A keen sorrow for her slain guards made Delia need the comfort I could give her in my rough way.
“But, Dray — you are safe! I sometimes feel what a monster I am when I consider that I really cannot regret anyone’s death if it helps you — my poor lads died in vain, but you are alive!”
She was no monster. I knew without a trace of remorse that I would wade through seas of blood if necessary so that not one hair of my Delia’s head should be harmed. Kregen is a world of violence and ugliness as well as a wonderful world of vivid life and beauty and love. Condemn me as you will. I know where my loyalties lie.
Thelda made a great fuss of me. She fussed and fussed, until I felt stultified, and poor Seg, who was getting absolutely nowhere with the buxom girl, glowered and took himself off to the foresheets to fiddle with his little bows.
Delia laughed and joyed in my discomfort, whereat I longed to take her in my arms and show her just who it was I required attentions from. As it was, we made a somewhat strange little party sailing across the eastern end of the Eye of the World to the Proconian shore and the city of Pattelonia. We reached the island city without incident and I felt a great leap of joy as I saw the multitudes of red flags floating above the ramparts and the towers and the long seawalls. So Sanurkazz still held the city -
we sailed in feeling in very much of a holiday mood.
Chapter Seven
Thelda cuts hair and Seg cuts a bow-stave
Thelda it was who insisted on trimming my shaggy mop of hair, my long fierce moustache and my beard before we entered harbor. My hair was normally worn quite straight and almost to my shoulders. My moustache is of that kind that juts most arrogantly upward — sometimes I despair of its unruly nature -
and my beard of that trimmed and pointed kind associated with cavaliers, lace, and rapiers. As a sea officer of wooden ships on Earth in the last days of the eighteenth century I had of course been clean-shaven; very often I reverted to shaving, but I had vowed never to return to wearing the queue. The custom of growing a great long mass of hair so that it may be twisted up and worn as padding and protection beneath a helmet is a survival of primitive times in the evolution of ever-more sophisticated armor. I prefer a properly padded helmet — or basinet, sallet or, perhaps a favorite with me, a burgonet
— and neatly trimmed hair.
All the time Thelda whickered the long dagger about my head and clumps of my brown hair tumbled onto the bottom boards, Seg sat glowering on a thwart. Fighting-men require haircuts as do other people. Merely to rely on a band around the head can be fatal in battle when a shrewd stroke can split the band to release a mop of thick uncut hair to shroud the face and obscure vision; you may wake up in some celestial barbershop in the sky with the blood still oozing from the wound your foeman’s steel snickered in when you were brushing the hair from your eyes.
Delia caught my eye. She was lolling back with the steering oar tucked neatly into its notch and held in her small capable hands. She was laughing at me without moving a muscle of her gorgeous face! She was thoroughly enjoying my discomfiture as I sat shifting on the thwart, muttering and mumbling, wincing as the dagger sliced perilously close past my ear. I glared back at her and made a face whereat she burst into a peal of laughter that would have turned them all out of heaven to listen.
“It was sweet of Thelda to think of your hair, was it not, Dray Prescot?”
“Huh,” I said, and then added, quickly: “Of course. Yes. Thank you, Thelda.”
She lowered her eyes and a flush stained her cheeks.
I had to finish this somehow.
“And now it is Seg’s turn-”
But Seg said: “I am happy as I am, shaggy as a thyrrix.”
Delia chuckled with delight. She had seen me before when I myself was as disreputable as any mountain thyrrix, that grundal-nimble animal of the mountains of Seg’s home, and I knew so long as I was all in one piece that was enough; she would take me as I was.
“For the man who wants to marry the Princess Majestrix,” said Thelda, her habitual pushing eagerness evident, “you must take more pride in your appearance, Dray Prescot.”
The mole drew closer as we approached and I could see the usual waterfront activity. The pharos here stood a good hundred feet less in height than the one at Sanurkazz. Nonetheless the smoke that curled from its summit by day and the light by night could be seen well out to sea. Whoever was in command here then, whether Proconian or Sanurkazzian, must feel confident. The overlords of Magdag must have been pushed back, they and their Proconian allies defeated, at least temporarily. Interference in an internecine war is never pleasant; and in the usual way Sanurkazz left Proconia strictly alone in the interminable feuds they waged; but once the green of Genodras had made its loathsome appearance the red of Zair must reply.
When we touched the jetty I was first out of the boat.
This was habitual; this was a mistake — I heard Thelda gasp and then I had turned and leaning down seized Delia under the armpits and swung her high into the air before setting her feet on the stones.
“There!” I said, to cover my lapse. “I may not look the part as the future consort to the Princess Majestrix of Vallia, but I do know how to help a lady from a boat.”
Delia knew, of course, and she laughed back at me, and leaned close so that all her intoxicating scent wafted into my nostrils, dizzying me, and whispered close to my ear: “Poor Thelda — you mustn’t mind her, dear heart — she means well.”
We made the necessary calls on the port authorities, and were cleared for entry, for the peoples of the inner sea are more than somewhat lax over quarantine regulations. And the ideas of customs and excise which they employ are either barbaric — if you are on the paying end — or remarkably mild — if you are trying to build the seawalls of your city. We were rapidly able to walk up to the hostelry from which Delia, Thelda, and her young men had started off. Everywhere mixed up with the Pattelonian soldiery were the armed and armored men of Sanurkazz, fraternizing with them, laughing, arms draped over shoulders, engaging in friendly drinking bouts at the taverns, chasing wenches in the customary tactful way of the men from the southern shore. Evidently, a battle had recently been successfully fought and won. A messenger arrived at the hostelry as I was downing a blackjack of Chremson wine — a vintage I had found as much to my taste as the superlative Zond wine so favored by Nath. The messenger brought news that came as a staggering surprise and a most joyful reunion. Four sectrixes had been provided, richly harnessed, and the messenger led us up through the terraced avenues of the city, wending past palace and villa, workshop and store, until we reached the lofty eminence of the governor’s palace. Away on a neighboring hill, distinct in the limpid air, the palace of the Pattelonian ruler showed a multitude of Proconian flags. Where we stood the air seemed filled with the red banners of Zair.
From this height we could see around the curve of the island to the mainland side and there harsh black scars in the blocks of white houses showed where the city had burned. The struggle to take and retake Pattelonia had been severe, I could see easily enough. Also from here we could see the naval harbor with its placid waters disturbed by the passage of swifters, in and out. The long galleys lay ranked alongside the jetties and the columns of men carrying stores out to them wended like armies of warrior ants from the African jungles.
I recognized some of the swifters down there. But I could not wait now to count them and to check their condition and to remember. I heard a firm tread on the flagstones, and swung around, my hand outstretched in greeting.
“Lahal, Pur Dray!”
“Lahal, Pur Zenkiren!”
Our hands met and clasped in the firm grip of friendship and brotherhood in Zy. He looked just the same, Zenkiren of Sanurkazz, tall and limber, with that bronzed fearless face, that fiercely up-brushed black moustache below his carved beak of a nose, that shining mass of curled black hair. On his white tunic above the apron the coruscating device of the hubless spoked wheel wit
hin the circle, embroidered in silks of blue and orange and yellow, blazed into my eyes. He smiled with warm affection upon me and I leaped in my heart to see him again, and although I did not smile the pressure of my hand told him of my joy in seeing him. He knew me — or that me who had fought as a Krozair and a swifter captain on the Eye of the World — did Pur Zenkiren, Krozair of Zy, admiral in the king’s fleet, Grand Archbold elect of the Krozairs of Zy.
Introductions were made, and I noticed the courtly way in which Zenkiren treated my Delia. He did not miss our own heightened emotions, so that when I asked him of Mayfwy he replied she was well, that her son and daughter prospered, that she remained still a widow, not remarried, and that she missed seeing me. Nath and Zolta I heard, to my disappointment, had gone a-roving aboard a swifter into the western end of the inner sea. I would not achieve this joyful reunion with those two rogues here, then. Seg, who I felt with an uncomfortable start of guilt, must have been feeling a little left out in all this handshaking and greetings, said: “Mayhap you will see them on your way through the Grand Canal and past the Dam of Days.”
I looked at him, bemused for a moment. Then Delia nudged me and I managed to reply something and went on to tell Zenkiren of all that had happened to me since we had said “Remberee” in Sanurkazz. We went into the palace and were served wine and we helped ourselves to a heaping pile of palines from a silver dish. Time passed most pleasantly. I urged Zenkiren that now was the time to strike at Magdag. He agreed, and immediately sent off messages to the king, Zo, in Sanurkazz.
“My duty lies here, Dray, to help our Pattelonian allies against their foes and the devils from Magdag. I urge you, Pur Dray, now you have found your Delia of the Blue Mountains, to remain here. There is much to be done. We are pushing them back. Our army has gained success after success. Soon the call we all long for will go out, and all the men of Zair will rise and go up against the evil of Grodno.”
“Greatly would I desire to do that, Zenkiren. But-”
The twin suns were slipping into the sea, far away across the western horizon. I persuaded Zenkiren to order a fleet liburna out. As we stood on the poop — she had no quarterdeck — and watched the single banks of oars, three men to an oar, pulling in that metronomic rhythm inseparable from the ideal of the swifter, I waited with apprehension.
That apprehension was for what I hoped would not occur.
But it did.
The wind roared, the sea got up, the thunders and the lightnings cracked and fizzled about us. We turned for the harbor and the gale dropped.
“I do not care to inquire too closely into these things,” said Zenkiren, with a gravity habitual to him in weighty affairs. “No doubt Pur Zazz could fathom the meaning. But I take your point. You are fated to travel east — away over The Stratemsk, over the Hostile Territories. I wish you well, Brother, for the way is difficult, Zair knows.”
“Pur Zazz has told me of many marvels and wonders in the Hostile Territories. I am happy to know the Grand Archbold still lives.”
“Zair has him in his keeping, Dray. I pray he will live until my work here is accomplished.”
I knew what he meant.
“When you are Grand Archbold, Zenkiren, and the call comes for all the Krozairs of Zy to answer — I will not fail.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. But he was a sad man that I could not go with him on this last expedition against the forces of Magdag arrayed against us in the eastern end of the Eye of the World. I believe that Delia took an opportunity to speak privately to Zenkiren, and can guess at some of the many questions she asked about my life on the inner sea, and that she asked about Mayfwy, too; I am glad that when we two spoke of these things together we could be absolutely frank with each other. Mayfwy, the widow of my friend Zorg of Felteraz, was a wonderful person and a glorious girl; but there can only ever be one woman in my life — my Delia, my Delia of Delphond!
Still and all, I gave Zenkiren the charge of making sure that my agent Shallan got the best price for the prize swifter Sword of Genodras and that all my shares should be paid to Mayfwy.
“After all, young Zorg will be growing up soon, and he must command the finest swifter that can be provided,” I said. My old oar comrade Zorg — I would not let his widow or his son or daughter suffer if any way lay open to me to prevent it. I knew my two rascals, Nath and Zolta, felt exactly the same way. During the short time we spent at Pattelonia, in a sense getting our wind for the next stage of our journey to Vallia, Seg kept much to himself. He was still trying his best to win some sign of recognition from Thelda, but she persisted in her fussing smothering of me, much to my annoyance and Delia’s hidden and mocking amusement.
Seg came in one day bearing a monstrous stave of wood of so dark a green as to appear black. He flicked it about, speaking slightingly of it, but he was pleased.
“This is not true Yerthyr wood,” he said. “The Yerthyr tree is deadly poisonous to the weak animals hereabouts, and the people do not like to grow it. In Erthyrdrin our nimble thyrrixes are able to digest the wood and bark and the leaves in their second stomach.”
“So?”
“This stave will make a passable bow-stave after I have dealt with it.” He ran his thumb along it, feeling.
“But had I my own longbow — ah, then, Dray Prescot, you would see!”
A commotion broke out at the door, for we had by Zenkiren’s kind invitation removed from the hostelry and quartered ourselves in commodious suites in the governor’s palace. A Sanurkazzian guard — a young lad in a new hauberk and with a shiny new long sword, a parting present from his father -
jumped back as a voluble, gesticulating, furiously angry Proconian popped in. Orange and green sunshine lay in slanting stripes on the patio outside the doors, and exotic blooms depended on vines from the white walls.
“Vandals! Pirates! Thieves!” the Proconian spluttered. He was plump, flabby, with ringed hands and a nose which wine had coarsened into a knob, and he wore no sword. His robes were twisted about him in the fury of his movements.
“I am sorry, Pur Dray,” said the guard. “He insisted — and short of cutting him down there was no way of stopping him. .”
“It is all right, Fazmarl,” I said, turning away from Seg and his bow-stave. “Let the gentleman in.”
The gentleman shook a fist under my nose, saw Seg and let out a screech. “There he is, the plunderer, the reaver, the barbarian! He holds my property, Pur Dray — and he has destroyed the finest tree in the women’s quarters-”
“Oh-ho!” I said. I looked at Seg. He gripped the stave with the clutch of a man sliding over the side of an airboat.
“I did but cut the best stave suited to a bow.”
The little man danced and spluttered and shook his fist.
“Only! And ripped it out of the heart — the very heart — of the tree that gives shade to my favorite wife-”
The Proconians believed in the quaint habit of marrying three wives. They were a punishment-loving race.
“Is the tree mortally wounded, sir?”
“Mortally! It has suffered a wound from which nothing can save it. My tree — my favorite wife’s favorite tree!”
“Then, if nothing can be done to save the tree, I think it best to uproot it and plant another.”
He gobbled over that, and wiped his forehead, and found a chair and collapsed into it. I nodded at Seg and that reckless man had sense enough to fill to brimming a silver-chased goblet with noble Chremson wine and hurry it across. The Proconian wiped his lips and gulped the wine, and gasped and palpitated, a hand to his heart, and gulped some more.
“Very good,” he said, looking at the wine afresh. “Booty from Chremson, I take it?”
I inclined my head, but the word booty had inflamed him anew. “Plunderers, reavers — that is all you red-raiders from Sanurkazz are! You tear down my best tree, leave it in shattered fragments across my tessellated pavement so that my second wife barks her pretty shin and removes at least a palm of
skin-”
“Come, sir,” I said, putting the merest fraction of that rasp into my voice. “You have not yet favored me with your name. I do not know it was your tree. You could be fabricating the entire story to gain my sympathy — and my wine!”
He staggered upright with the assistance of the chair back. He tried to speak and his fat lips popped and blew and his cheeks turned purple and his eyes stood out. Then: “By the fair hair of the Primate Proc himself! I am Uppippoo of Lower Pattelonia! I am respected in this city, with wide lands on the mainland beyond Perithia, owner of ten broad ships, and with three of the most delectable wives a man could boast — and now they have kicked me out because their shaded garden has been ruined!”
Seg couldn’t hold himself in and spilled wine trying to stop from bursting a gut laughing. I remained severe.
“Very well, Uppippoo of Lower Pattelonia. I would not wish a man to suffer, particularly from three wives. Rest assured, I shall make complete restitution.” A thought occurred to me. “Can another tree be procured?”
A kind of frenzy possessed Uppippoo. “You imbecile! Those trees take a hundred years to grow!”
That was half a lifetime or so on Kregen.
“In that case, my friend here, who comes from Erthyrdrin, will be returning to his country shortly. I know he will immediately take steps to have a fresh tree prepared and shipped out to you. There, sir, what can be fairer than that?”
Uppippoo merely goggled at us.
“In the meantime, if you would accept a little common gold, which is nowhere as romantic as a tree, you could purchase a length of colorfully-striped awning, and thus protect your charming wives from the suns.”
And I put down carefully onto a table a handful of gold scooped out of my waist-belt — for I had now, in the city, perforce to dress as a citizen with tunic, apron, and accouterments. Uppippoo looked at the gold.
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