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  “Three gold, one for each of you.”

  “Two golds, for the three of us.”

  Lars grinned again and his eyes deliberately went back to the two women. He rubbed his lean jaw thoughtfully. “Two gold,” he said at last. “But your girls are dancers. Let them entertain us, and I will take you all down to the City of Swords for two gold.”

  For a second, Kananda was caught off guard. They needed a cover story, but his skill as a lyre-player was limited and they had decided that Zela and Jayna would only dance as a last resort. Certainly they had not expected to linger long enough to need to prove themselves in Corrion.

  Then Zela intervened calmly with their prearranged excuse. “We cannot dance tonight. We have no music.”

  Lars stared at her doubtfully, but Jayna was quick to enlarge the story.

  “We were to meet our string-player here,” she said tactfully. “But we find he has already traveled ahead of us to the City. That is why we have changed our minds about staying here in Corrion.” Their planned story, if one became necessary, was to have been that Kananda had lost or broken his lyre, but this new, spur-of-the-moment improvisation seemed much better fitted to their present circumstances.

  Lars turned a hard look to Kananda who simply shrugged and nodded.

  For a moment, it seemed that the fast thinking by the two women had eased them out of an awkward situation, but the bald-headed innkeeper had been listening to every word, and now he saw that there was an opportunity to profit. If the women would dance, it would draw in more customers, and all would drink more ale.

  “We have a string-player,” he cut in, with the air of a man pleased to be helpful.”

  “Rona can play and sing.” He turned and shouted through the mass of mostly male drinkers. “Rona! Rona—get over here and bring your screech box with you.”

  The girl who responded was the youngest of the four serving women. She dumped two fists of full ale jugs onto the table she was attending and, slapping away a pawing hand from her breast, she came toward them with raised eyebrows and the glimmer of a hopeful smile. Keeping this crowd supplied with their fast disappearing drink was busy work and she was pleased at the chance to take a break.

  “These girls are dancers,” the innkeeper told her. “Play for them.”

  Kananda saw that there was no escape. If they wanted to allay suspicion and maintain their cover then Zela and Jayna would have to dance. Fortunately they had rehearsed a few basic routines. They waited calmly and patiently for Kananda to complete the deal.

  “Ten silvers,” Kananda told the innkeeper. “My girls will dance for ten silvers.”

  “I will not sell that much extra ale. I will pay six.”

  “Eight.”

  The bald man scowled. “How can a poor man make a profit?” He appealed to the circle of grinning blue faces, but now most of the men there were urging him to pay and let the girls dance. “Eight silvers,” he agreed. “But they had better be good. And the rest of you had best drink up to pay for them.”

  There was laughter and shouts of approval, and Rona was quick to take advantage. “One silver for me,” she demanded.

  “Aye, one silver for you.” He tried to look cheated, but he was satisfied with the deal.

  There was a delay while the dancing space was cleared and tables were pushed back, and Rona went off to fetch her instrument. She returned without her ale-stained apron, with the lacing of her shirt slightly loosened, and carrying what looked to Kananda like a crude version of a lute. The round body was stretched with taut wolf hide and the long neck had five strings. A stool was quickly found for her, its previous occupant being unceremoniously pushed off, but all those present were in good humour. They jostled for front rank positions with eager anticipation.

  Jayna and Zela removed their outer furs. Beneath they wore short skirts, knee high boots and laced shirts. They too loosened the lacings at their breasts, more to ease any restriction on their breathing than for titillation, but the watchers cheered.

  They conferred with Rona to decide what tunes they all knew, and then the dancing began. Kananda positioned himself to one side of the circle where he could watch the audience, and saw the grinning face of Lars in the forefront of the crowd. Lars had his eyes fixed on Jayna’s cleavage, and Kananda decided that he disliked the man. Given the opportunity, he would be happy to wipe the triumphant smirk from that lean, pockmarked face.

  For the next half hour, Zela and Jayna went swiftly through their practised routines. This was nothing like the graceful and seductive movements of the dancing girls of Karakhor. Here the rhythms were fast and savage, with the dancers whirling and twisting in fantastic militaristic and war-like patterns. Speed replaced grace, and pure animal vigour overwhelmed any sense of their softness and femininity. It was a wild, barbaric performance, and the music harsh and vibrant. Rona played the strings with rapid strokes of a short bow, rather than plucking them with her fingers, and from time to time switched to drumming on the wolfskin box with the speed-blurred fist of her left hand. By the time the first set had finished, all three of them were breathing heavily, with sweat running down their faces.

  At a sign from Jayna, Kananda called a rest. The girls sat down and more ale-jugs were served. The crowd applauded and Lars tossed a few copper coins onto their table. A few more of the appreciative on-lookers added their coins to the pile. Jayna smiled their thanks and pushed the money to Kananda. Kananda separated a few coins from the pile and pushed them over to Rona. The rest he put into his pocket. His generosity met with general approval and there was a feeling of more goodwill and good humour as they took their break. However, all too soon the innkeeper and the more voluble voices in the crowd were demanding that the two women should dance again.

  Jayna caught Kananda’s eye and nodded, indicating that it was a fair request for the price that had been agreed. Kananda was reluctant, for by now many of the men in the crowd were getting seriously drunk, but again he saw no real choice. Rona took her place and the music struck up again, and Jayna and Zela spun into a repeat performance of what had gone before. The Gheddans, it seemed, cared little for any real variety in their entertainment, only that the dancing should get wilder and faster.

  At the end of the second set, as Rona sawed the last wailing chord and Zela and Jayna came to an exhausted stop, there was uproar from the crowd. The on-lookers cheered and shouted, and more of the low value copper coins rained down onto the table where Kananda sat. Jayna had almost crashed into the tight-pressed crowd with her final flourish and she gave them a quick smile before turning to rejoin Kananda at their table. A tall man with the build of an ox, who had drunk more than most, made a grab at her shoulder to pull her back.

  Jayna was half turned into the drunken embrace. One rough hand pulled at her breast, the other was wrapped around her waist. The man swayed as he leered at her and pushed his face close to snatch a kiss. Jayna leaned backward, and then back-handed him hard across the mouth.

  The man staggered, releasing her and looking surprised as he brought his hand up to his lips. He stared at his own blood smeared on his fingers, and then rage flushed his features.

  “You stinking slit of a Silurian bitch,” he roared angrily. “You will pay for that.” He lunged toward her again and clumsily pulled a large knife from his belt.

  Jayna backed up two swift steps. Her right hand flashed down to the top of her boot, and she too withdrew a long-bladed knife. Beside her, Zela copied her movements in a double act as smoothly coordinated as their dancing had been.

  The drunk stared at the two knives threatening him and hesitated. Then he blinked and looked down and there was a third blade at his throat. The tip of Kananda’s sword grazed the underside of his chin.

  “You have consumed too much ale, my friend,” Kananda said grimly. “It is time to go home.”

  Jayna hissed a sharp warning and Kananda’s gaze flickered to his left. He saw that the man he threatened had friends, and a group of three young hot-blo
ods were already clearing their swords from their scabbards. Kananda turned his blade swiftly to face the new challenge. The three hesitated. The first man charged at Kananda from his right with the knife. Kananda flipped his blade up and smashed his steel guarded fist full into the face of his first assailant. The man went down senseless. The other two drew blades and charged.

  They were poor swordsman, and Kananda spun the first blade out of its owner’s hand with his first parry. Seconds later, he had run the second man through the upper arm and he too had dropped his blade. Zela swept up one of the dropped swords and leaped forward. Kananda already had his sword-point at the throat of the last of the three, and he too backed up and allowed his blade to clatter to the floor.

  Time froze. Every man in the room was rigid, many of them tensed to fight. The silence lengthened, and then Kananda laughed and lowered his sword.

  “My girls only dance,” he told them all cheerfully, and then, remembering what Jayna had taught him of Gheddan manners, he booted the last man he had disarmed casually in the crotch to send him staggering back into the crowd. “But no more tonight,” he finished. He looked at Jayna still holding her knife, and at Zela in a fighting stance with both knife and sword. “I think their blood is too hot.”

  There was more laughter and the mood relaxed. The fight was over and no one had been killed. For a bar brawl in Corrion it was not really an exceptional affair. The bald-headed innkeeper moved to throw out the losers and the rest went back to their drinking.

  Kananda sheathed his sword and finished his ale. Rona went reluctantly back to her serving work, and Zela and Jayna pulled on their fur cloaks and sat beside him. The atmosphere around them returned to normal, and then Lars appeared again, grinning as he sat down for a moment to join them.

  “A fine performance,” he praised Jayna. And then to Kananda. “You fight well. It was all neatly done.”

  “Sometimes it is necessary,” Kananda said flatly. He harboured the thought that it would have been preferable if it had been the face of Lars that he had been obliged to smash, but he had to remember they still needed a passage to the City of Swords.

  The big boatman grinned again. “Be on the quayside at noon tomorrow, and we will resume our journey together. You can me pay me then.”

  After a few more minutes of idle talk, he left them, and Kananda deemed it was prudent to retire. Neither of his companions wanted to argue and followed him meekly up to their balcony and their room.

  “Lars was right,” Jayna remarked when Kananda had closed the door behind them. “You do fight well. I do not think I have ever seen such skillful swordplay. Perhaps we should make it a regular part of our dance routine.”

  She was clearly impressed and there was a new sparkle of interest in her eyes. It was as though she was seeing Kananda clearly for the first time.

  Zela could not fail to notice, and her blood suddenly flushed hot with a quick surge of jealousy. The intensity of the emotion, and her hostile new appraisal of Jayna, caught her by surprise.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The assembly gong had once again boomed out its solemn call, and the great, many-columned audience hall of Karakhor was filled to capacity with the grim-faced Lords and Princes who had gathered for the Council of War. Kara-Rashna sat in the elephant tusk throne with a gleaming, gold-hilted sword in the red silk sash at his hip, adding to the dazzle and sparkle of the jewels that encrusted his white tunic and his turban. On his left, he was flanked by Jahan and Kaseem, his Warmaster and his High Priest, and on his right by his brothers Sanjay and Devan. Facing them were the younger princes, the Lords of the great houses, and then the stalwart ranks of all their sons and captains and champions.

  All the might and men at arms of Karakhor were here, ready to stand and fight, to slay or die, as the Gods decreed. None showed fear. Fear was only for the night, for the dark hours when they might lie alone or in the company of their wives. It had flickered when they faced the blue gods, but now they tried hard to ignore those memories and the damaged columns and the cracked tiles where the fire-blasted masonry had rained down. The hordes of Maghalla were only mortal, and in this war Council, honour demanded that they show only fierce pride and determination. Maghalla would never conquer. Karakhor would never fall. The alternatives were unthinkable.

  When the last shufflings and movements had subsided, Devan raised his hand for silence. There was stillness too, a tension like a cold fist clamped around every slowly-beating heart, and all eyes looked to the King.

  “Maghalla is on the move.” Kara-Rashna announced gravely. “The armies of Sardar are marching now upon Karakhor.” He nodded for one of his advisors to continue and elaborate, and to the surprise of many, he nominated Kaseem.

  The old priest squared his frail and bony shoulders within his simple robe and spoke softly but clearly. “The forces of Maghalla began to break camp shortly before dawn. They advance toward us from the west. Sardar and his generals lead from the centre with four hundred war elephants in the vanguard. On their right flank march the forces of Kanju behind one hundred elephants. On their left, Bahdra fields fifty war elephants. Their combined chariots and foot soldiers are uncountable. The warriors of the monkey tribes are split into two groups. The red monkey clan marches between Maghalla and Kanju. The black clan between Maghalla and Bahdra. If they all stay disciplined and maintain the march, they will reach our walls within three days.”

  “The combined force of war chariots is almost twelve hundred,” Jahan said with some satisfaction. The old Warmaster still could not fathom how the priest was receiving his “holy visions” but everything Kaseem reported was still being solidly corroborated by his own sources. Jahan could not deny that the old man had some secret means or power, but the picture Kaseem gave was a general one without specifics. “The combined weight of foot soldiers ranged against us, archers, spearmen and swordsmen, is over fourteen thousand.”

  “Then we face double our own numbers.” The Lord of the House of Tilak sounded stunned.

  “We will meet them on the plain before the west wall of the city.” Jahan explained his strategy, his hand resting heavily on his great, ruby-hilted sword. “For most of the day, they will have the sun in their eyes. Our archers will line the city wall where they can shoot over the heads of our own forces. We have dug pits and traps that will bring down many of their elephants and chariots. Our captains all know the safe ways through. As the sun swings round, we will withdraw early within the walls. We have the defensive position that will cost them dearly.”

  “We also have the blessings of the Gods.” Kaseem remembered his earthly role. “Our priests have prayed and made all the sacrifices that Indra, Agni and Varuna could desire. All the signs and portents are that the Gods themselves will aid us in this mighty struggle. Sardar and Maghalla cannot defeat the Gods. Karakhor will prevail.”

  “We are well prepared.” Devan added his solid weight of reassurance. “Kanju is soft. Bahdra is only a token force. The monkey tribes will probably disappear back into their forests as soon as they realize there is to be no quick and easy victory. Sardar’s allies are nothing. The only real battle is between Karakhor and Maghalla, and we will defeat them.”

  “It may be a long and bloody road to victory.” Jahan rumbled a reluctant warning. He did not want them to become too complacent. “Nothing will be decided in a day, perhaps not for many days. But Prince Devan speaks truth, Karakhor will stand to see the broken armies of Maghalla turn and withdraw, never to come back to our lands. They will learn their lesson in blood and steel.”

  They were good speeches, caution tempered with a stiffening of backbone, but Kaseem felt it necessary to put in sadly: “Some of us here will die. But all who die will die in glory. Our prayers have already assured their souls an elevation in the Great Stream of Samsara. All will be reborn to better lives than before. All will be blessed by Indra.”

  The sobered gathering bowed their heads respectfully, while Sahani and the other priests in attendance obed
iently placed palms together and murmured more consoling words of prayer. Kara-Rashna briefly closed his watery eyes, and his one good hand closed tightly in a blue-veined fist, as though for a moment he felt all the pain and anguish of all his people and his threatened city.

  “We need to know our enemy.” Jahan brought them back onto the practical track once more, taking his own firm grip on the proceedings. “We must all recognize his banners so that we know where on the battlefield are his rallying points and our greatest dangers. Sardar himself is our greatest foe. His chariot flies the banner of the Black Leopard. From his chariot, he prefers to wield the axe. If he dismounts, he will use the sword. He is a mighty swordsman and one to be feared.

  “His generals are Durga and Kamar. Durga flies the banner of the Black Leopard’s Claw, and his weapon is the axe. Kamar flies a Red Leopard’s Claw and wields a battle mace. He has known a sword blade to break in the fury of his attack, and an axe blade to get hooked in the hard leather of a dead enemy’s armour, so he always favours the mace. Prince Tuluq, the son of Sardar flies the banner of the Coiled Cobra. These four must be marked and met by our strongest champions.”

  Jahan paused to let his words sink in and burn upon their memories. Then he continued, “Kumar-Rao, the King of Kanju, flies the banner of the Golden Bear. His son, the Prince Zarin, who is now also a prince of Maghalla, flies a black mailed fist on a red background. The Prince Bharat, the brother of Kumar-Rao, flies the banner of a Red Fist on a black background.”

  Sanjay permitted himself a smile to lighten the grim formality of their list of opponents and remarked casually, “A snake in the political grass with a silver tongue would be a more fitting banner. Bharat will prove a cunning if not a heroic fighter.”

  There was laughter and Jahan nodded agreement before he finished. “The Prince Vijay flies the Blue Sea Serpent of Bhadra for his absent father. The monkey clan generals have their own banners of red and black monkey skulls, but I do not know if they will honour the general code of seeking out champions of their own standing, or whether they will just butcher indiscriminately.”