Alan Akers - Secret Scorpio
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- Название:Secret Scorpio
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“Please, jen, my men will throw him out without fuss-”
“Silence, cramph!” This young lord — for Larghos called him jen, which is the Vallian form of addressing a lord — pushed himself up from the table. I saw by the glasses and bottles on the table that he had been drinking wine this early in the morning. So he had that problem as well. His full-fleshed face flushed with blood. A vein beat in his forehead. His two companions at the table with him rocked back in their elegant chairs, thrusting out their boots, and egged him on with comments that suggested a little workout would do him good and a thrashing would do me good. Larghos was wringing his hands. I could guess in his mind’s eye he saw spindly-legged chairs and tables smashing into costly ruin all over his inn.
There would be no profit in my telling this young bully that I was the Prince Majister of Vallia, for he was a racter and would joy in having the excuse to get his rapier between my ribs, claiming afterward that this filthy tramp could not possibly have been the Prince Majister. How was a loyal jen supposed to know that?
Nath and Cochu appeared, beefy apims in blue-striped aprons, bare-armed. Larghos started to say something and the young lord waved him down. “I shall deal with the cramph myself. I do not care for his manners. You, rast!” he shouted at me. “I shall teach you manners!”
With that, confident in his own limber strength against this bent-over fellow in his brown blanket cloak, he took a couple of dancing steps forward and struck out, with more power than skill. I slid the blow and stepped away from the table calmly. The bamboo stick was in my right hand, held by the end, the thick, ridged end.
The young coxcomb went mad with fury. He shook with rage. “Do you see that!” he yelled. “The calsany! He threatens me with his stick! A filthy tapo daring to lift a stick against me, against the Trylon of Tremi! I’ll prick a little blood from his mangy hide!” With that he ripped out his rapier and flung himself into a fighting crouch.
I sighed again, this time with real regret.
He lunged for me. I used the old bamboo stick to parry him off. I judged him to be reasonably skilled with the rapier, well able to take care of himself in an inn fracas, swishing and swashing; as to his caliber against real opposition, I was still unsure.
When he couldn’t quite get his rapier to cut me up, as he expected to do just as he expected the twin suns to rise each day, he grew even more angry. His face was blotched. His eyes glared. His lips twisted with rage and frustration.
His cronies at the table, laughing and hawking, did not help him with their crude advice and mocking injunctions to spit the old fellow and have done.
Here in my Delia’s Delphond, I knew, a murder would merit the strictest investigation. Delphond was civilized.
He blundered toward me and caught his foot in one of the elegant chairs and sprawled forward. His left hand raked up instinctively. He caught the bamboo stick. His face went mean.
“I’ve got you now, you cramph!”
He tried to wrench the stick aside and so slice me down the face, as a nice preliminary to what he intended to do to my carcass.
He twisted the bamboo, hauling back.
He was an onker, right enough. He twisted the bamboo. I felt the click and the sweet sliding of oiled metal. He staggered back clasping the hollow bamboo. All the people watching gasped, as this foolish young trylon fell back, pulling the bamboo free of the blade.
In my right fist I held the ridged wooden hilt. Two feet of oiled steel blade glimmered in the lights from the windows. That blade had been forged by Naghan the Gnat in the armory of Esser Rarioch. I had designed it with Naghan, and we had laughed as we’d mounted its slender length into the bamboo hilt, covering the murderous brand with the rest of the hollow bamboo. I keep calling this wood bamboo; it is not real bamboo. It is of a deep orange luster, ridged and grows in the marshes. Kregans call it pipewood, for it is often used for tubing work in plumbing and the like. The blade glistened. The Trylon of Tremi stared and his face assumed a caricature of enraged fury, black with passion.
“You murderous rast! Now I’ll spit you clean through your filthy guts!”
And he set to, swirling his blade, thrusting and slashing like one demented. His companions stumbled up from the table, their chairs going over with a smash. They ripped their own weapons free.
One came in from one side, the second from the other.
If I was in for a little exercise then I’d make it reasonably entertaining. As I fought, foining off the two from the sides and beginning an amusing disrobing of the trylon, I reflected that this Rafik Avandil possessed a rare sense of humor. He had arranged to meet me here in this pseudo-cultural Running Sleeth knowing damn well what would follow. So I felt a double amusement as I cut the laces of the trylon’s fancy tunic and so stripped his clothes from him, garment by garment. When his two cronies pressed too close one was sent staggering and yelling away with a slit ear and the other with a punctured right forearm. The good old over and under stop-thrust worked beautifully. This idiot trylon’s overlong rapier most often pointed at the ceiling or the floor, or angled toward one of the garish pictures along the walls, more often than it aimed at my guts. I played him long enough to cut away his clothes down to his breechclout — bright pink, would you believe? — and then I had had enough.
Disgust filled me.
This kind of petty mindless brawl leaves a foul taste in a man’s mouth. This kind of bestiality is for the morons of the world, for the morons of two worlds.
Once they had seen how they thought the fight would now go, the rest of the patrons began to laugh. In their stupid heartless way they laughed at the Trylon of Tremi. He, poor fool, gagged on his own spit. His face was now whey-colored, gray and green, his eyes staring, his mouth slobbering. His beautiful pink breechclout with the embroidered chavonths and zhantils looked pathetic. It had blue lace edging. I stripped a little away and then he jumped at the wrong moment and the blade nicked his flesh in a tender spot.
He screamed.
So, wishing to have done, I snaked his blade away and stepped in. I took him by the throat with my left hand. I choked him only a little.
“The next time you seek to bully and thrash a defenseless old man, think, rast. Think, you brainless cramph, and remember this day.”
Then I turned him around and gave him a hard toe up the backside and so kicked him staggering across the floor.
His cronies stood back, furious but cowed, unwilling to reopen the fray. Blood had been drawn from both of them, splattering their finery and the black and white favors, but they had come out of this less injured than their lord. His hurts did not show on his skin. His hurts would not mend as fast as the scratches they had suffered.
The contrast between the conduct of this spoiled lordly brat and that of Rafik toward an old man was to me at the time most edifying. I felt an amusement toward Rafik, engendered as much by his trick as by the circumstances of his supposed rescue.
Larghos was visibly recovering his composure, seeing that no real damage had been done to his establishment. He began to flutter about. So I wiped my blade tip on the corner of my old brown cloak, picked up my sack, cast a last look upon the assembled gaping patrons — remembering to bend over as I did so — and bid them all a pleasant Remberee.
Then I stepped out of the Running Sleeth into the clean air and luminous suns-shine of Kregen.
Nine
Delphond is not as well served by the intricate canal system of Vallia as it might be, especially as it is an imperial province, descending in the imperial female line. This has served in the past as a distinct advantage and goes some way to explaining the surprising remoteness of much of the province, situated as it is relatively close to the capital. This fact, too, I suppose, does explain, as Delia maintains, why so many tides of conquest in the troubled history of Vallia have passed Delphond by with little destruction. The zorca ambled along the dusty road, kicking the thick white powder into a floating trail, and I jogged along, sunk in thought, yet still keeping that old sailor-man’s weather eye open. The oiled steel blade was snicked back into its bamboo scabbard and now looked like any wandering laborer’s stick. Making no attempt to discover the whereabouts of Rafik, I had simply ridden out of Arkadon. I could feel the muzziness clouding my head a trifle and a light-heaviness about my limbs; but, if necessary, I could go on swashing and fighting and drinking for another night or two without sleep yet. It is a knack. The rendezvous with Delia drew me on. The moment I reached Deliasmot where a canal trunk system terminated I would transfer to a narrow boat and be rapidly hauled all the way in first-class comfort. If Rafik was headed this way we would meet. I fancied I’d not seen the last of that golden numim with the sense of humor.
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