capped with a low-pitched roof of green copper.
No faces peered from the tiny windows, no
pennants flew--no, nor even birds. It was
strange not to see at least crows or pigeons
around an inhabited castle.
When the sun turned pink in the dust of the
horizon, he slid with relief from his pony's
back outside the city gate, amid an untidy
clutter of shanties and paddocks--businesses not
worth the high rents within the walls, constructions that
could be sacrificed if enemies attacked. He
handed the reins to one of the Sheik's drivers and
bade him farewell; then he hefted his bundle
on his shoulder and headed for Wolfbiter, who was
doing much the same.
He made a conscious effort to speak in his mother
tongue. "Now we can be about the King's business!"
"After we have collected our pay, you mean."
Wolfbiter's eyes glinted as they did when he
was playing nursemaid. "Sir!"
"You're right, I suppose. Where is the old
scoundrel?"
They still carried great wealth strapped around their
waists and had no need of money, but it would be
imprudent to begin their activities in Samarinda
by showing that they were not what they said they were.
Wolfbiter was probably anxious not to give
Kromman a chance to criticize--the inquisitor
insisted that a careful agent never broke out of his
role.
Finding the Sheik and extracting their due was a
slow process. Akrazzanka was busy making
arrangements for his livestock, workers, and trade
goods. When he had a moment to spare for two wandering
swordsmen, his memory of their agreement
naturally did not coincide with theirs, so everything
had to be haggled out all over again.
Thirsty, hungry, and almost weary enough to think of
himself as tired, Durendal strode at last toward
the gate with his bundle on his shoulder and
Wolfbiter at his heels. He need never fear
a knife in the back while he had his Blade with
him. As soon as they left the anonymity of the
caravan, they were identified as visiting
swordsmen and surrounded by a yabbering mob of men,
children, and even a few women.
"The finest house in all Samarinda ..."
"My wife's cooking ..."
"My beautiful sister ..."
The voices were hoarse and harsh, for every city in
Altain had its own dialect; but by tomorrow they would
seem as intelligible as the Chivians at court.
He pushed on through the jabber, the waving hands. In
a few minutes he spotted Kromman and headed
toward him. Kromman turned to go into the city,
following a bent old man; and the Blades in
turn trailed after him at a distance. Eventually
the pimps and hawkers gave up and scuttled off
to find more willing prey.
Poky alleys wound between walls still giving off
the day's breathless heat, although dusk was almost over.
In Altain night fell faster than a
headsman's ax. The overpowering smells of
cooking, animals, people, and ordure seemed very
close to visible. Strains of music drifted from
barred windows, children wailed, mules and cattle
bellowed in the distance. Old, old, old!
Stairs and doorsteps were hollowed by generations of
feet, cobbles were rutted, even the corners of the
houses seemed rounded off; mortar had crumbled and
fallen out. Alzan was old and Koburtin even
older, but Samarinda was more ancient than anywhere.
Along the Jade Road it was a truth ordained
that when the gods built the world they began at
Samarinda and worked out from there. If each of the eight
elements must have a source, then Samarinda was the
fount of time.
The people were olive skinned and broad faced,
hiding their eyelids when they were not in use. Some
of the women went veiled, not all. Most
men had mustaches but either shaved their cheeks and chins
or else grew very little hair on them. Yet here
and there were other types, a blond man and one with
near-black skin. ... They bore swords.
They must be visitors come to seek their fortunes.
Feeling a thrill of excitement, Durendal
caught up with Kromman and fell into step. They
had hardly spoken since leaving Koburtin.
Wolfbiter remained at his post, one pace behind
his ward.
The inquisitor wore the same filthy,
shapeless clothes as the Blades, and even his
fish-belly face had turned brown on the
trek. His beard was straggly and already streaked with
gray. "Congratulations!" he said in
supercilious Chivian. "You made it all the
way to Samarinda."
"I should not have done so without your help, of
course. Do you think I am unaware of that?"
"Even you could not be so obtuse."
"Who is your friend? What is he peddling--his
daughters or worse?"
"His name is Cabuk. He offers
accommodation for visiting swordsmen, just like them
all, but when he said his place was the best, he was
lying less than any of the others were."
Inquisitors were undeniably useful
companions. It was a shame they could not be more
pleasant people.
Murder would be going a little far, though.
The ragged old man had reached their destination, a
set of staggered stone slabs protruding from a
wall to form a narrow and precarious stair, well
worn by use. He scampered nimbly up to a
massive iron-studded door set about head
height above the street; he unlocked it and
disappeared inside. Wolfbiter went first--it would
have taken an army to stop him. Durendal and the
inquisitor followed.
The single room was furnished with a few dubious
rolls of bedding, a handful of stone crocks in one
corner, and a knee-high, rickety table. It was
loud with flies and hot as a sweat house, although the
two grilled windows were unglazed and there was an
open trapdoor in the awkwardly low ceiling.
Immeasurable time had stripped all but a few
traces of the original plaster from the walls and
reduced the floorboards to a creaking mesh of
gaps and splinters. Twilight showed through the roof
in places, giving just enough light to see little
Cabuk standing in the middle of this ruin, beaming at
his visitors as if he expected them to go
into raptures over such luxury.
It was much better than most of the places in which
Durendal had lived during the past two years.
The long journey had been less arduous than the
months spent waiting for ships or caravans.
"Noble lords!" Cabuk declared. "Behold the
finest lodging in all Samarinda! No one
disputes that it is the most fortunate for all
swordsmen; for many, many who slept here have won
vast wealth in the arena." This was clearly a
wel
l-rehearsed speech. "I have it most
expertly enchanted every month without fail for that
purpose. Here, while you wait your turns, you
have privacy and security. Here you will not be
molested by rats and other vermin, as you will be in all
other establishments without exception. Here is
cool by day and warm at night, see? My wives
are the most excellent cooks in the city and my
daughters will attend most expertly to the personal
needs that strong young men like yourselves must have. Their
beauty is famed throughout Altain and they are
absolutely free of lice or disease or
defects--practically virgins and yet very
skilled. I also have two charming young sons, if you
seek variety, no more than this high, see?
Anything whatsoever that we can do to make your stay in
Samarinda more pleasurable, you have only to ask.
And for this, a mere two dizorks a night, although
my wives rail shrilly at me for my insane
generosity."
In cash, of course. Swordsmen would be poor
credit risks in Samarinda.
Directly underfoot, two of the wives or
near virgins began screaming at each other.
Wolfbiter dropped his bundle and went to climb
the ladder, which creaked even louder than the floor
did.
"He's lying through his beard about the daughters,"
Kromman said in Chivian. "The rest is
probably not far off the truth. Apart from the
money, naturally. You want one boy or both,
Sir Durendal?"
That was a typically Krommanian sneer.
Fidelity was a difficult concept for him
to appreciate. He could not understand Durendal's
celibacy, and even Wolfbiter thought it odd.
"You are the expert, Ivyn," Durendal said
wearily. "Negotiate realistically,
but don't make a career out of it, please. No
boys for me."
Kromman said, "One obit per night,
including all the food we can eat and fresh water
whenever we need it."
Cabuk screamed as if impaled. "One
obit? I have never accepted less than a
dizork and a half, and that was in midwinter."
"I bet you've taken four obits and been
glad of them."
"Never! But since there are only three of you and
you seem honest and well-behaved persons, I will
make an exception and take one and a half
dizorks."
"Four obits," Kromman said with a
satisfied tone. "Here, take it and begone."
"Wait!" Durendal cut off the next
flood of protest from the landlord. "I have a whole
dizork here for information--in addition to the rent, just
this once. We want food and beer, but no
daughters."
The old man hesitated and then nodded
grudgingly. "But tomorrow we must reach a more reasonable
arrangement."
Durendal dropped his bundle near the wall
and sat down, leaning back against the wall.
Kromman folded down where he was standing.
"Aha!" the old man said. "You want me
to tell you how you go about winning all the gold you can
carry. You could not have asked a better expert. But
first ..." He dropped to his knees and put his
mouth to a gap in the boards. "Food!" he
screamed. "At once, food! A feast for six
mighty warriors! Do not bring shame upon my
house by scrimping, you bitches! They are huge
men and starving. And send up beer at once for these
nobles. Enough for all six to drink themselves into a
stupor, or I shall whip you to death's door." He
sat back and crossed his legs. "Now, my
lords, I shall tell you the truth of the wonders of
Samarinda."
Wolfbiter came squeaking down the ladder and
nodded to say that there were no problems on the roof--
security being his responsibility, of course.
They would probably sleep up there. He
settled himself cross-legged, close to the door.
Cabuk rubbed his spidery hands,
producing a rasping sound. "Around dawn, noble
lord, you go to the courtyard of the monastery and give
your name to the monkeys on the gate. There is a
long waiting list, you understand." He rubbed his hands
again gleefully at that thought. "About an hour after
sunrise, they start calling out names. If
yesterday's challenger won, then he is called
again--given a chance to double his fortune, see?
Else the next name in line is called. If that
man does not answer, then the monkeys call the
next, see? No man is ever given a second
chance if he misses his first."
That was the first new information. Durendal had
heard the rest many times already, even the peculiar
stories of monkeys. The traders insisted that the
Monastery of the Golden Sword was guarded
by man-size talking monkeys.
"Wait. These monkeys? Do they write down
the names?"
Cabuk cackled, sounding startled. "Monkeys
cannot write, my lord!"
"I never heard of any that could talk, either.
How long is the waiting list?"
"Usually a couple of weeks, my lord."
"I heard a couple of months."
"It is very rarely that long. I have not checked
recently."
Kromman scratched his knee. It was understood
that the inquisitor moved his left hand when he
smelled a lie.
"So the monkeys remember every name in the
correct order? For months?"
"These are no ordinary monkeys, my lord.
They will remember a man's face for years. Where
was I?" Cabuk's speech was obviously given
to begin at the beginning again.
"The monkey just called out my name."
"Um, yes. When a man responds, then he
comes forward to challenge. The monkeys make
sure that he is armed only with a sword, and he
must strip to the waist to show that he is not wearing
armor. He beats on the gong. The door opens
and one of the brothers comes out with the golden sword and
they fight. If the challenger wounds the brother,
then he is taken inside and comes out carrying all
the gold he can move. Anything he drops before
he reaches the gate must remain. If he falls
over, then he loses it all, but that is a fair
penalty for greed, yes? It is very
simple. I have seen it done many times."
"What happens if the brother kills him?"
The old man shrugged his tiny shoulders. "He
dies, of course. But you seem a most noble and
virile swordsman, my lord, and your companions
also." He glanced uncertainly at Kromman
who did not, although in fact he was an outstanding
amateur. "I am sure you will prosper,
especially if you are living under this roof of great
good fortune."
The door creaked open. A woman waddled
in, carrying a leather bucket with both hands and
holding three drinking horns tucked und
er her
arms, bringing an unmistakable stench of beer. The
foul Altain brew was made from goats' milk and
probably other things even worse, but the traders
insisted it kept away the flux. It did seem
to settle the stomach.
"My eldest," Cabuk said. "Is she not
ample? In all Altain there are no more generous
breasts. Drop your gown, child, and display your
charms to these noble lords."
"That will not be necessary," Durendal said sharply.
"Leave the beer, wench. We will serve ourselves."
He waited until she had gone. "How else can
one approach the brethren?"
"Er ... I do not understand, my lord."
"If I just wanted to speak with them, or one of
them--can I go to the door at some other time of day
without issuing a challenge?"
"But why?" Cabuk sounded so puzzled that perhaps
none of his customers had ever asked him such a question
before. "What other business could you have with them?"
"Suppose I just wanted to ask them a question."
"I never heard of that being done, my lord. No
one ever goes in or out of the monastery except as
I have told you."
Kromman's fingers did not move.
Durendal persisted. "Who delivers their
food?"
"I--I do not know, my lord!"
"How often does the challenger win? Once a
month?"
"Oh, more often than that."
Kromman rubbed his chin.
"And are these brothers truly immortal, as the
legends say?"
"Indeed they must be, your honor," the old
man said unwillingly. "I have seen them all my
life. When I was but a child, my father would
sit me on the wall to watch the duels, and they were
the same men then as they are now. I know them all
--Herat, Sahrif, Yarkan, Tabriz, and
all the others. They are no older now than they were
then."
Kromman's fingers were still.
"Thank you. The food soon." Durendal
flipped a coin, which Cabuk snatched out of the dark
with surprising agility--take him back
to Ironhall, maybe?
As the door closed behind him, the inquisitor
spoke in Chivian, "Mostly true."
"But not once a month?"
"No. What did the caravan guards say?"
"About once a year. Or less."
Wolfbiter snorted with disgust. "They must be
fiery good fighters! And the challengers are earth
stupid! Three or four hundred to one? Those
odds are not worth it."
"Not to Sir Wolfbiter," Durendal said.
"But if you were a strong young peasant with