with this kind of tomfoolery after those days I had acted the ninny among bladesmen in far Ruathytu.
Gafard leaped back and saluted me, ironically.
Slaves advanced to take his sword, to sponge him down with scented rose water, to press a glass of parclear into his hand, to fan him, to fuss about him as dutiful slaves should fuss about a kind master.
"I am a longsword man," he said, sipping his sherbert drink, and then with a single swallow downing the lot. Slaves handed me a glass of parclear, for which I was grateful. I do not usually sweat a great deal. I had had to leap about in the sunshine to work up a glow. Gafard threw the glass casually over his shoulder. A nimble numim girl caught it before it hit the flags. I wondered what the slave-master would do to her had she missed. Now this Gafard, this Rog of Guamelga, this Prince of the Central Sea, this man of many ranks and titles, this man of enormous power and wealth in Magdag — this renegade — looked at me and repeated: "I am a longsword man. But I recognize the power of the shortsword. The Genodder is a formidable weapon."
"Aye, gernu," I said. I wiped my gleaming body with a soft towel. Gafard had narrowed his eyes when I’d stripped off. "It is a knack, surely."
"A knack you must master if you are to be of use to me."
Only a few days had passed since Gafard and his swifter
Volgodont’s Fang
had rescued us from the renders. Much had happened in that time, but all the hurry and bustle amounted only to the one important thing. Duhrra and I, as one-time adherents of the Red, were now followers of the Green.
Duhrra of the Days, and I, Dak, had turned renegades.
The scene in which I had tried to convince Duhrra of the wisdom of this course still had power to make me bristle. Of course I was right, and of course Duhrra was right. We’d been standing, facing each other, in the center of the bedchamber allotted to us in Gafard’s Jade Palace. The room was wide and tall and sumptuously furnished and we’d almost hit each other.
"Turn traitor! Bow and scrape to Grodno! You are mad!"
"Not so, and for the sweet sake of Zair do not shout so!"
"I am prepared to go out and cut down these evil rasts of overlords until I am cut down in my turn."
"You may be. I am not."
Duhrra eyed me. He was more worked up than when he’d lost his hand.
"I do not believe you lack spirit, Dak. But you talk like a mewling woman, heavy with child, with another at her breast, whining for mercy."
I compressed my lips. Then, unable to restrain myself, I burst out, "Sink me! Of course I’m after mercy, you great fambly! I’m long past the day when I will fight for the pleasure of fighting, or resist when resistance is hopeless! Have you learned nothing? To turn renegade now and pretend to follow the Green will not only save us from the galleys, or save our lives, it will give us the chance to escape — you great onker!"
"Now who’s shouting?"
Before Duhrra had finished his sentence I’d crossed the soft carpet in long vicious leem-strides and wrenched the sturmwood door open. The corridor beyond lay pale and empty, with a tall table bearing a jar of Pandahem ware, the cold sconces upon the tapestried walls, bars of mingled sunlight streaming in past barred windows at the end. I turned back and slammed the door.
"By the Black Chunkrah! I won’t shout if you will not shout."
"Duh — who’s shouting?"
I breathed hard, through my nose.
"You know where I want to go. We’ve won through so far. If we are to escape this little lot with our lives we have no choice but to do as Gafard wishes. He’s made a good thing out of it, by Krun!"
And, as I said that, I saw a ruse I had overlooked. Well, you who have listened to these tapes will know what the ruse was and how I might have employed it in the argenter. As it was, it was too late now.
So, here I was, a guest in Gafard’s Jade Palace, awaiting ratification of my application. King Genod welcomed with open arms all defectors
Gafard leaped back and saluted me, ironically.
Slaves advanced to take his sword, to sponge him down with scented rose water, to press a glass of parclear into his hand, to fan him, to fuss about him as dutiful slaves should fuss about a kind master.
"I am a longsword man," he said, sipping his sherbert drink, and then with a single swallow downing the lot. Slaves handed me a glass of parclear, for which I was grateful. I do not usually sweat a great deal. I had had to leap about in the sunshine to work up a glow. Gafard threw the glass casually over his shoulder. A nimble numim girl caught it before it hit the flags. I wondered what the slave-master would do to her had she missed. Now this Gafard, this Rog of Guamelga, this Prince of the Central Sea, this man of many ranks and titles, this man of enormous power and wealth in Magdag — this renegade — looked at me and repeated: "I am a longsword man. But I recognize the power of the shortsword. The Genodder is a formidable weapon."
"Aye, gernu," I said. I wiped my gleaming body with a soft towel. Gafard had narrowed his eyes when I’d stripped off. "It is a knack, surely."
"A knack you must master if you are to be of use to me."
Only a few days had passed since Gafard and his swifter
Volgodont’s Fang
had rescued us from the renders. Much had happened in that time, but all the hurry and bustle amounted only to the one important thing. Duhrra and I, as one-time adherents of the Red, were now followers of the Green.
Duhrra of the Days, and I, Dak, had turned renegades.
The scene in which I had tried to convince Duhrra of the wisdom of this course still had power to make me bristle. Of course I was right, and of course Duhrra was right. We’d been standing, facing each other, in the center of the bedchamber allotted to us in Gafard’s Jade Palace. The room was wide and tall and sumptuously furnished and we’d almost hit each other.
"Turn traitor! Bow and scrape to Grodno! You are mad!"
"Not so, and for the sweet sake of Zair do not shout so!"
"I am prepared to go out and cut down these evil rasts of overlords until I am cut down in my turn."
"You may be. I am not."
Duhrra eyed me. He was more worked up than when he’d lost his hand.
"I do not believe you lack spirit, Dak. But you talk like a mewling woman, heavy with child, with another at her breast, whining for mercy."
I compressed my lips. Then, unable to restrain myself, I burst out, "Sink me! Of course I’m after mercy, you great fambly! I’m long past the day when I will fight for the pleasure of fighting, or resist when resistance is hopeless! Have you learned nothing? To turn renegade now and pretend to follow the Green will not only save us from the galleys, or save our lives, it will give us the chance to escape — you great onker!"
"Now who’s shouting?"
Before Duhrra had finished his sentence I’d crossed the soft carpet in long vicious leem-strides and wrenched the sturmwood door open. The corridor beyond lay pale and empty, with a tall table bearing a jar of Pandahem ware, the cold sconces upon the tapestried walls, bars of mingled sunlight streaming in past barred windows at the end. I turned back and slammed the door.
"By the Black Chunkrah! I won’t shout if you will not shout."
"Duh — who’s shouting?"
I breathed hard, through my nose.
"You know where I want to go. We’ve won through so far. If we are to escape this little lot with our lives we have no choice but to do as Gafard wishes. He’s made a good thing out of it, by Krun!"
And, as I said that, I saw a ruse I had overlooked. Well, you who have listened to these tapes will know what the ruse was and how I might have employed it in the argenter. As it was, it was too late now.
So, here I was, a guest in Gafard’s Jade Palace, awaiting ratification of my application. King Genod welcomed with open arms all defectors
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