coming regardless.'
You – you can't!' said a much-startled Sarazin. 'What could I offer? I could scarcely pay you. My mother might find you a position, but I couldn't guarantee it.'
'I'm a mercenary,' said Jarl, 'but I'm loyal to those who deserve loyalty. You're not much yet, but I see great things for you, Sean Sarazin. I'll chance my fate with yours.'
Jarl gave but little praise and that seldom. So this open- hearted declaration made Sean Sarazin dizzy with glorious pride. When Epelthin Elkin declared that he too would go north, Sarazin's ego knew no limits. He must really be something to have won the loyalty of two such men.
However, Sarazin never thought to tell Jarl that Elkin was to accompany them to Selzirk. Elkin already knew all about Jarl, but Jarl had to find out about Elkin the hard way.
Jarl and Elkin first men in the gravel-strewn Great Square where horses were being readied for their departure from Voice.
'Who are you?' said the bulky-bearded Rovac warrior, his manner as blunt as his sword was sharp. Mark that he wore that sword in public in open defiance of the law.
My name,' said the old scholar, whose beard was as grey as Jarl's but wisp-frail in comparison, 'is Epelthin Elkin. Sarazin's tutor.'
'You'll find him fair lettered already,' said Jarl. 'An old servitor has learnt him his books, while I've taught him the more important things myself. Where is the rest of Selzirk's embassy?' You mistake my identity,' said old man Elkin.
His arms were folded, hands warm-muffed by the voluminous sleeves of a gorgeous green and purple robe which fell almost to his open-weave sandals.
'If you're not a tutor,' said Jarl, standing arms akimbo, feet shoulder-wide, 'what are you? A pox doctor? In that case-'
Abruptly, Jarl broke off, slapped a horse fly, then swore at slaves seen overloading baggage animals. Then went to kick arse, boot-crunching across the gravel as if he had twelve leagues or more to cover by sunset. Slaves fell to their knees in fear.
'Sir,' said the slavemaster, intervening on behalf of his charges. 'It's not their fault. We don't have enough pack horses.'
'What's this rubbish, then?' said Jarl, kicking at a heap of goatskin travel bags. Those belong to Sarazin's tutor, the old man Elkin.'
'By the knives!' exclaimed Jarl. Why so much baggage? He should have left this rubbish in Selzirk. Anyway – it came with the embassy, it can go back with the embassy.' 'Sir-' 'Don't answer back!' shouted Jarl, murder- voiced.
The slavemaster quailed. Jarl kicked the goatskins again. Hard. Then, as a new shade joined the shadow- conference on the ground, turned to find himself facing Epelthin Elkin.
'I would be pleased,' said Elkin, in sour displeasure, 'if you would be gentle with those bags. Within lie codicological treasures of antiquity considerable and value greater.' 'Which you should have left in Selzirk,' said Jarl.
'As I meant to say before anger distracted you,' said Elkin, 'I am not from Selzirk but from Voice. I have tutored Sarazin through all the years he has spent here as hostage.' 'We have never met,' said Jarl. 'And the sky is blue,' retorted Elkin, by way of insult.
They glared at each other. Dislike at first sight! Jarl thought to speak his mind – but several slaves were in earshot. To natives of Voice, slaves were invisible unless misbehaving. Jarl, worrying lest they overhear, thus proved himself an alien.
'Come!' he said, striding away to the shade trees flourishing green at the edge of the Great Square.
Thodric Jarl was forty-four. Elkin, though much, much older, matched his pace. Once under the trees Jarl looked up and around, then, satisfied as to privacy, turned on Elkin.
'Know this, old man,' said Jarl. 'I go north at Lord Regan's hest.' That was all he could safely say of his commission from Lord Regan, who had actually recruited him as a spy. 'Understand? You interfere with me, you could be dead by sunset.'
'I, too,' said Elkin heavily, 'am commanded by Lord Regan.'
'What?' said Jarl, taken aback. Tou? What use is a dodderer like you?'
This was unfair. Though ancient, Elkin was scarcely infirm. Grey-headed, yes (his hair pulled back and plaited into a single pigtail hanging almost to his waist) but upright. His mahogany skin walnut wrinkled, yet his bloodshot blue eyes sharp still – 'a knife to undress a virgin' as the local bawdry had it.
'Well?' said Jarl, no reply being forthcoming from Epelthin Elkin. 'Tell! What wants Lord Regan from you?'
'Allow me to think. Perchance the library of memory holds words rude enough to match the discourtesy of a Rovac warrior.'
'Etiquette cannot breed horses,' said Jarl. 'We've few mounts and many leagues to cover, so you must ditch your rubbish.'
'You organised the horsesK said Elkin. 'A sorry hash you've made of the job. I made my requirements known long in advance. If there aren't enough horses-'
'I organised nothing! But nevertheless must straighten out our problems. You, for instance.'
The argument threatened to get out of hand, for both Jarl and Elkin were capable of displays of the most monstrous bad temper. But before they could provoke each other further, four leather-clad horsemen cantered into the Great Square.
'It must be the embassy,' said Jarl, for only foreigners like himself would wear iron-studded battle leathers in the Rice Empire, where the hides of brute beasts were thought unclean, and wearing such verged on obscenity.
Indeed, this was Selzirk's embassy: Sarazin's brothers Celadon, Peguero, and Jarnel, plus a prince of Chenameg named Lod. But, being crass young men with no sense of etiquette, they did not introduce themselves when Jarl and Elkin approached. Instead: 'Ho!' said Lod, in Galish. 'Where's this Sarazin?'
'Never mind that,' said Jarl, his own Galish equally shy of protocol. 'Have you a pack horse spare?'
'Soldiers and baggage beasts await on the outskirts of town,' said Celadon. 'But, before I say more – name yourself, old man.'
Celadon, then aged twenty, was looking directly at Jarl, who, from the majesty of his forty-four years, replied:
'Maturity is always old age to a young fool. But don't talk of me as an ancient, boy, or I'll bruise your arse with the flat of my blade.'
'The hair dates the man,' said Celadon, with affected carelessness.
Thus I was born,' said. Jarl. 'Like the grey of my eyes it is common enough on Rovac, which is where I hail from. Would'st like to test age and honour at swordpoint?'
'Not with a nameless stranger,' said Celadon. 'I myself am Celadon, son of Farfalla, who is kingmaker of the Harvest Plains.'
'Know that I am Thodric Jarl, son of Oric Slaughter- house, blood of the clan of the bear,' said Jarl, sword- blood grim.
'Clan of the bear?' said Lod, laughing. 'A bad-tempered bear, I warrant. Yet should we be the dogs to bait it? Pray, friends, are we not diplomats? 'Twould be rash to bloody the streets of Voice. And tragic to boot should some of the blood be our own!'
While Celadon and Jarl both had sword-sharp tempers/ neither wanted combat. Celadon had been warned by his mother not to rape, maim or kill in Voice, and Jarl was hesitant to imperil his mission to Selzirk. Thus both apologised, albeit grudgingly; Then Lod again asked after Sarazin. 'He'll be here soon,' said Jarl.
Wrong! For Sarazin was delayed saying goodbye to Jaluba, she of the pink lips and the bedroom eyes, she who was but sixteen years of age. In the interests of decency, the less which is said of their long goodbye the better.
