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Authors: Alan Burt Akers
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for your joining us, why, yes, and right heartily.” I put warmth into my voice.
Foolish, I felt, to antagonize him for no reason.
“Then no harm is done.”
What he meant by that I was not sure. I did know that the old intemperate Dray Prescot might well have challenged him to speak plain, blast his eyes.
He went on, “We are of Balintol, as you know, and we keep ourselves to ourselves. There are not many of us. All the first families know one another. The use of family names is felt to be — to be—”
“Drink up, Horter Drogo,” I said, “and let me get you the other half.”
That, at the time, seemed as good a way as any of ending that conversation.
Once again I promised myself I’d have a good long talk with Korero when I got back to Vallia. My comrade who carried his enormous shields at my back was a man of a mysterious people, that was for sure.
It was, naturally, left to Pompino, when I returned with the drinks, to say, “And you are chasing this rast Mefto to—”
“One of us will kill the other.” Drogo took his flagon into his lower left hand. The other three hands visible clenched into fists. “I shall not face him with swords. So he may die. I devoutly hope so.”
Like Korero, this Drogo did not habitually swear by gods and demons as do most folk of Kregen.
“You are no swordsman yourself?”
He glanced across at me, and his fists unclenched, and he took a pull of ale.
“Oh, yes, I own to some skill. But my masters suggested I would be better served by taking up some other weapon—”
“And?” interrupted Pompino.
Drogo made himself laugh. His teeth were white and even, and his tongue was very red.
“I manage with an axe, polearms, the bow, a knife—”
I said, “All at once, no doubt.” As I spoke I heard the sour note of envy in my voice.
“When necessary.”
By Vox! But I had walked into that one with my chin!
“You have met Katakis?”
Offhandedly, he answered obliquely. “The little streams run into the great river.”
I nodded. “And Djangs?”
He frowned. “No — I do not know of them.”
“Oh,” I said. “I just wondered.”
I stood up.
“If we intend to take this confounded voller, then let us be about our business.”
Chapter Six
Concerning a Shortcut
Most men are not mere walking bundles of reflexes. Most men have deeper layers of thought and emotions below the superficialities of life. Among the many people a man bumps into on his way through life there must be some, a few, for whom he feels enough interest to be fascinated by those deeper levels.
And this really has little to do with friendship, which is by way of being an altogether different idea.
As we walked along in the radiance from the twin suns of Antares, I pondered the enigma of this Drogo the Kildoi.
Pompino was prattling on about Jikaida and his own honest conviction that he did not have a head for the game, and Drogo was nodding civilly and saying that, yes, he quite enjoyed the Game of Moons, if he was in the mood, and that he found Vajikry surprisingly challenging for what appeared so simple a game although the version they played in Balintol, his homeland, was markedly different from that played here in the continent of Havilfar. I wondered how he had got here and his adventures on the way. Korero never spoke of himself. Balintol is a shrouded land and a fit birthplace for the men it breeds.
Onron, the lady Yasuri’s coachman, caught up with us as we passed through the colonnades surrounding the Kyro of the Gambits. His bright yellow favor glistened. We were about to cross into the Foreign Quarter, where the Blue and the Yellow held no favor one above the other.
“I’ve been looking for you all over, you pair of hulus,” he puffed out. He was riding a freymul, the poor man’s zorca, with a chocolate-colored back and streaks of yellow beneath, and Onron had ridden the animal hard. Clots of foam fluffed back from his patient mouth. Sweat stained all down his neck,
Foolish, I felt, to antagonize him for no reason.
“Then no harm is done.”
What he meant by that I was not sure. I did know that the old intemperate Dray Prescot might well have challenged him to speak plain, blast his eyes.
He went on, “We are of Balintol, as you know, and we keep ourselves to ourselves. There are not many of us. All the first families know one another. The use of family names is felt to be — to be—”
“Drink up, Horter Drogo,” I said, “and let me get you the other half.”
That, at the time, seemed as good a way as any of ending that conversation.
Once again I promised myself I’d have a good long talk with Korero when I got back to Vallia. My comrade who carried his enormous shields at my back was a man of a mysterious people, that was for sure.
It was, naturally, left to Pompino, when I returned with the drinks, to say, “And you are chasing this rast Mefto to—”
“One of us will kill the other.” Drogo took his flagon into his lower left hand. The other three hands visible clenched into fists. “I shall not face him with swords. So he may die. I devoutly hope so.”
Like Korero, this Drogo did not habitually swear by gods and demons as do most folk of Kregen.
“You are no swordsman yourself?”
He glanced across at me, and his fists unclenched, and he took a pull of ale.
“Oh, yes, I own to some skill. But my masters suggested I would be better served by taking up some other weapon—”
“And?” interrupted Pompino.
Drogo made himself laugh. His teeth were white and even, and his tongue was very red.
“I manage with an axe, polearms, the bow, a knife—”
I said, “All at once, no doubt.” As I spoke I heard the sour note of envy in my voice.
“When necessary.”
By Vox! But I had walked into that one with my chin!
“You have met Katakis?”
Offhandedly, he answered obliquely. “The little streams run into the great river.”
I nodded. “And Djangs?”
He frowned. “No — I do not know of them.”
“Oh,” I said. “I just wondered.”
I stood up.
“If we intend to take this confounded voller, then let us be about our business.”
Chapter Six
Concerning a Shortcut
Most men are not mere walking bundles of reflexes. Most men have deeper layers of thought and emotions below the superficialities of life. Among the many people a man bumps into on his way through life there must be some, a few, for whom he feels enough interest to be fascinated by those deeper levels.
And this really has little to do with friendship, which is by way of being an altogether different idea.
As we walked along in the radiance from the twin suns of Antares, I pondered the enigma of this Drogo the Kildoi.
Pompino was prattling on about Jikaida and his own honest conviction that he did not have a head for the game, and Drogo was nodding civilly and saying that, yes, he quite enjoyed the Game of Moons, if he was in the mood, and that he found Vajikry surprisingly challenging for what appeared so simple a game although the version they played in Balintol, his homeland, was markedly different from that played here in the continent of Havilfar. I wondered how he had got here and his adventures on the way. Korero never spoke of himself. Balintol is a shrouded land and a fit birthplace for the men it breeds.
Onron, the lady Yasuri’s coachman, caught up with us as we passed through the colonnades surrounding the Kyro of the Gambits. His bright yellow favor glistened. We were about to cross into the Foreign Quarter, where the Blue and the Yellow held no favor one above the other.
“I’ve been looking for you all over, you pair of hulus,” he puffed out. He was riding a freymul, the poor man’s zorca, with a chocolate-colored back and streaks of yellow beneath, and Onron had ridden the animal hard. Clots of foam fluffed back from his patient mouth. Sweat stained all down his neck,
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