lights of the suns. He wore dark clothes and carried weapons. I sat down opposite him and the serving girl, a dainty Fristle fifi with impertinent eyes and roving tail, brought me a yellow Charwis, not too sweet and with a decent taste.
The Gon said: “Lahal, majister. I am—”
The look I shot him brought his backbone up. He was tall, as many Gons are, with smooth even features. A little flush seeped in over his cheekbones.
“Your pardon, Drajak.” He spoke in a soft voice and no one could overhear us in the noise of the tavern. All the same...!
I nodded my head and drank some Charwis.
He went on: “I am Nalgre ti Poventer. I was at the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. Third Phalanx. Bratchlin. I saw you there.”
“Lahal, Nalgre. Go on.”
He had recovered his composure and now drank a little wine and wiped his lips with a yellow kerchief. Very fussy, are Gons.
“The ambassador wishes to see you. By using me as an intermediary he hopes to avoid throwing suspicion upon you, maj — Drajak.”
That explained his elementary mistake. He didn’t work for Naghan at all. He was employed by the Vallian embassy here in Oxonium. Elten Larghos Invordun, the Vallian ambassador here, had helped me already and I knew him for a loyal and clever man.
“When?” I said.
“I have a room here. There is a disguise. Tonight.”
I finished off the Charwis and stood up. Instantly Nalgre ti Poventer slapped his unfinished drink onto the table and rose. I sighed to myself. He was no conspirator, that was for sure. So I sat down again and called for more wine. He sat down too, slowly, and gave me a most puzzled glance. I leaned forward.
“For the sweet sake of Opaz, Nalgre! Relax. You’re supposed not to attract any attention.”
He licked his lips. “I’m a brumbyte, a soldier more used to hefting my pike in the files. I’m used to showing respect.”
“If it hadn’t been for people like you, Nalgre, we’d never have won Vallia’s liberty. Now you have a new job that is different. We’ll just saunter up, casually.”
“Quida—” He checked himself, and said: “A good idea.”
I allowed a gargoylish old Dray Prescot smile to plaster itself all over the inside of my head. To Nalgre I just looked what I must have looked like to him back during the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. The Third Phalanx, I recalled, had suffered casualties that day of blood. To him, I was the Emperor, the Majister, to be shown the utmost respect and to be faithfully obeyed in all things. If only he knew how I spurned all these titles and ranks! I loved giving away titles and estates to those who deserved them, and I valued the way in which things could be done simply because I was who I was. But through all that I remained Dray Prescot, a simple sailorman.
Fweygo was sitting inconspicuously in a corner where he could keep an eye on me. I didn’t want him taking Nalgre to pieces. Nalgre had been a Bratchlin, a closer of the file, and was therefore well-used to issuing orders and keeping people up to the mark. But he’d be no match for the Kildoi — a redundant remark, that; very few fighting tricks were unknown to them.
As we were going up the stairs, Fweygo stood up and went out the front door. If I knew him he’d be looking for another way in. Nalgre’s room lay at the far end of the second floor corridor, and, indeed, in that far end wall was a door which must lead to stairs going down outside. Just how long would it take my kregoinye comrade to make his way in there?
In Nalgre’s room, furnished to a good state of inn comfort, he unwrapped a parcel. I did not feel surprise. I shrugged off my blue shamlak and donned the buff jacket with the wide wings, the buff breeches and tall boots and clapped on the wide-brimmed hat with the red and yellow feather. Then my weapons went about me again.
Nalgre also put on his Vallian clothes. He said: “I feel more comfortable in civilized clothes — Drajak.”
“Oh, they’re more or less
The Gon said: “Lahal, majister. I am—”
The look I shot him brought his backbone up. He was tall, as many Gons are, with smooth even features. A little flush seeped in over his cheekbones.
“Your pardon, Drajak.” He spoke in a soft voice and no one could overhear us in the noise of the tavern. All the same...!
I nodded my head and drank some Charwis.
He went on: “I am Nalgre ti Poventer. I was at the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. Third Phalanx. Bratchlin. I saw you there.”
“Lahal, Nalgre. Go on.”
He had recovered his composure and now drank a little wine and wiped his lips with a yellow kerchief. Very fussy, are Gons.
“The ambassador wishes to see you. By using me as an intermediary he hopes to avoid throwing suspicion upon you, maj — Drajak.”
That explained his elementary mistake. He didn’t work for Naghan at all. He was employed by the Vallian embassy here in Oxonium. Elten Larghos Invordun, the Vallian ambassador here, had helped me already and I knew him for a loyal and clever man.
“When?” I said.
“I have a room here. There is a disguise. Tonight.”
I finished off the Charwis and stood up. Instantly Nalgre ti Poventer slapped his unfinished drink onto the table and rose. I sighed to myself. He was no conspirator, that was for sure. So I sat down again and called for more wine. He sat down too, slowly, and gave me a most puzzled glance. I leaned forward.
“For the sweet sake of Opaz, Nalgre! Relax. You’re supposed not to attract any attention.”
He licked his lips. “I’m a brumbyte, a soldier more used to hefting my pike in the files. I’m used to showing respect.”
“If it hadn’t been for people like you, Nalgre, we’d never have won Vallia’s liberty. Now you have a new job that is different. We’ll just saunter up, casually.”
“Quida—” He checked himself, and said: “A good idea.”
I allowed a gargoylish old Dray Prescot smile to plaster itself all over the inside of my head. To Nalgre I just looked what I must have looked like to him back during the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. The Third Phalanx, I recalled, had suffered casualties that day of blood. To him, I was the Emperor, the Majister, to be shown the utmost respect and to be faithfully obeyed in all things. If only he knew how I spurned all these titles and ranks! I loved giving away titles and estates to those who deserved them, and I valued the way in which things could be done simply because I was who I was. But through all that I remained Dray Prescot, a simple sailorman.
Fweygo was sitting inconspicuously in a corner where he could keep an eye on me. I didn’t want him taking Nalgre to pieces. Nalgre had been a Bratchlin, a closer of the file, and was therefore well-used to issuing orders and keeping people up to the mark. But he’d be no match for the Kildoi — a redundant remark, that; very few fighting tricks were unknown to them.
As we were going up the stairs, Fweygo stood up and went out the front door. If I knew him he’d be looking for another way in. Nalgre’s room lay at the far end of the second floor corridor, and, indeed, in that far end wall was a door which must lead to stairs going down outside. Just how long would it take my kregoinye comrade to make his way in there?
In Nalgre’s room, furnished to a good state of inn comfort, he unwrapped a parcel. I did not feel surprise. I shrugged off my blue shamlak and donned the buff jacket with the wide wings, the buff breeches and tall boots and clapped on the wide-brimmed hat with the red and yellow feather. Then my weapons went about me again.
Nalgre also put on his Vallian clothes. He said: “I feel more comfortable in civilized clothes — Drajak.”
“Oh, they’re more or less
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