I waited.
The bidding crept up, but slowly. All realized this ferocious four-armed Djang had been knocking the auctioneer and slave-masters about, and had not been cowed by whip or chains. He would prove an unacceptable handful in any decent household. Djangs were very rare as slaves, rare as mercenaries. They kept to their own land of Djanduin, ever ready to ward off the attacks of the Gorgrens, who sought to subdue and enslave them. Well, we had seen off the Gorgrens, Kytun and Ortyg and my army of Djanduin, seen them off handsomely. I did not recognize the Djang up there, being sold off like a beast, but he knew me. I was his majister.
I shouted: “Twenty deldys.”
One or two faces turned in my direction, but I sidled away, and waited for an opposing bid; none came. I heard a man snigger and say: “The fool who buys that four-armed monster is buying trouble, by Havil the Green!”
I paid the Relt. The twenty deldys just about cleaned out what I had in my purse. The Djang, still loaded with chains, stepped down to me. I saw a scurry in the crowd as men pressed away. They anticipated trouble. The chains, according to the law of Hamal, would be returned by me to the slave market within a day. I said: “Follow me, slave.”
“Aye, master.”
Here came Chido, leading his apim zorca handler.
“Now, by Krun, Hamun! What in Hamal have you been up to?”
“A whim,” I said, and turning, caught the eye of the Djang and winked. He did not respond. People were looking at him. Like any Djang, in tactical matters he was quick-witted.
“I’m taking this fellow back right away, Chido. I’ve a rod in pickle for him that’ll teach him manners.”
“We — ell,” began Chido.
But I strode off — I made it a good brisk pace to avoid further queries — and shouted back that I’d see Chido at the Dancing Rostrum later, and gave a jerk at the chains.
“Come along, slave,” I bellowed, so that onlookers heard me clearly. “I’ll teach you good manners, four arms or no four arms, by Havil the Green!” The onlookers, poor fools, sniggered. One shouted: “Whip him good, Horter!”
We attracted some attention as we walked back to
They are a prize above rubies.
As we turned into the alley leading to the inn, I said, “What is your name, brother?”
“My king,” he said, and his face flushed with painful arrogance, “I am Kharon Wonlin Bandermair, Majister.”
I nodded. “I knew N. Wonlin Sundermair — a friend. He was assassinated — in my tent — and I was not there, I remember.”
“Yes, Majister. The Wonlin tan hold Nath Sundermair in high memory and esteem.”
“You were too young to fight?”
“Yes, Majister.” We stopped just in the mouth of the alley. “So filled with a young man’s fire, and the wars over, I thought to go as a mercenary. . alas, this is the result.”
“You are free now, Kharon. Listen carefully. I am known here as Hamun ham Farthytu, the Amak of Paline Valley. There is an Hamalian, old Nulty, who is loyal and knows. No one else knows.” I gestured.
“I am here in Ruathytu to discover — Why, what ails you, man?”
K. Wonlin Bandermair was looking distressed, and making vague gestures with his hands, his face creased. “Majister!” he said. “I am a fighting-man. I know nothing of these high affairs of state, no, by Zodjuin of the Silver Stux!”
Well, warmed by his oath though I was, I recognized his words as truth. That is the matter with these four- armed Djangs, as you know. They are the bonniest fighters in all Havilfar, but, it saddens me to say, they are somewhat thick when it comes to affairs above a Jiktar’s rank.
“We will go in now, Kharon. Remember, keep a still tongue in your head. No majistering me. Merely master.” As he nodded, I added: “I judge you were a ranker? Yes? Well, K. Wonlin Bandermair, by the authority vested in me as King of Djanduin, you are hereby created a Deldar.” He flushed suddenly with pleasure — no greater pleasure than mine, I assure you, in thus handing out largesse. It is deceptively easy to miss the fact that handing out titles and ranks and money and lands gives more pleasure to the giver than the receiver — at least, selfishly, it does to me. “A shiv-Deldar, Kharon.[7]So you are over halfway to a Hikdar.”
“Thank you, Majister, thank you!”
So we went in, and if Nulty wondered why a miserable slave should look so happy he made no comment.
I thought I knew my Djangs. They would fight until no drop of blood remained in their bodies. With wise and sound leadership, they were invincible. That was, all too terribly, to be put to the test, as you shall hear. For now, I set about the rest of the plan that had flashed upon me. Nulty saw about sending the chains back to the slave market. I told him that the Djang would cooperate with us. He gave me a skeptical look. What with a fine lady in hiding in the next room, and a fearsome four-armed Djang meekly taking orders, he must have considered I was running a wild kind of menagerie!
Now a slave who escapes in Hamal is a diabolical nuisance to his master, for under their infernal laws the lax master is in for all kinds of trouble. They are a hard sharp bunch, still, although I have changed their ways of late. At this time I went about my plan with an evil cunning that gave me great joy. Meeting Chido at the Dancing Rostrum, a huge hall with many mirrors where one might dance the night away, I took a few turns around the hall, dancing with a charming Lamnia girl. Then I fell into conversation with an Elten, was joined by Strom Hormish of Rivensmot, that scarlet-faced buffoon, who was not at all sure how to take me now, after my apparently accidental wounding of his friend, Strom Lart of Hyr Rothy.
Strom Hormish alluded to our brush at the shrine of Beng Salter, and I passed it off, adding that if he wanted to challenge me to a duel I was ready to serve him as I had served Strom Lart. He was not sure. He sensed a change in the Amak of Paline Valley. He hesitated. I steered the conversation on to challenges, knowing the Strom had built himself a private amphitheater where he would stage private spectacles for his friends. I expressed a desire to attend one of these, and, in short, I ingratiated myself with him. Chido was dancing, and so I was spared his looks.
“And I’ll wager you a thousand gold deldys, Strom, that this Djang of mine will knock over a wersting. A chavonth, even.”
“I cannot believe that, Amak!”
“By Krun! It is the truth, as Havil the Green is my witness!”
Well, I steered him along, and his red avarice got the better of him. In the end nothing would suit him but that he must buy this fearsome Djang and match him himself. He used his rank as a Strom to bear me down, with the naked threat that a challenge would follow, as I richly deserved; the more he talked the greater his courage. Of course, it had been an accident, my getting the better of Strom Lart! It had to be!
This Strom had been the instrument to turn me into the weakling I had acted, with, I thought with undue modesty, reasonable success after that first failure with his friend Strom Lart. Now he would be the instrument to cauterize a little of the smart of those wounds. He bought my four-armed Djang from me, and I passed on the paperwork I had had from the Relt at the slave market. Legally, K. Wonlin Bandermair was now the property of Strom Hormish of Rivensmot.
The explanations to Kharon Bandermair when I delivered him over brought a devilish smile to his savage face. Strom Hormish’s slave-master took charge of Kharon and I left. The timing was perfect. I strolled down to a voller park, selected the craft that took my fancy, stole it — or, as a soldier of Djanduin fighting his enemies would say, liberated it — and flew back under cover of darkness and picked up Rosala and Paline. At the same time I gave Emin and Salima the opportunity to leave, at which they jumped. Then it was merely a matter of landing at the prearranged time just outside Strom Hormish’s villa, and picking up the ferocious form of my Djang, Kharon, after he had battered his way out with the sword they had given him to fight a wersting for their pleasure.
I saw the party on its way to Djanduin amid many Remberees. Life would return to normal for them all, for I
