Krozair of Kregen

Chapter Eight

Rukker does not speak of his seamanship

A man who has but two score years and ten to look forward to, and perhaps a little longer for good behavior, is filled with the thrusting desire to be up and doing — or he should be if he has any sense. To a Kregan with about two hundred years of life to use to explore experiences on his wild and wonderful planet, the desire to be up and doing burns no less strongly; but the Kregan can contemplate with equanimity the passing of a few seasons in doing something outside the mainstream of his life. Rukker the Kataki, as vicious and intemperate a Kregan as they come, made nothing of spending the time we had among the Renders of the inner sea. These little side excursions transform life for a Kregan. I, too, with a thousand years of life to use, shared much of that attitude, even though I had not thrown off the ways of the planet of my birth.

This trip to Zandikar to see my son Vax safe was a mere side-jaunt. I did not forget that in this jaunt Delia, Vax’s mother, would concur wholeheartedly with what I was doing. So we sailed past those mist-swathed coasts of mystery. The Eye of the World contains many areas that remain unknown, shores of faerie and romance, as well as shores of danger and horror. We pulled across the blue waters, from island to island, dropping down to coast most of the way in easy stages, venturing out across wide bays where the portolanos told us we would fetch the opposite headland in good time. I felt no sense of frustration. I was fascinated by Vax. This journey would have been a good time to become acquainted. How I longed to ask him for all the details of his life!

Even the man I was then understood that children have their own secret areas sacrosanct from their parents’ understanding. But I hungered to know more of Vax, and through him, more of my other children. And, of course, most of all, to hear about my Delia.

I might explore the Eye of the World. I was debarred from exploring my son’s life. Duhrra did as I asked and would often regale me with tidbits of information he had gleaned. I slowly built up a picture. Vax would freely admit he did not come from the inner sea, and once he had indicated to Duhrra that he had learned much from the Krozairs of Zy and would soon have been admitted to membership of that august Order; he did not tell anyone he came from Vallia and Valka.

“Whatever his father did, Dak,” said Duhrra, pulling the fingers of his right hand into the right shape to clasp a flagon of Chremson, “Vax felt he could no longer continue with the Krozairs. Duh — anyone who gets that close must be remarkable. The Krozairs-” He picked up the flagon but did not drink, looking thoughtful, as is proper when mention is made of the Krozairs of Zair. “Duh — they put ice and iron into a man, by the Magic Staff of Buzro! No wonder he detests his old man.”

“No wonder,” I said, and turned away.

A commotion boiled up in Rukker’s Vengeance Mortil and we all looked across the bright water. The sail billowed and crackled and then blew forward. The mast bent and bowed and came down with a run. We could hear the passionate yelling over there. I said, quite gently, to Fazhan ti Rozilloi, my ship-Hikdar, “Put the helm over, Fazhan. We must make a beaching. Rukker has proved once again that he is no sailor.”

“Aye, Dak,” said Fazhan, with a laugh. Rukker might be a ferocious and malevolent Kataki — with yet a spark of common decent humanity surprisingly in him — but, all the same, an old shellbacked sailorman would laugh at him for his woeful lack of seamanship and understanding of the sea. Vengeance Mortil might quite easily have continued under oar-power and certainly Rukker would have no thought for the well-being of his oar-slaves. We had ghosted through the islands and were now making southerly toward the southeasterly sweeping arm of the inner sea past Zimuzz. Astern we had left Zy, that famous extinct volcanic island cone set boldly within the jaws of the Sea of Swords. The coast here was seldom visited. A triangularly lobed bay southward received the waters of the River Zinkara, running from the Mountains of Ilkenesk. On the Zinkara stood the city of Rozilloi. Fazhan had heaved up a sigh when our calculations showed us we passed that longitude special to him. Zandikar lay some sixty dwaburs farther to the east. We could hope for a wind. So we set about beaching the swifters and anchoring the argenters and removing the weights. We made camp and prepared ourselves for what might come.

Far inland, low rolling hills showed that purple-bruise color of distance, and on the sandy plains between only straggling trees grew. A party would have to push some way before they found a tree that would yield timber suitable for a mast. The made-masts of my own old Terrestrial navy were known here on the inner sea; but usually a single stout tree trunk was employed in swifters. We had stationed a lookout and he bellowed down.

“Swifters! Green! Six of ’em!”

The curve of the bay where we had beached concealed us from seaward observation — an elementary precaution — and the lookout could see without being seen. The nearer headland under which we sheltered contained a mass of ruins, ancient stones, time worn and weathered, tumbled columns and arches, shattered walls. Up there I had a good view. There were six swifters, medium-sized vessels plowing in line ahead with their oars rising and falling in that remorseless beat. They pulled into the wind, long, low lean craft, evil and formidable. We waited carefully until they were past. Rukker said, “I will stand guard on the camp and the ships.”

“Very well,” I said. “It will be a nice task to select the proper tree for your mast”

So it was decided. If those six Green swifters returned or if we were beset by unexpected foes, then Rukker and his men would defend the camp with ferocious efficiency. I took my sailors and a gang of slaves to drag the timbers, and set off inland.

We spent the rest of the day as the suns declined searching for the right tree, and when we found it and cut it down and dragged it back, two of the lesser moons sped past above in their crazy whirling orbits, and She of the Veils smiled down in fuzzy pink radiance. We had seen no signs of life apart from the spoor of mortils and the bones of their prey, and the high circling of warvols, the vulture-like winged scavengers waiting for the mortils to finish. Once upon a time — or, as Kregans say, under a certain moon — this land had been lush and fertile, filled with the busy agriculture and commerce of the People of the Sunset. Now they had gone, and the land gleamed sere and empty under the moons. The moment we arrived back in camp we were greeted by news that filled me with amusement and filled Vax and the others with heated fury.

Old Tamil told us — a cunning rascal, quick and sly, who had appointed himself Palinter in Crimson Magodont. As our Palinter, our purser, he could be relied on to wangle extra supplies for us in his accustomed tortuous dealings with the common resources; in looking out for himself he looked out for us.

“That cramph of a Kataki!” spluttered Tamil, his off-center nose more than ever like a moon-bloom in the pink radiance of She of the Veils. “Took the treasure and sailed off!”

Howls of execration broke out at this. But then those howls changed to jeers of derision as we looked where Tamil pointed.

Less than an ulm offshore Vengeance Mortil lay becalmed in the water. She was down by the head. She stuck there, solid and unmoving, clearly held fast by fangs of rock piercing her bow.

“So the rast took our treasure and sailed off and ran himself aground!” bellowed Fazhan. He looked as offended as any of them there. They were running down to the shore and waving their arms and brandishing weapons. It was a fitting sight for a madness. It was, also, somewhat humorous — at least, it seemed funny to me at the time.

The treasure meant nothing, of course. It did mean something to these ragged rascals with me, and so that made it important to me because of them. But, all the same, the idea of a great and ferocious Kataki lord sweeping up all the treasure and loading it into his ship and sailing grandly off, only to get stuck on a rock, struck me as ludicrous and something to raise a guffaw.

The old devil had cut down his own mast, of course, to get us ashore in this lonely spot and send us sailormen off on a wild-goose chase. When he had run aground — what must his thoughts have been?

He had been thrown by his own varter, as the Kregans say. Boats were ferrying his men back. There was a sublime amount of confusion and argument; but no one came to blows. The first flush of anger dissipated in the sense of the ridiculousness of the Katakis.

I said to Fazhan, “I will wager Rukker’s words will be: ‘I do not wish to discuss this’ or ‘I will not speak of this