Many men fell to their knees and banged their heads against the flibre of the deck in utter thankfulness. I did not tell them, yet, that they were entering a city under siege, that when their bellies hungered they might yearn for the slop and the onions and crusts thrown to them on their oar benches. Among the sailors of the inner sea the saying runs: “Easier a thorn-ivy bush than the Ten Dikars.”
Truly, the maze of channels threading between islands and headlands leading to Zandikar are confusing and treacherous. We had come safely through, thanks to Dolan, and now as we reached a broad calm stretch of water the city rose beyond and patrolling Zandikarese swifters nosed in to attack. Now we did not mind heaving to. The swifters assured themselves we were who we said we were — well, who some of us said we were at the time — and very soon scenes of riotous joy spread from our decks and gangways to the battlements and quays and streets of the city itself. Torches burst into flame as hundreds of emaciated people flooded down to the quayside. I frowned.
“Fazhan — anchor out in the center of the harbor.”
He nodded. If that lot of crazed and starving people sought to board we’d be done for. Now the mergem carried in the argenter proved of inestimable value. The ship carried enough to supply Zandikar’s normal population for a season, possibly; the war and the siege had wasted away at the people; they would not starve now. As well, the chipalines would prove of great value, and the corps of crossbowmen welcomed the bolts. I told my men to let the provender go freely into the town. No one could argue over that. If it flushed out rasts, I would be happy.
The Todalpheme who lived in a small stone house by the Pharos came aboard and were fervent in their thanks. These wise men who monitor the tides are protected by protocol and taboo from any harm from another man. They were indignant that in the siege Prince Glycas had starved them, too. We gave them mergem and sent them away, praising Zair, although I was coming around to a belief that the Todalpheme of Kregen worshiped no gods that other men worshiped.
The rasts were duly smoked out.
They came aboard on the following morning as the business of unloading went on. Fazhan and Pur Naghan had organized well. Boats pulled to the shore loaded with sacks of mergem. On the shore my men and the harbor crossbowmen formed a hollow space with the crowds pressing outside, shouting and screaming and raising a dust and tearing their clothes — but all with joy upon their faces. The sacks were handed out. All who asked were supplied. Any boats approaching the argenter were kept off with pointed bows. I knew that everyone of besieged Zandikar would eat well this night, even if it was only mergem, and no one would starve.
The rasts came aboard, having shouted their own importance, and strode across my quarterdeck. I looked at them. Oh, yes, they were familiar faces, their bearing was familiar, their manner of talk. I did not know one of them; but I knew what they were. I had met in my career on Kregen aragorn, slave-masters, overlords, great nobles, masters of the arena, Manhunters — in them there glowed the same self-satisfied and preening knowledge of self-importance.
Their leader, a Ztrom,[5]flashily attired, adorned with many gems and much gold lace, carrying a Krozair longsword, marched up and I noticed how his right hand crossed his body among the ruffles of gold lace to rest on the hilt of the longsword. There was no doubt in my mind he could use the weapon, gold lace or no damned gold lace. His face, as I have indicated, showed quite clearly he was for Cottmer’s Caverns when he was at last put where he belonged. I own I am intemperate in these matters.
“You are the master of this vessel?”
“Aye.”
“You address me as
A commotion began on the quay. Armed men, mail clad, bearing swords, were beating the crowds away. They were not overlords of Magdag; but from their demeanor and behavior they might just as well have been.
There were six of them on the deck, and in their boat alongside waited a dozen more with the oarsmen. I turned back as the Ztrom snarled — very adept at snarling are these people, the high and mighty of the land — and drew that great sword. The blade flamed before my eyes.
“Cramph! Answer when I speak to you!”
I said, “If you do not send your men away, you are a dead man.” I did not draw my sword. He gaped. He just did not believe his own two ears.
“Rast! I am Ztrom Nalgre ti Zharan, the king’s councillor! All Zandikar does my bidding.”
He swung about to order his five men. He stopped, abruptly, as a foolish ponsho stops when it butts its head against the wall. A dozen archers, and chief among them Bolan the Bow, drew their shafts back and held their glittering points upon the five.
I said, very gently, “Secure them all. Bind them well. You, so-called Ztrom Nalgre, I do not believe are a Ztrom at all. You are a jumped-up devil, a sewer-rat, a cramph who steals food from starving people.”
He struck then.
I slid the blow, stepped forward, and drove my fist into his belly. As he fell I took the sword away. One thing was for sure, he was no Krozair.
He retched on the deck. I stirred him with my toe. “Him, too.” Over the side the men in the boat were shouting. I walked calmly to the bulwark by the quarterdeck varter. A rock rested in its beckets, like a shot garland, ready. I leaned over and shouted.
“Go back to your cramph of a king and tell him if he touches the food for the people, his Ztrom Nalgre ti Zharan will be hanged in the sight of all. Schtump!”
One of the fools loosed a shaft. I moved my head. The arrow flew past. They just did not believe anyone would cross them, deny their wishes. They had to be shown, and shown quickly. I lifted the rock over my head in both hands, bent back, and then catapulted forward. It was a nice little throw. It took the bottom out of their damned boat.
The next second they were in the water all caterwauling and yelling. We threw ropes down to them and hauled them out and ran them down to the lock-up, a tiny brig that soon filled, and so we had to chain them down on the gangway of the thalamite tier. Some of the oarsmen swam for the quay. I bellowed my words after them. But so far, not so good. I had not done enough.
“No more sacks ashore, Fazhan — tell the argenter.”
Very soon thereafter the crowds dispersed. The mail-clad riders dismounted and stood watching us. They were mostly apim, although a few Rapas and Fristles were in evidence. The walls of the city here along the shore remained firm, at the least. Those walls, all of a grayish-white stone, gleamed under the suns. The jumbled red roofs of the city, the spires and towers, clustered behind those walls. I could not see the farther walls inland; but that was where the siege was going on. If this newly appointed king did not make haste my own patience would be gone. I had not come here to act as a Palinter, important though that was.
Pur Naghan had himself rowed across and came up onto my quarterdeck looking somewhat perturbed. I reassured him.
“Normally a central rationing point is essential. But we have so much mergem that is not necessary. We must get the people and the warriors fed and back in health and heart again. I must get up to the walls.”
“This king will not take kindly to you.”
“I’ve already taken unkindly toward him.”
“Aye,” said Pur Naghan, who was a man not averse to a hearty chuckle, like any Zairian. “I had noticed.”
Presently a party of sectrixmen cantered down to the jetty and there was a deal of flag-waving and shortly thereafter a fat and sweaty Pallan was rowed out to us. He stood on the quarterdeck, panting, patting his face with a lace kerchief — prepared to be nasty, as I saw, or prepared to be reasonable, as I hoped.
“The king bids you attend him in his palace at once.”
“Does he not inquire if Ztrom Nalgre is dead or alive?”
“Let us not be hasty — give me your name and style and we may talk.”
This fellow’s robes, although originally of red, were so smothered in gold and silver and chains and tassels as to make of him a tapestried object of ridicule. He wore a wide flat red cap, much folded, sporting feathers secured by a gold buckle. He stood and I let him stand. His pouched eyes rolled in search of a chair.
“You are the visitor in my ship. It is for you to open the pappattu.”
His fat and greasy face regarded me and I saw something there I had not expected. He made a small bow.
