Read Online Rebel of Antares by Alan Burt Akers - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Burt Akers
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manage our affairs in peace.
We walked down the road toward our camp and this time the swords were safely snugged in their sheaths. As we went I turned for a last look at the menacing slate-blue form with those smoldering crimson eyes.
Chapter five
Valona
“A churmod,” said Jaezila. “Your partner will make a packet with him.”
“She’s a her. And I hope Unmok does. He deserves to.”
“Just steer well clear of them, that’s all I will say,” said Tyfar, and his mouth closed up tightly.
“Agreed. Have you had the news you expected yet?”
“I await the spy—” Here Tyfar looked around quickly. We were not overheard. The twin Suns of Scorpio, Zim and Genodras, flooded down their streaming mingled lights and filled the air with glory. We stood at one of the little open-air bars, a mere hole in a wall with a counter, where refreshing drinks could be had for the price of a copper ob or two. No one else was within earshot, and the crone serving the drinks had gone into the back at the wailing cry of a baby. Tyfar went on: “Just what it is about I am not sure. But fat old Homan ham Ambath won’t let me meet the fellow anywhere near the embassy.”
“That makes sense,” said Jaezila, and she sipped her sazz.
“It is just as well he did not arrange to meet near the Kyro of the Happy Calsany. I do not think we would be welcomed there.”
“We are not welcome anywhere in Huringa in Hyrklana,” said Jaezila. She drank off her sazz with a defiant gesture.
“And this stupid protocol demands that our comrades Kaldu and Barkindrar the Bullet and Nath the Shaft must wait apart from us merely because they are your retainers.” I half turned to lean back against the bar and so looked across the suns-drenched square toward another bar in the adjacent building where our three comrades stood, drinking easily, and keeping a watchful eye out. These finicky matters of rank seem to mean — by Krun, do mean — a great deal to most Havilfarese.
As I watched, a slinky sylvie, exhibiting all the flaunted sexuality of the sylvies, undulated up to the bar and engaged the three men in conversation. They did not stop looking out and keeping an eye on us, but they were engrossed with the sylvie, which was natural, given that they were men and she was a sylvie. She wore a dazzling garment of a rich dark blue, slit to the upper thigh, and her gems — imitation, of course — glistened in the light of the suns. She was probably a respectable girl who worked locally, out for a breath of air and a break from routine.
Jaezila drew her brows down. “Many girls say that the sylvies make them feel less than feminine.”
“I do not think your Kaldu will—” began Tyfar.
“No. Nor your Nath or Barkindrar. But who could blame them?”
They were laughing together over at the other bar. A file of slaves carrying amphorae wended past, and a totrix clip-clopped six-legged along, his rider slumped in the saddle with his broad-brimmed straw hat pulled over his nose. The day seemed perfectly ordinary.
Tyfar squinted sideways up at the suns. By the position of the red and green suns Kregans can tell the time with wonderful accuracy. “In a few murs he will be here, if he keeps his appointment punctually.”
Even as Tyfar spoke, a bent figure in a brown tunic and straw hat walked slowly toward the bar at which we stood. He carried a staff with which he assisted his movements. He looked completely inoffensive. So, naturally, we all became alert.
The sylvie laughed and danced a few steps away, and then walked in that undulating way they have around the corner. The bent figure halted at the bar. “Is the sazz here good?”
“As good as the parclear,” said Tyfar.
That, then, was the secret exchange.
“Follow me, horters, hortera. It is not far.”
We finished the drinks and walked slowly after the man in the brown tunic. I own I let my hand brush across the hilt of my sword.
There was no doubt that Hamal kept up a secret
We walked down the road toward our camp and this time the swords were safely snugged in their sheaths. As we went I turned for a last look at the menacing slate-blue form with those smoldering crimson eyes.
Chapter five
Valona
“A churmod,” said Jaezila. “Your partner will make a packet with him.”
“She’s a her. And I hope Unmok does. He deserves to.”
“Just steer well clear of them, that’s all I will say,” said Tyfar, and his mouth closed up tightly.
“Agreed. Have you had the news you expected yet?”
“I await the spy—” Here Tyfar looked around quickly. We were not overheard. The twin Suns of Scorpio, Zim and Genodras, flooded down their streaming mingled lights and filled the air with glory. We stood at one of the little open-air bars, a mere hole in a wall with a counter, where refreshing drinks could be had for the price of a copper ob or two. No one else was within earshot, and the crone serving the drinks had gone into the back at the wailing cry of a baby. Tyfar went on: “Just what it is about I am not sure. But fat old Homan ham Ambath won’t let me meet the fellow anywhere near the embassy.”
“That makes sense,” said Jaezila, and she sipped her sazz.
“It is just as well he did not arrange to meet near the Kyro of the Happy Calsany. I do not think we would be welcomed there.”
“We are not welcome anywhere in Huringa in Hyrklana,” said Jaezila. She drank off her sazz with a defiant gesture.
“And this stupid protocol demands that our comrades Kaldu and Barkindrar the Bullet and Nath the Shaft must wait apart from us merely because they are your retainers.” I half turned to lean back against the bar and so looked across the suns-drenched square toward another bar in the adjacent building where our three comrades stood, drinking easily, and keeping a watchful eye out. These finicky matters of rank seem to mean — by Krun, do mean — a great deal to most Havilfarese.
As I watched, a slinky sylvie, exhibiting all the flaunted sexuality of the sylvies, undulated up to the bar and engaged the three men in conversation. They did not stop looking out and keeping an eye on us, but they were engrossed with the sylvie, which was natural, given that they were men and she was a sylvie. She wore a dazzling garment of a rich dark blue, slit to the upper thigh, and her gems — imitation, of course — glistened in the light of the suns. She was probably a respectable girl who worked locally, out for a breath of air and a break from routine.
Jaezila drew her brows down. “Many girls say that the sylvies make them feel less than feminine.”
“I do not think your Kaldu will—” began Tyfar.
“No. Nor your Nath or Barkindrar. But who could blame them?”
They were laughing together over at the other bar. A file of slaves carrying amphorae wended past, and a totrix clip-clopped six-legged along, his rider slumped in the saddle with his broad-brimmed straw hat pulled over his nose. The day seemed perfectly ordinary.
Tyfar squinted sideways up at the suns. By the position of the red and green suns Kregans can tell the time with wonderful accuracy. “In a few murs he will be here, if he keeps his appointment punctually.”
Even as Tyfar spoke, a bent figure in a brown tunic and straw hat walked slowly toward the bar at which we stood. He carried a staff with which he assisted his movements. He looked completely inoffensive. So, naturally, we all became alert.
The sylvie laughed and danced a few steps away, and then walked in that undulating way they have around the corner. The bent figure halted at the bar. “Is the sazz here good?”
“As good as the parclear,” said Tyfar.
That, then, was the secret exchange.
“Follow me, horters, hortera. It is not far.”
We finished the drinks and walked slowly after the man in the brown tunic. I own I let my hand brush across the hilt of my sword.
There was no doubt that Hamal kept up a secret
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