Read Online A Fortune for Kregen by Alan Burt Akers - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Burt Akers
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the case on Kregen no one pays much attention to the strange gods and spirits by whom a man swears; it is only when they give away your country of origin when you do not want that information revealed that they attract attention.
Pompino laughed, a little too high.
“We never did get that wet.”
“I see I was the unwitting cause of your thirst—”
“No, no, horter, not so.” Pompino, I felt sure, was now uneasy, had come to a slower appreciation of smoldering passions in this man. He kept walking on, a little too swaggeringly, and laughing. “Oh, no—”
I said, “You were not the cause of the thirst. You merely prevented our quenching it.”
He gave me another expressionless look that, with those eyes and that face, could never be truly expressionless. I thought he was trying to sum me up, and running into difficulty.
“I am remiss,” he said, and the note of ritual was strong in his voice. “Let me buy you both a drink. I insist. It is all I can do, at the least, to express my thanks.”
So we went into the next inn, a jolly place where they served a capital ale, and we hoisted stoups. We went to a window seat and sat down just as though we were old comrades. I fretted. I was shilly-shallying over this business of the voller.
Now, in other times I would have gone raging up to the roof, a scarlet breechclout wrapped about me and a sword flaming in my fist, and down to the Ice Floes of Sicce for any damned Hamalese who got in the way. But, now, I was taking my time, making excuses, seizing every opportunity to prevaricate.
Many times on Kregen I have noticed that when I shilly-shally for no apparent reason, when things do not work out with the old peremptory promptness, there is usually an underlying cause. Often to have rushed on headlong would have been to rush headlong into disaster. And, Zair knows, that has happened, often and often...
But the voller beckoned, and I hesitated and did not know why.
The Star Lords had discharged us from our immediate duty, the Gdoinye had so informed Pompino.
Then why hesitate?
But it was pleasant to sit in the window seat of a comfortable inn in the grateful afternoon radiance of the Suns of Scorpio, with a cool flagon of best ale on the clean-scrubbed table... And, believe me, doing just that is just as important a part of life on Kregen as dashing about with flashing swords.
My thoughts had taken me away a trifle from the conversation. I heard Pompino talking and the words:
“...a capital voller...” leaped out at me.
I listened. This Drogo was clearly seeking Mefto — and it was no great guess that he was seeking with no good will. He could be a bounty hunter. He could be a wronged husband. He could be a stikitche.
But Pompino must have told him that Prince Mefto had returned to Shanodrin, the land the Kazzur had won for himself in blood and death. Now Drogo wished to get out of Jikaida City as fast as he could —
and a caravan, besides being slow, was also not on the schedule for departure for some time.
“An airboat? Aye,” said Drogo, and drank.
“It is a great chance—” Pompino was not such a fool, after all.
To have this Kildoi with us when we essayed the airboat would make success much more certain.
I pushed aside the startled inner reflection that this was not how I would have thought and acted only a few years ago. There were wheels within wheels here, and I was canny enough by now to let the wheels run themselves for a space.
Drogo said, “If you will have me, I will join you—”
“Agreed!” said Pompino, and he sat back and quaffed his ale.
I sat back, also, but I did not drink.
Drogo did not look at me. He made rings with his flagon on the scrubbed wood.
“And you, Jak?”
“Why, Horter Drogo, is it that you Kildoi always seem to have only one name?”
His smile was again like those damned ice floes of the far north.
“But we do not. We do not parade our names, that is all.”
“Point taken — and, as
Pompino laughed, a little too high.
“We never did get that wet.”
“I see I was the unwitting cause of your thirst—”
“No, no, horter, not so.” Pompino, I felt sure, was now uneasy, had come to a slower appreciation of smoldering passions in this man. He kept walking on, a little too swaggeringly, and laughing. “Oh, no—”
I said, “You were not the cause of the thirst. You merely prevented our quenching it.”
He gave me another expressionless look that, with those eyes and that face, could never be truly expressionless. I thought he was trying to sum me up, and running into difficulty.
“I am remiss,” he said, and the note of ritual was strong in his voice. “Let me buy you both a drink. I insist. It is all I can do, at the least, to express my thanks.”
So we went into the next inn, a jolly place where they served a capital ale, and we hoisted stoups. We went to a window seat and sat down just as though we were old comrades. I fretted. I was shilly-shallying over this business of the voller.
Now, in other times I would have gone raging up to the roof, a scarlet breechclout wrapped about me and a sword flaming in my fist, and down to the Ice Floes of Sicce for any damned Hamalese who got in the way. But, now, I was taking my time, making excuses, seizing every opportunity to prevaricate.
Many times on Kregen I have noticed that when I shilly-shally for no apparent reason, when things do not work out with the old peremptory promptness, there is usually an underlying cause. Often to have rushed on headlong would have been to rush headlong into disaster. And, Zair knows, that has happened, often and often...
But the voller beckoned, and I hesitated and did not know why.
The Star Lords had discharged us from our immediate duty, the Gdoinye had so informed Pompino.
Then why hesitate?
But it was pleasant to sit in the window seat of a comfortable inn in the grateful afternoon radiance of the Suns of Scorpio, with a cool flagon of best ale on the clean-scrubbed table... And, believe me, doing just that is just as important a part of life on Kregen as dashing about with flashing swords.
My thoughts had taken me away a trifle from the conversation. I heard Pompino talking and the words:
“...a capital voller...” leaped out at me.
I listened. This Drogo was clearly seeking Mefto — and it was no great guess that he was seeking with no good will. He could be a bounty hunter. He could be a wronged husband. He could be a stikitche.
But Pompino must have told him that Prince Mefto had returned to Shanodrin, the land the Kazzur had won for himself in blood and death. Now Drogo wished to get out of Jikaida City as fast as he could —
and a caravan, besides being slow, was also not on the schedule for departure for some time.
“An airboat? Aye,” said Drogo, and drank.
“It is a great chance—” Pompino was not such a fool, after all.
To have this Kildoi with us when we essayed the airboat would make success much more certain.
I pushed aside the startled inner reflection that this was not how I would have thought and acted only a few years ago. There were wheels within wheels here, and I was canny enough by now to let the wheels run themselves for a space.
Drogo said, “If you will have me, I will join you—”
“Agreed!” said Pompino, and he sat back and quaffed his ale.
I sat back, also, but I did not drink.
Drogo did not look at me. He made rings with his flagon on the scrubbed wood.
“And you, Jak?”
“Why, Horter Drogo, is it that you Kildoi always seem to have only one name?”
His smile was again like those damned ice floes of the far north.
“But we do not. We do not parade our names, that is all.”
“Point taken — and, as
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