“I am Nath Zavarin, Battle Pallan to his most exalted and puissant majister, King Zenno, on whom-”
“Yes,” I said with coarse rudeness. “I suppose like any jumped-up paktun he adorns himself with titles.”
I own I knew I smiled away inside my skull like any fambly — me, Dray Prescot, badgering on about amassing titles! But there are ways and ways. I had decided what to say. “I am Dak of Zairia.”
That said all and said nothing, and this Zavarin knew it.
“Do you think, Captain Dak, I might sit down? I am not as agile as once I was, and my stomach makes inordinate demands on my ib, demands I own I fail more often than not.”
“You will oblige me by stepping into my cabin, where I have a wine I would value your opinion of, Pallan Zavarin.”
Again he cocked those poached-egg eyes at me. He nodded. So we went into my cabin and he tasted the wine and pronounced it better than the muck they were forced to drink since all the best had been consumed and that cramph prince Glycas sat down before their walls. He had seen that a period of bargaining lay ahead. As to the idiot Ztrom Nalgre ti Zharan, well, Zavarin said, the king valued him as a fighting-man. That was all.
“And you?”
He smiled and drank, wiping his plump and shining purple mouth most prettily. I had expected to have to browbeat the messenger from the king. That I was not doing so pleased me.
“I served King Zinna long and faithfully. I know Zandikar. The treasury-” Here he shrugged in a way more French than I cared for. “The king holds that with his own key. His paktuns took the important offices after Zinna was murdered — I mean, after King Zenno ascended the Roo[6]Throne. And for me-” Here he turned his lace- ruffled wrist meaningfully. “I know much of Zandikar. I am Battle Pallan, and thankful for it.”
I knew what he meant. Battle Pallan is a somewhat lurid way of saying Secretary of War, or War Minister. I imagined Nath Zavarin had not willingly wielded a sword in earnest for many a long season. King Zenno had him under his thumb, and could draw on his knowledge of the city’s ways, and, confirming my judgment, Zavarin said he personally enjoyed much popular support.
“The people must be fed,” I said. “That is the first concern. The king’s men have interfered with that.”
“I agree. But the king holds all food under his hand.”
“I agree that to be a sound method. We have mergem and to spare. I do not wish the king to charge money for my food.”
‘The king will do what the king wishes.”
“And you remember King Zinna?”
He drank again, and I saw he did so to stop himself from speaking what boiled in his brain. He was very frightened. That was clear, yet he put a bold front on it, this fat ridiculous man. To divert that line of talk, he swallowed and said, “I am fat. I have always been fat. It is a misfortune. In time of siege it can be fatal.”
“Yes. I can see that.”
“The king commanded me to bring you to his palace.”
“Did he not stop to think why his onker of a Ztrom had not done so?”
This fat Pallan looked at me, searchingly, and made a face, and said, “The king did not expect him to. Ztrom Nalgre was under instructions to slay you and take all the food.”
“I am not surprised.”
“You are a strange man. There is artillery on the walls. They could sink your ships.”
“Seawater and mergem can be mixed. I do not recommend it.”
The sweat shone on the immense rounded surfaces of his cheeks. He wiped his brow again, taking the red hat off and laying it upon the table. His fear had ebbed a little and puzzlement was beginning to replace the terror and revive his natural instincts. A political, this man. To my own vast surprise I found I was quite taking to him, fat and all.
“Now that King Zenno rules in Zandikar,” I said, “and the people live under his hand, you must be proud that you assisted him to ascend the Roo Throne. I could understand that.”
He sucked in his breath, making all his chins wobble and his cheeks abruptly hollow. “I did not strike a blow or instigate one scheme against Zinna!”
“Ah!” I said.
He glared at me. “You are a cunning rogue, Dak of Nowhere. I cannot open my heart to you. Suppose Zenno uses his arts of torment upon you?”
I ignored that unwholesome thought and put questions to him about the siege and the state of the city. The Grodnims had put in three major set-piece assaults and had been beaten off, each time with increasing difficulty. The food we had brought would put heart and strength into the soldiery. Yes, said Zavarin, the soldiers were loyal, for they fought for the city. As for Zenno and his pack of hangers-on, they made hay while the sun shone. Paktuns, employed to fight for hire, they had seized the throne and now lolled about in comfort. It was all one to them. The siege went on apace, for they wished to appear to keep faith with the city. In the paktun philosophy of living in the immediate present, they took what they could and let tomorrow take care of itself. “But-” said Zavarin, and paused, sweating. I finished it for him. “But this cramph Zenno — or Starkey the Wersting — will strike a bargain. As soon as he feels safe from the anger of the people, or as soon as they are beaten down enough, he will parley with Glycas, and open the gates. Yes, it all fits.”
Anyone of the city — citizen, sailor, soldier, refugee farmer — who attempted to object to Zenno was mercilessly put down by the mail-clad riders. A siege existed outside the walls, and a reign of terror swept everyone within.
I felt this conversation had not gone far enough. From my first vague stirrings of schemes I had now reached certain conclusions. They seem obvious enough now. But this was like wading through a marsh by the light of Drig’s Lanterns, every step treacherous. This Nath Zavarin caught my drift at once when I said, “How many men has Zenno in his pocket? His paktuns?”
“You must understand, I am no party to anything. My concern is for Zandikar.”
“I do not blame you if you do not trust me.”
“You are unknown. You arrive with five ships and food, you chain up the king’s councillor, you utter threats, you do not treat the King’s Pallan with deference — not that I am concerned over that. You act as though you were a king yourself, or a Krozair.”
“A Krozair of Zamu commands one of my vessels.”
His puffy lips let his little gasp past with a plop.
He recovered himself. “We of Zandikar are famous for our archers, our gregarians, the difficulty of finding the open channels, and for the songs made by King Zonar five hundred seasons ago. Although I daresay it was the king’s minstrel, in truth, who composed them. But — we have no Red Brotherhood. I have often desired an Order of Crimson Chivalry. I love Zandikar.”
Before I could speak, for I own this fat and no longer ridiculous man’s words affected me, Duhrra burst in. I swung about in the chair prepared to be nasty to him; I saw his face and with a flung word to Zavarin walked quickly into the side cabin with Duhrra. He was excited and annoyed, twitching his steel hand.
“Master! Duh — I do not know-”
“Spit it out!”
“It is Vax! The young onker! He dived over the side and has swum to the city. We saw him, running past the ship sheds into Zandikar.”
Chapter Fourteen
The news appalled me.
“The young rip said he wanted to come here because of a girl, master. I did not think- But we are anchored here, doing nothing.”
“We do a great deal, Duhrra. But this makes me think I must do a great deal more.”
“Aye, master.” He did not know Vax was my son, Jaidur of Valka, Prince of Vallia. But I was sure he guessed
