon as may be thereafter: Stray you not from the city, however."
"I don't suppose I need these guards any more, do I?"
"No, no, they're dismissed."
"And d'you mind if—"
"If what? If what?"
"Nothing, Your Supremacy. You've done me enough favors already."
He managed a teetery bow, and the king minced off. Hasselborg had been about to ask to be allowed to move back to Haste's palace, where the service was better organized, when it occurred to him that he would be encouraging Fouri to think up some scheme to lure or coerce him into marrying her.
Fouri was gushing over his survival and Haste was congratulating him in more restrained style, when a rough-looking individual said: "Master Kavir, may I have a word? I'm Ferzao bad-Qe, captain of the late dasht's personal guard."
When he got Hasselborg aside, the man continued: "Now that the death of the dasht has canceled our oaths to him, the lads and I wonder what next, d'ye see? The late dasht was a good fellow, albeit careless with his coin, so that our pay came somewhat irregu-larly. Now he's gone, his eldest inherits, but is not yet of age, wherefore his widow's regent. A sour wench, as thrifty as the dasht was liberal, and will no doubt start by letting half of us go and cutting the pay of the rest.
"So we wondered if, in accordance with the old custom, ye'd like to take us on as your men. We're stout fighters, none fiercer, and if ye but give us the word we'll seize an isle in the Sadabao Sea and make you a sea king, like that fellow on Zamba. What say ye?"
This was a new problem. "How much did the dasht pay you?" asked Hasselborg.
"Oh, as to that, the amount varied with rank, length of service, and the like. The total came to mayhap forty karda a ten-night."
Not bad for an armed gang, thought Hasselborg, though no doubt he'd find he'd let himself in for a lot of extras as well. Maybe these birds would come in handy, and the money Haste had given him would pay them for some time even without his sending to Novorecife.
"I'll do it," he said.
As things turned out, not all of Jam's men wanted service under Hasselborg; only twenty-nine of them did when all were counted. Some of the others said they might consider it after they'd returned to Rosid for their former master's funeral. Tant mieux; the money would last even longer.
Hasselborg shut himself up in his room, applied his pills to his headache, and tried to examine his wound. Unfortunately the latter was on the extreme top of his head where he could not see it with a single mirror. After half an hour's experimenting, he rigged up a second mirror so that he could look down on himself.
The gash had stopped bleeding, and the hair around it was thick with dried blood. He washed some of the blood out, cut off some of the hair next to the scalp with the little scissors from his sewing kit, applied disinfectant, and closed the wound with a small piece of adhesive tape. Not a professional job, but it would have to do.
In the process he noticed that his hair was beginning to show brown at the roots. Therefore, with a small brush, he applied the dye that the barber at Novorecife had sold him, around the edges where it showed. The antennae seemed still secure; however, one of the pointed tips of his ears was coming adrift and had to be re-glued.
He spent most of the day napping. Then he set out for dinner at Haste's palace, having promised the high priest with some misgivings that he would eat with them that night to celebrate his survival. This time, however, he had a legitimate excuse to turn down Haste's cocktails, saying his head ached still. He had noticed with alarm that he was actually getting to like these drinks.
"Tell me about Zamba and its new dour," he asked Haste.
The priest raised his antennae. "Why are you interested, my son? I should think that, having received your fee for Antane's portrait, your curiosity would be satisfied."
"Oh, well—I just wondered how Antane got so far in such a short time. He never impressed me that much when I knew him. And what's he going to do next, now that he has his kingdom?"
"As to that, that's as the stars—yes?"
A younger priest, the one Hasselborg had seen on previous occasions, had just come in to whisper in Haste's ear. The high priest said: " Tis as bad as being a physician. I must go to check the heliacal setting of Rayord. Tell the cook to hold dinner a few moments, will you, Fouri?"
When her uncle had gone, Fouri leaned towards Hasselborg and looked at him out of her fathomless green slanting eyes. "I could tell you news of Zamba. My gossips at the dour's palace fill my ears with it."
"What is it?"
She smiled. "I but said I could tell, not that I
would."
"What d'you mean?" Of course he knew well enough. Oh boy, here we go again!
"I could be a valuable helpmeet to one like yourself but see no point in throwing away my favor to one who'll merely say 'thank you' and ride off and think no more of Fouri."