precious little, I fancied he operated whenever he could at long distance through tools like these Katakis and like Vad Garnath ham Hestan. An old chapter of my life was being re-opened here. Yantong sought to employ me as a tool for his insane ambitions. That was why he had ordered that I should not be assassinated. I began to think again, around about then, and thought that just perhaps Yantong had grown weary of waiting, and with the Black Feathers of the Great Chyyan, and now this plot to arouse the Northeast of Vallia, he was committed to moving on an entirely new front in his aggression against Vallia.
As to myself, maybe I no longer figured in his computations.
As I listened to the conversation below some of the outlines came clearer.
“I look forward to meeting this Princess Dayra,” Ranjal was saying in that hoarse croak. “My masters have great plans for her. You, Zankov, can answer for her?”
“Assuredly.” All the nervous energy of Zankov showed in his nervous twitching, the spread of his hands, the wriggle of his shoulders, the fleer of nostrils. “She believes in the Cause. She is devoted. She has proved that.”
“Good. When the army moves we shall strike swiftly. The Trylon Udo is a fool and will be put down. But he is a figurehead and lends color to the endeavor. But the throne and crown of Vallia will not go to him.”
Everyone in the room — and I, aloft — knew who hungered for the throne. Zankov fluttered his fingers against his ears, and cheeks, and then snapped his forefingers and thumbs together.
“No. Not to Udo. To him who deserves it — who will lay unqualified claim to the crown by virtue of marriage to the Princess Dayra.”
Stromich Ranjal nodded matter-of-factly. “You will see to disposing of the rest of the family? There must be no other claimant.”
“I shall joy in the task! I have a right to the throne — my ancestors demand it of me, in blood. But Stromich, your orders have been to spare the life of the Prince Majister. What-”
“Those orders stand, as of now. I think my masters will shortly issue new directives.”
This was fascinating, listening to these schemers dispose of my life. I own I felt a little sorry for them. . Now it is important to know that when a paktun is elected by those who thus become his peers, and receives the silver pakmort, he receives also a little silver ring by which the pakmort is attached to the silken cords. In the case of a hyr-paktun the ring is of gold. When a paktun slays another in battle or in the ritual of the Jikordur — the strictly controlled duel to the death — he does not take among the consequent loot the dead man’s pakmort. That goes to the stocks for reissue with a new name, generally, although there are other uses to which it is put. But the victorious paktun claims the silver ring. This he strings upon a silken cord and wears about his person as a badge of prowess. If the slain paktun has a string of rings, the victor will take them all and string them with those he has. These savage customs of Kregen echo down the long seasons and the ages reverberate with the clash of arms and glow with the brilliance of shed blood.
The dead Rapa, Rojashin the Kaktu, had owned a silken string of seven rings, one of them gold. These were attached to the left shoulder of his harness. This symbol, usually, is referred to as the pakai. The pakai I now wore hung down by my left shoulder.
“You will remember, Zankov, when you seat yourself upon the throne in the palace of Vondium, and are duly crowned and given the Jikai as emperor, to whom you owe all your fortune? You will remember to whom you owe your loyalty and to whom you will dedicate your service and your life?”
Zankov twitched his fingers and nodded. He was so suffused with anticipatory glory he could not speak
— an unusual condition for him, I judged.
The door opened again — I could not see it; but it creaked upon a hinge — and a sharp hard voice said:
“Jens! Koters! Koteras! Trylon Udo has returned unexpectedly and is calling for-”
The speaker got no further. At once the people at the meeting started to rise and to gather their cloaks and weapons and, at that moment, I shifted incautiously, and the pakai struck its string of rings against my armor.
The sound rang like a carillon.
No wonder, I said to myself fiercely, no wonder I abhor dangling adornments. Flying tassels and trailing scarves and whirling belts are no fit gear for a fighting man.
Zankov glared up at the curtained mezzanine window.
“Up there!” he shouted. “Quick, you cramphs! Someone spies on us!”
He was quick enough on the uptake, I’ll give him that.
“Right, you nidge,” I said under my breath. “By the Black Chunkrah! I’ll sort you out and damned quick!”
I freed the longsword and prepared to leap down and slice them up a trifle. The thought of settling affairs with Zankov and with Stromich Ranjal pleased me mightily.
Then — and then, by Zair, I hesitated. I, Dray Prescot that wild leem of a fellow, took thought for events beyond the immediate prospect of a brisk bashing of skulls. My daughter Dayra was expected the day after tomorrow. Who knew what other villainy these fellows had planned? Far better to wait. Far better to be the calculating, cool, cunning Dray Prescot who took thought for the future and bided his time to strike.
So — as Zair is my witness — the Krozair longsword went snap back into the scabbard and I turned and ran back the way I had come so stealthily.
Even then it was nip and tuck. But I eluded them and I did not have to essay a single handstroke, which, I might add, displeased me at the time, for all my good resolutions. Back over the town stockade I went and avoided all trouble. I found my billet, all paid for, and bedded down. One day I had to live through without trouble, and then I would see Dayra and bring her out of this rasts’ nest.
The last thing I did before I slept was to rip off that damned jangling pakai and stuff it away in my gear. Confounded unwarrior-like trinket — it had nearly botched the whole affair.
Thirteen
I sat next morning in the early radiance of the Suns of Scorpio polishing up the armor. I had bought a choice breakfast of vosk rashers and loloo’s eggs, swilled down an inordinate amount of good Kregan tea, chewed a handful of palines, and now, stripped down to a breechclout — which was, incidentally, a normal sober yellow — sat companionably with a couple of other mercenaries hard at the task that would keep us alive on the day of battle.
We spoke in that rapid shorthand of warriors, at ease, knowing our own worth — or, at least, they did
— and bending diligently to our tasks.
The Rapa paktun’s armor had been fashioned from good quality iron with bronze fittings. The breast and back were molded, and so formed a quality kax, a corselet that covered the trunk and extended in a graceful curve below the belt and yet afforded free movement to the legs. I retained my own weapons. The longbow and longsword I kept covered; the other of my weapons excited no untoward comment, being a Vallian clanxer and a Valkan shortsword, and a rapier and main gauche. The Rapa’s spear was not a quality weapon; but I kept it for the color it afforded.
Nalgre the Shebov worked on his armor on the other side of the blanket. He was the seventh son of his family and had taken up the mercenary life as a release from farm work. Now he carefully buckled up his armor, a kax tralkish — what on Earth is called a
Dolan the Sling methodically oiled his scaled kax, seeing that each bronze scale was firmly affixed to the leather. At his right side his sling lay ready to hand. With a leaden lozenge-shaped bullet Dolan fancied his luck against any archer. But then, as he said, he had not faced a Bowman of Loh.
“Although, Jak the Kaktu,” he said, “we routed a bunch of Undurkers three, four seasons ago when we were working for the King of Sanderdrin. Quite a dust up, that was.”
“We’re likely to square up to Bowmen of Loh if they don’t win over the emperor’s guard,” said Nalgre.
“And damned quick.”
“Undurkers,” I said, rubbing the oiled rag methodically. “I had a dust-up with them a while back. Some Bowmen of Loh did for them, skewered ’em right through well beyond their range.”
