“Has anything gone right?”
“Of course. Do you think you are irreplaceable?”
“No.”
Pompino put a hand to his eyes. He was swallowing nonstop.
“Do the business here and ensure the safety of the lady Yasuri. The business of Mefto is yours alone.”
The scarlet feathers riffled. People were walking past all the time and no one cast so much as a glance in our direction. The Gdoinye lifted into the air. His wings beat strongly. As he had so often done he squawked down at me most rudely. And then he screeched out: “Dray Prescot, get onker, onker of onkers.”
Well, we shared that, at the least. We’d established that kind of comradely insult between us, and I pondered his words.
Pompino gathered himself together. He pulled the cape more tightly about himself. It was green, I noticed, with yellow checkered borders. He stopped swallowing. He straightened his shoulders. The Gdoinye lifted high, flirted a wing, swung away and vanished over the rooftops across the avenue.
“The damned great fambly,” I said.
“Jak.” Pompino stopped shaking. “Jak — to talk to the Gdoinye like that — I’ve never heard — you might have been — I do not know…” He shook his head, goggling at me. Then: “But, Jak, he was talking about someone called Prescot. It seems to me I have heard that name-”
“Some other fellow,” I said. “More likely, two other fellows. And the Gdoinye and I have an understanding. We rub along. But, one day, I’ll singe his feathers for him, so help me Zair.”
There, you see… Stupid intemperate boasting again.
We sauntered away and Pompino looked halfway respectable. He said, “How did you come to be so close when I was brought back?”
“Thank the Star Lords for that. I had no intention of walking this way; but I am here. And the cape; it is not mine.”
He shook his head and I marveled at how quickly he had once again reconciled himself to the Star Lords’ demands.
“This lady Yasuri,” he said, pondering. “What is so special about her that she is so cherished?”
“She may be an old biddy, but she’s not too old to have children if she wills it.”
“I’m not sure-?”
“I once rescued a young loving couple out on a spree and they had a child who overturned cities and nations. He is dead now, thankfully, along with many others.” How Gafard, the King’s Striker, a Master Jikaidast, would have joyed to be here! And how I would welcome him, by Zair!
When Pompino heard of the Sword Jikaida coming up with Mefto he put a lean finger up and rubbed his foxy face. He looked wary.
“I do not think this thing touches my honor.”
“Agreed.”
He stamped his foot. “You are infuriating! What in Panachreem-?”
“Look, Pompino; you must carry out the duties of a kregoinye and that does not include being chopped. The Gdoinye gave me leave to deal with Mefto, if it is possible. That can only mean the Star Lords have an eye in that direction. But your duty lies toward the lady Yasuri.”
“Duty to her! Ha!”
“She looks like a little wrinkled nut, true. But if she took off that stupid wig and let her hair loose, and washed her face with cleansing cream, and wore shapely clothes, why, many a man would delight in proving his duty to her.”
“With a nose and a tongue as sharp as hers?”
“They could both be blunted, given love.”
“Well, if that is what the Everoinye plan, we are in for a long and tedious wait!”
So, half-cross and half-laughing, we strolled back to the Blue Rokveil.
“As San Blarnoi says,” observed Pompino as we went in to find Dav and ale. “The heart leads where the eyes follow.”
The incoming caravan was due to arrive the day before the game and, expressing a wish to go down and see the entrance, I was joined by Bevon and Pompino. The others all declined. I pressed Dav; but he excused himself. He had a girl to attend to. Well, that was Dav Olmes for you, big and burly and fond of ale and women and fighting. A combination of great worth on Kregen. The scene when we arrived presented just such a spectacle of color and noise and confusion as delights the heart. Many cities of Paz boast a Wayfarer’s Drinnik, a wide expanse where the caravans form up or disperse, and we stood under a black and white checkered awning and sipped ale as we watched. The Quoffas rolled patiently along, the calsanys and unggars drew up in their long loaded strings, men dismounted from totrixes and urvivels and zorcas, all thirsty, all glowing with their safe arrival. The wagons rolled in. A group of Khibils dismounted from their freymuls, that pleasant riding animal that is often called the poor man’s zorca, a bright chocolate in color with vivid streaks of yellow beneath. Willing, is a freymul, and as a mount serves well within his abilities. Pompino eyed the Khibils and then strolled off to pick up what news there was. The dust rose and the glory of the suns shot through, turning motes of gold spinning, streaming in the mingled lights of Zim and Genodras. I sipped ale and watched, and at last saw a man I fancied might be useful.
He was apim, like me, limber and tough, and as he dismounted and gave his zorca a gentle pat I caught the fiery wink of gold from the pakzhan at his throat. He was a hyr-paktun. His lance bore red and blue tufts. I rolled across carrying a spare flagon.
“Llahal, dom. Ale for news of the world.” He eyed me. He licked his lips. His weapons were bright and oiled. He stood sparingly against the light of the suns.
“Llahal, dom. You are welcome.” He took the flagon and drank and wiped his lips. “Now may Beng Dikkane be praised!”
“The news?”
He told me a little of what I hungered to hear. Yes, he had a third cousin who had returned from up north. Told him that paktuns were being kicked out of Vallia. He’d never been there — fought in Pandahem, though, by Armipand’s gross belly, nasty stuff all jungles and swamps down to the south. Yes, Vallia was, as far as he knew, still there and hadn’t sunk into the sea. They’d had revolutions, like anywhere else, and a new emperor, and there had been whispers of new and frightful secret weapons. But he knew little. His third cousin had been hit behind the ear by a steel-headed weapon he’d claimed was as long as four spears. Clearly, he was bereft of his sense, makib, for that was laughably impossible.
“Surely,” I said. “My thanks, dom. Remberee.”
This third-cousinly confirmation of what the Gdoinye had told me had to suffice for my comfort. Bevon and Pompino reappeared and we prepared to leave Wayfarer’s Drinnik. And then the slaves toiled in. Well. The slaves had struggled over the Desolate Waste on foot. They wore the gray slave breechclout or were naked. They were yoked and haltered. They stank. They collapsed into long limp straggles on the dust and their heads bowed and that ghastly wailing rose from them. The sound of “Grak!” smashed into the air continuously, with the crack of whips. The slavemasters were Katakis. We caught a glimpse of this dolorous arrival of the slaves and then a protruding corner of the ale booth shut off the sight.
“No,” said Bevon, and there was sweat on his pug face. “No.”
Pompino and I knew what he meant.
“I had news from home,” said Pompino. “Well, almost home, from a town ten dwaburs away and they’d heard nothing so it must all be all right.”
Such is the hunger for news of home that even the negation of news is regarded as confirmation of all rightness. We did not hurry back and stopped for a wet here and there and admired the sights. We wore swords, of course, and our brigandines, and if Bevon tended to swagger a little in imitation of Pompino, who is there who would blame him over much?
The avenue on which stood the Blue Rokveil was blocked by a line of cavalrymen, their totrixes schooled to obedience, their black and white checks hard in the brilliance of the suns. People were being held back, and a buzzing murmur of speculation rose. We pushed forward, puzzled.
“Llanitch!” bellowed a bulky Deldar, sweating. At his order to halt we stopped, looking at him inquiringly. He shouldered across and people skipped out of his way. Just beyond the line of cavalrymen the hotel lifted, its ranks of
