retained the shirts and trousers given to us by the lady Yasuri; but all else had been returned. We could feel the golden deldys wrapped in scraps of rag and tucked into our belts. Our first port of call was the armorers.
The fashion of rapier and main gauche imported from Vallia and Zenicce into Hamal had not yet reached this far south into Havilfar. We chose good serviceable thraxters, and swished the cut and thrust swords about in the dim shop with its racks of weapons and armor. The proprietor was a Fristle. He stroked his whiskers as we pawed over his goods.
“Nothing better in Jikaida City, doms. Friendly Fodo — that’s me — can set you up with an arsenal for the finest caravan across the Desolate Waste.”
“Just a sword and dagger,” I said, pleasantly. “And a brigandine, I think?” with an inquiring look at Pompino.
“I have this beautiful kax,” said Friendly Fodo, giving the breast and back a vigorous polish. It was iron, with scrollwork around the edges. We did not even bother to inquire the price as we refused. We had to make our pay spin out until we found fresh employment.
The reason I had chosen a brigandine, in which the metal plates are riveted through the material, instead of an English jack, where the plates are stitched and threaded, was simply that even a cursory inspection of the workmanship of the jack Friendly Fodo displayed showed it was Krasny work, inferior. Pompino chose a brigandine and then he touched the forte of his thraxter. Neatly incised in the metal was that familiar magical pattern of figure nines interlocked.
“You’re in luck, dom,” said Friendly Fodo. “A high-class weapon. Came from a Chulik who died of a fever.”
Examination of the thraxter I eventually chose for its feel and balance revealed a tiny punched mark in the form of the Brudstern, that open-flower shaped form whose magic is whispered rather than spoken. I nodded, amused, and paid over the gold required.
Pompino bought solid boots and, after a moment’s hesitation, I bought softer, lower-cut bootees. Walking barefoot is no hardship for me, an old sailorman, within reason. Then, after a few other necessary purchases in the Arcade of Freshness, we placed our new belongings into a small satchel and rolled off to the tavern to begin the next important duty laid on a good Kregan. Truly, Beng Dikkane, the patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz, smiled on Jikaida City. We had a whole new city and its inhabitants to explore, a happy situation, and after the rigors of the journey Pompino certainly, and I, I confess a little wryly, without too many reservations, set about easing the dust from our throats and seeing what there was to be seen and generally winding down. The wounds I had taken, although superficial, itched nonetheless, and the soreness persisted. Pompino did remark with a twitch of his foxy face that, perhaps, that rast Mefto the Kazzur used poisoned blades. But that is unusual on Kregen.
Very soberly I said, “He has no need of that kind of trick. He is the best swordsman I have ever met.” I drank a long swigging draught, for by this time we were on our second and the alehouse was filling up with mid-morning customers. “But he is a rast, more’s the pity. All his prowess and skill has not taught him humility.”
“He’s a yetch who ought to be-”
“Quite. He is the best swordsman. But he is not the greatest.”
“Yet, Jak, if I had his skill with the sword would I feel humble?” Pompino pondered that. “I do not think so.”
“If you had been picked by the gods to be favored with a great gift, as Mefto surely has, would you feel arrogance over that? Or would you feel awe — and a little fear?”
Pompino stared at me over the pewter rim of his goblet.
“Jak — we are kregoinye. We have been marked!”
“By Havil!” I said, and I sat back, astounded.
After a space in which sylvie glided over to refill our goblets and Pompino spilled out a couple of copper coins, I said, “All the same. It is not the same — if you see what I mean. Mefto’s gift and our tasks cannot stand comparison.”
Pompino was staring after the sylvie and licking his lips.
“I’m surprised a place like this can afford to hire a sylvie — slave or not. They tend to — to distract a fellow.”
That was true.
“We should, I think,” I said, “find Ineldar the Kaktu and make sure he will hire us for the return journey. We must know when he is starting.” I looked around and lowered my voice. “I begin to think we will not find a fluttrell or mirvol to steal in this city.”
“Agreed. But another stoup first, Jak.”
By the time we left to explore the city, Pompino was very merry. We quickly discovered that Jikaida City was not one but two. Twinned cities under the twin suns flourish all over Kregen, of course. The extensive shallow depression between low and rolling hills cupped the twin cities in a figure-eight shape. Between them rose edifices of enormous extent whose function was to house the games. We strolled along in the sunshine, admiring the sights, and Pompino kept breaking into little snatches of song, half to himself, half to any passersby who took his fancy. Despite myself, I did not pretend I was not with him. After all, he had proved a comrade.
Many of the more important avenues radiated away from the central mass of the Jikaidaderen and the buildings reflected the architectural tastes of many nations and races. In one avenue we saw a low-walled structure over the gate of which hung a banner, flapping gently in the light breeze, which read: NATH EN SCREETZIM.
Underneath, in letters only slightly less loud, was the Kregish for: “Patronized by the leading Jikaidasts.”
Pompino ogled the sign owlishly. “Are you a leading Jikaidast, Jak? I can rank my Deldars and — and reach the first drin. But after that-” He paused to bow deeply to a couple of passing matrons, who eyed him as though the flat stones of Havilfar had yawned and yielded up their denizens. “After that, dom, why
— it all gets confusing.”
“Stick to Jikalla.”
“No, no. The Game of Moons for me. Then the dice decide.”
For some perverse reason I defended the Game of Moons. “And skill, also, Pompino. You can’t deny that.”
He staggered three paces to larboard, smiled, and lurched four paces to starboard.
“Deny it? I love it!”
“Come on. They’ll have you inside with a sword in your fist before you can call on Horato the Potent.”
He nodded his head with great solemnity, his face glazed, his mouth slowly opening and then closing with a snap, only once more to drop open. I took his arm and steered him along the avenue away from Nath the Swordsman’s premises.
Nath’s place was not the only establishment we saw where the arts and skills and disciplines of fighting were taught. After my contretemps with Mefto I wondered — and not altogether in the abstract -
whether or not I might benefit from a fresh course of instruction. One fact seemed clear to me from what I had pieced together of Mefto’s career. As a Kildoi he was by nature possessed of formidable advantages in the fighting business. He had left his native Balintol seasons ago and had ruffled and swaggered his way through the Dawn Lands as a mercenary, rapidly rising through paktun to be hyr-paktun and privileged to wear the golden pakzhan at his throat. Then, with all the raffish and bloody accompaniments to revolution, he had taken command of a band of near-masichieri and with their help overthrown the old prince of Shanodrin and taken over the country, the titles, the wealth and the power. His legal acceptance had soon followed. By all the laws of Kregen, he was now Prince of Shanodrin. The revolution by itself would not have been enough — in law — to give him the right. The bokkertu had to be made. Then Mefto the Kazzur became Prince Mefto and could take the name of A’Shanofero as his own.
From what little I knew of the man I wondered why he had chosen a principality and not a kingdom. But, probably, he had his avaricious gaze already fixed on his next victim. Looked at completely dispassionately, Mefto the Kazzur had merely done what I, myself, had done. All the same, the idea of Mefto lording it as Emperor of Vallia sent a little shudder up my backbone.
“You ill, Jak?”
“Not as much as you, you old soak, Pompino.”
“Don’t get away from the wife enough, that’s my trouble.”
“Then may Havil the Green smile on us, and the Everoinye set another task to our hands.”
