A Victory for Kregen (18 page)

Well, yes, it was funny, too, if you thought about it...

We followed Jimstye Gaptooth and the bravo-fighter Miklasu, as they went off with their people. I would not have been surprised if they stayed at an inn called The Black Neemu; but its name was The Wristy Grip, which showed how proud they were of their wrestlers.

“I,” said Fat Lorgan, “do not have my club with the nail in its head with me.”

“I think, Jak,” said Kimche, after due consideration, “that I would like to have a sword. A Khamorro can break the bones of a swordsman, that is well known; but if the swordsman is very good, an unarmed man has no chance. It is a matter of relative skills.”

I well knew that Kimche would have the skills of the sword, being a Chulik.

“I only want to talk to this Gaptooth, not fight his army of khamsters.”

“But the two will of necessity go together.”

“May Drig take the fellow!” I am used to going ahunting alone. I said, briskly, “Do you return to the Golden Prychan and fetch what weapons you have, and mine, also. I shall sniff around a little. Something May Turn Up.” Shades of Quienyin!

The fairground formed a pulsing bubble of light and noise in the moonlit night. The Wristy Grip reached up three imposing stories, and many windows were illuminated, and the sounds of revelry within indicated a good night was being enjoyed.

If you consider me a bash-on sort of fellow, well, you may be right in that I like to get on with it. But I fancied that it would be less than clever to go in the front door acting as an ordinary customer. I eyed the upper windows. It was a climb under the moons of Kregen for me...

Kimche and the others trailed off, and I sensed they were not too sure about leaving me. But I told them to get back with the naked steel and to think about the Khamorros. As they went off into the shadows I went around to the back of the inn.

Climbing into other people’s houses, and inns, and palaces, is a tricky business; but one which has its own lessons. I clawed up a vine by the rear wall, and chinned myself to a ledge, and so opened a window, whose wood, while warped, did not squeak, and so dropped silently into a darkened room.

The sounds of breathing came from a bed, half-seen.

I tiptoed to the door and let myself out into a corridor.

I knew exactly what I wanted.

If Turko was being held prisoner, which seemed the only explanation for his absence, it appeared highly unlikely he would be held here in the inn. But — he might be. So I eased to the head of the stairs and had not to wait too long before a potman came puffing up. He was looking for fresh candles, as he was relieved to tell me. He was a Fristle. His green and yellow striped apron was bunched around his neck when he spoke to me, and my fist was tight around the cloth.

“And where is the Khamorro they hold prisoner here?”

His cat’s eyes goggled. “No, notor, no — I know nothing of any prisoner!”

Eventually, I believed him. I pondered.

Brown shadows lay thick in the corridor. Dust hung in the air and tickled the nostril. The sounds of revelry from below wafted up faintly, as from a distant shore. The corridor was very quiet. I knew that I could not trust this Fristle potman an inch.

Wrapping his unconscious body in his striped apron, I stowed him away in a broom cupboard. Then I started down the stairs.

The doors of the rooms of the next floor down were all closed, and from the sounds within I judged it prudent to let them remain shut. At the far end of the corridor a double door promised to reveal something more interesting. I put my ear to it. The rumbling sounds of conversation could not be interpreted into words. Again, I pondered.

It seemed most likely to me that Gaptooth and his cronies would have a private suite here, and these rooms were likely to lie beyond this double door. So, very well, then. In we go...

The double doors were locked. So I kicked them in. Beyond them lay a small anteroom and the doors at the far end opened almost instantly at the racket I had made and men crowded in. Some were Khamorros and some bore naked steel.

“I have come to see Jimstye Gaptooth,” I said. “Is this the way to greet an old friend?”

That held them for the space of three heartbeats.

As soon as I spoke I realized I had been too clever for my own good. As an old friend, my story would be stupid. My story, to hold water, would demand a rueful admission of misplaced loyalty.

Why, with a glib story all ready, had I blurted out this nonsense about being an old friend?

They ushered me into the chambers beyond the anteroom. The place was furnished with a kind of tongue-licking lavishness I found not to my taste. Gaptooth bustled forward, very much the center of attention. At his shoulder hovered the bravo-fighter.

So, one story having been shot and the other about to be shot to pieces, I decided I would have to bait this Jimstye.

“Old friend? I don’t know you. Who the devil are you?”

“I am Nalgre ti Hamonlad,” I said, inventing on the spot with a nudge-nudge to the swordsman, Miklasu, in the use of the name Nalgre.

“But I know him, the nulsh!” spoke up a Khamorro I had thrown over the bronze chains at least three times.

“And I! Let me at him in fair fight—” Others crowded forward.

“If you choose not to recognize me, Jimstye,” I said brightly, over the hubbub, “then that is your affair. I did not know you were in Mahendrasmot, otherwise I would have signed up with you instead of that mangy lot at the Golden Prychan.”

So, I had blended both stories. Let him chew on the implications of his refusal to acknowledge an old friend.

He looked annoyed.

“I’ve never met you — but if you are the man who—”

“He is! He is, the rast!”

The fellow who spoke thus, a husky khamster, stood near enough to enable me to take his arm in a grip to pull and then push him. He staggered; but being a Khamorro, he recovered with cat-like speed and bored in, his hands razoring for me.

I sidestepped, swung back, chopped him, and then, as he went on past flailing, kicked him up the backside.

“Can’t you control these idiots?” I demanded hotly. “By Havil! You always said you hated the guts of all Khamorros.”

The gazes of these feared men of martial art fame fixed on Gaptooth. He looked keenly at me and lifted a hand.

“You are clever, you rast. I admire Khamorros and always have. Take him out and slice his throat—”

For a space no one made a move.

“So you don’t want me to fight for you in the contests?”

He sneered. “You would?”

“Why am I here, Jimstye — even if you deny friendship?”

“Shastum! Silence!” he called over the hubbub. “Let me think.”

The upshot of his thoughts was that avarice won over common sense. He knew damn well he didn’t know me. But if I was the man who had bested his fighters, and I was willing to work for him — he saw much money flowing in. And perhaps that is common sense, after all, making the most of what occurs.

“I did not see you fight. Can you—”

“Let me!” And: “I’ll twist his neck!”

They just did not believe, these Khamorros, and that was understandable. They were accustomed to seeing men shrink away from them unless they carried steel and knew well how to use it. The truth is, of course, that the very highest khamsters do not travel overfar from Herrelldrin, which is down in the southwest of Havilfar. These men were not out of the top drawer; but they were good. All Khamorros are good at their trade.

After half a dozen lay about the chamber I said to Jimstye, “That is enough.” I had my eye on the farther door which must lead to the inner private chambers and if Turko was here, that was where he would be.

“You are satisfied — old friend?”

“I am satisfied. We will discuss terms later.”

He gestured to the wrestlers. “Best clear out now and take advantage of the night off. When I find who cut down the marquee I shall pull his thumbs out, for a start. Go on!”

It was clear to them as to me that he wanted to discuss terms with his new acquisition in private. That suited me. When they had gone, he said, “Wine, Nalgre ti Hamonlad?” Miklasu moistened his lips and went across to a side table. His rapier and main gauche were plain, hard-used weapons, the Jiktar and the Hikdar, the weapons of a killer.

I said, “I believe, Jimstye Gaptooth, that you know- the whereabouts of a friend of mine. I am minded to see him, and at once. Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me where he is?”

He looked surprised. Miklasu turned sharply from the table, a glass of wine in each hand, the red steady as a level.

“A friend? I know we have never met before, and I see you used that to gain entrance.” He frowned.

“Although you pressed overhard by trying to stir up trouble between me and my Khamorros. What friend?”

“Turko.”

Miklasu dropped both wine glasses. His rapier and his main gauche flamed in his fists, drawn instantly, a superb bravo-fighter’s fighting draw.

Gaptooth laughed. “So it was all a fake, a trick! You are from the Golden Prychan, after all, and you are another seeking this Turko!” He turned to Miklasu. “Kill him.”

The bravo-fighter moved forward, and his sword and dagger were held just so.

“I am not one to be taken by a khamster,” he said. “You have no weapons. So, it follows you will surely die.”

“As to that, we shall see. Klaiton, is it?”

He stared. “What—?”

“Get on with it, Miklasu, get on with it!”

“Before he starts,” I said, “tell me — if I am to die it will prove of illusory comfort. Where is Turko?”

Again he laughed. “Oh, you will die. There is no swordsman in all Pandahem like unto Miklasu. And, Turko—” He jerked his thumb toward that inner door. I sighed.

Now I remembered my encounter with Mefto the Kazzur, when that superb Kildoi swordsman had bested me in fair fight. I thought it highly likely that I could beat this Miklasu; but, as always, there was the chance that he would have the beating of me. And Turko was my first concern.

I ran for the door, kicked it down, and burst through.

The three of them were in there, hung up like chickens on hooks. They were all mother naked. The room gave ingress to other bedrooms. The sound at my back heralded the vicious onslaught of Miklasu. I turned to face him.

I shouted, “I — Nalgre ti Hamonlad — caution you, Miklasu. I do not wish to slay you—” And then he ran in on me with his rapier doing all the flash and the dagger ready to rip into my guts. A pretty bravo-fighter’s trick, that. I swayed, took his wrist, but he hacked back and so I ducked away. He was good.

Turko said, “I might have known...”

The two Khibils, Andrinos and Saenci, hung in their bonds, gawping. I noticed that the Khibil maiden had not been crying. Andrinos’s foxy face showed determination as well as a goggling surprise at my eruption.

Miklasu foined around; but he was too canny to let me get close to him. Gaptooth appeared, shrieking for the bravo-fighter to get on with it.

Working my way around out of the reach of that sharp rapier, I came along the wall where the three captives hung. There was not much time left, for the row would surely bring the wrestlers arunning. I whipped out the kalider, slashed Turko’s bonds. He fell to his knees and, for two heartbeats, his head hung down. Then he was up, flexing his superb muscles. He did not say anything. I threw him the dagger and turned to make a feint at Miklasu and so draw him away. Turko could have handled the rapierman, I knew, but his muscles would be stiff and the blood must be giving him one hell of a time right now. He made no sound, but slashed the other two free.

When he had done that, he moved with his ferocious speed toward Jimstye Gaptooth... Long before that man could escape, Turko had his neck in one fist. He looked across at me.

“Do you remember Mungul Sidrath?”

“Aye.”

“So do I.”

He put Jimstye Gaptooth to sleep. Miklasu shouted, and leaped, and the rapier and dagger swirled in a twin cyclone of glittering steel and the Khibil maiden let out a tiny scream and Miklasu was suddenly upside down, his head crashing into the floor, and the rapier and main gauche were in my fists.

“And about time too,” said Turko. “Nalgre, was it?”

I bent to the bravo-fighter. He was not dead, and his eyes opened and fluttered. “Nalgre Stahleker,” I said. “I know him. I knew his wife, too, Princess Nashta.”

Miklasu’s eyes rolled up.

Disgust shook me. I stopped what I was going to say, some stupid boasting about the Lord of Strombor. I turned to Turko.

“Let us get out of this pestiferous place.”

“With all my heart, Nalgre. My limbs appear to have returned to me.”

“But,” said Andrinos. “How?”

I ripped the cloak away from Miklasu and handed it to Saenci. She was a beautifully formed girl. Turko ripped off Gaptooth’s shirt-tunic and Andrinos donned that.

“We go out the way I came in,” I said.

Then Turko smiled. “Hark,” he said.

The uproar outside took on a new and suddenly splendid difference. We went into the main chamber and saw a very large and knobby club with a six-inch nail embedded in the head going up and down like the head of a sissingbird snapping insects. A thraxter was slicing away with all the Chulik skills. Other weapons were being used, and the Khamorros were throwing people about like ninepins. Against the high khamsters our people would have had a more tricky time; but Turko waded in with all the venom engendered by being hung up like a chicken on a meat hook, and I took my part, and in short order we broke back through the door and ran down the stairs in a shouting, laughing mob.

No one offered to stop us as we ran out of The Wristy Grip into the pink radiance of the Maiden with the Many Smiles and the rosy golden light of She of the Veils.

The experiences through which I had gone since escaping from the Humped Land formed a distinct pattern in my head. Finding Turko was not quite the last knot of that pattern. He was, of course, unwilling to leave the Golden Prychan and his wrestling comrades until the business of Andrinos and Saenci had been settled. But, for all that — and I warmed to the idea — he was ragingly eager to return to Vallia.