That part of the southern shore of the inner sea is called the Shadow Coast. The name is apt. Of all the men who had climbed so boldly up to the ruins all but one had fled away. Now I stood on my quarterdeck and watched
“Does he mean to leave us, then?” said Fazhan, peering under his hand.
“It seems so.”
Vax laughed nastily.
Duhrra said: “Duh — when he finds out!”
My men had done a good job, so Fazhan said. With old Tamil the Palinter there to weigh and assess, we had deducted our shares of the treasure. Rocks had been placed at the bottom of the chests, with canvas over that and the fair proportion of treasure belonging to Rukker spread artfully to conceal all. Rukker, believing he carried all the treasure, bore away from us. I wondered if he questioned why we did not follow.
One of the hands began laughing. He was a prijiker and stood on the forecastle now in his accustomed place, leaning against the overhanging bulk of the beakhead. Others of the men began to laugh.
“Nath the Berkumsay!” I bellowed. “Belay that caterwauling.”
He looked back and I saw the puzzlement chasing the laughter in his face. I turned to Portain, the ship- Deldar, and said with some irritation, “Go forward and tell Nath the Berkumsay to shut his black-fanged winespout. If he wishes to bring Rukker back tell him to swim after
“Quidang!”[4]bellowed the ship-Deldar. He bustled forward and very shortly thereafter no one laughed at Rukker as he sailed away with his fair treasure shares, and the rest merely rocks.
“When he finds out,” said Fazhan, with some glee, “I am wondering if he will summon the calmness to say that he will not speak of this in the future. Ho — it is indeed a great jest.”
These men had not been up in the ruins of the Sunset People, they had not witnessed the Beast from Time; I felt glad they had been spared that. But, all the same, I wondered if they’d be quite so merry and carefree this morning had they seen what I had seen.
Rukker’s two ships disappeared over the horizon rim and we settled down to the haul to Zandikar. Toward evening as we began to look out particularly for our expected landfall for the night, a tiny island called the Island of Pliks, the lookout sighted a sail and hallooed down. We flew red flags.
The vessel, a small coaster, bore a red flag, also.
We made the Island of Pliks together and after all had been seen to in our camp a party from the coaster came across. They were either incautious, brave, or they did not care. Red flags may be flown by anyone in the inner sea.
After we had drunk tea and sat in the light of the moons eating palines, the coaster captain heaved up a sigh and said, “If you sail to Zandikar, dom, you sail to destruction.”
“What?” Vax’s lean hard face looked exceedingly dangerous in the ruddy fire-glow. “Spit it out!”
The coaster master, a weather-beaten old salt with a massy beard and a face graven by wind and wine, cocked an eye at this highly strung stripling with the wide shoulders and lean powerful look of the fighting- man.
“Be careful they do not spit you out, son, if you venture there.”
Duhrra put his steel hand on Vax’s arm. The touch seemed to calm the lad. Maybe it was Duhrra’s hand, maybe Vax was learning tact and discretion; whatever it was, he said, “I would like to know what passes in Zandikar. There is a girl-”
“Ah,” said the master, who called himself Ornol the Waves. “A girl, is it? Well, King Zenno is partial to young girls.”
“King Zenno? Who is he? King Zinna reigns in Zandikar.”
I listened, as we all listened. This was news.
“King Zinna is dead, slain by the very hand of King Zenno. Since the siege the city is-”
“Siege? Zandikar is under siege?”
The coaster master, Ornol the Waves, flicked a finger of palines into his mouth, and grunted as he chewed, speaking offhandedly. “You are strangely ill-informed, doms.”
“We have been faring in the western sea, taking Grodnim devils. Tell us of the siege and of King Zenno.”
“As to the siege, there is little to say. That rast, Prince Glycas, sits down before Zandikar and throttles the city.”
There rose sounds of disgust and of anger from the ranks of my men, who were red Zairians. This news was bad, very bad.
“And King Zenno, who was a reiver called Starkey the Wersting, slew the old king and with his paktuns took the city and dubbed himself Zenno — out of mockery or politics, it is all one.”
Pur Naghan ti Perzefn started up at this. He looked incensed.
“The rast dares to arrogate the ‘Z’ to himself? No man may take the letter unless he is born with it already, or unless he creates a hyr Jikai. No one!”
Men were calling out, demanding to know more; others were blaspheming away about Prince Glycas and the Grodnims; others cussing away about the paktuns. I did not smile; but I felt the nudge of amusement that Pur Naghan, a Krozair of Zamu, should feel more concern over a man taking to his name the letter “Z,” which as an initial letter is hard come by, hard won, given seldom without a hyr Jikai. An idle thought occurred to me that the Krozair Bold who had ousted my friend Pur Zenkiren for the position of Grand Archbold, this Pur Kazz, did not proudly own the initial “Z,” that he was Pur Kazz and not Pur Zakazz. Well, he had done what he had out of a fanatical belief in his power and authority and in the Krozair-given right to judge. He had judged wrongly, and because of that I was expelled from the Krozairs of Zy, was Apushniad. I had not thought of this matter for some time, and now I rose and shook the black thoughts from me, and went walking quietly in the fuzzy pink moons-light, pondering. If Zandikar was besieged, would our plans have to change?
There was further information I must have. At the fires Ornol the Waves expatiated on the plight of Zandikar, the city of the Ten Dikars. Prince Glycas had the city in a death-lock. His Grodnim army defeated all who sought to stand against it. It was only a matter of time before he took the city. The Grodnims, led by the overlords of Magdag but drawn from many cities and towns of the northern lands, had leap-frogged once more. They had avoided certain fortress-cities of the southern coast and had landed before Zandikar. They had, in particular, avoided a head-on confrontation with Zy. I could visualize the position with a clarity made all the more awful by the directness of the threat. In this the hand of the genius king Genod was clearly apparent.
Pur Naghan had the gist of it, also.
“I am a Krozair of Zamu!” Here was no time for a strange and mystic reticence, a blanket of aloofness that is usual with Krozairs in non-Krozair company. Here was a time for strong leadership. “Zamu lies a mere twenty-five dwaburs from Zandikar, by the land route. By sea there are many islands and the coast curves strongly in the Nose of Zogo and the way is difficult for an attacker. We must sail to Zamu and join the army that will march to the relief of Zandikar.”
Ornol the Waves had finished his palines and was drinking our wine. He swallowed, the wine wet on his lips above the beard, and he said, “I told you. Prince Glycas and his army are invincible. The relief expedition from Zamu is destroyed.”
Pur Naghan sagged back, stunned.
The hubbub increased. All now understood the peril.
“The rasts can march from Zandikar and take Zamu. The cities will fall, one after the other. And from Zamu they can march across the base of the peninsula of Fenzerdrin, across the River of Golden Smiles.”
“Aye!” shouted others. “And before them lies Holy Sanurkazz itself!”
Holy Sanurkazz!
The sea journey is laborious, and in the name of Zair rightfully so, for in this lies devious protection to
