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so doing beyond a stubborn foolishness, was the one a clansman would have selected, for all that he was
a dusty shabby gray color. But I liked the look of him, the bright light of intelligence in his eyes.
 So you rush upon disaster, good Notor! Well, I can say no more! And Khobo the So threw up his
three hands in despair.  Choose this Dust Pounder, Notor, and have done, then.
So, astride Dust Pounder, thrilling again to the feel of a blood zorca between my knees, I rode back to
the tavern at which for the moment I stayed. This wasThe Paline and Queng, run by a fat and happy
Obdjang who knew exactly where every last ob came from and went to, and who made the best vosk
pie in all Djanguraj. I downed some of his better wine, a clear yellow vintage from east, beyond the
Mountains of Mirth, and bade Khobo sup up, and roared out that now I would challenge all comers in
the zorca races.
This, as you will see, was a highly cunning way for a Krozair of Zy to earn his daily bread. But as I have
said, I felt bitter and betrayed and desolated, in those early days in Djanduin.
Well, I will not weary you with a recital of my daily doings, as those doings wearied me. Suffice it to say
that I raced Dust Pounder, and we won handsome sums of golden deldys; and I made the acquaintance
of my Lady Lara Kholin Domon, who herself raced zorcas and who, perhaps, felt annoyance that she
had lost, and who yet concealed that annoyance because she fancied some affection for me. The Lady
Lara  oh, yes, she was a girl with fire and spirit, who rode like the east wind over the Sunset Sea. Yet
she had a humility that was totally amused each time some proud Djang buck proposed to her. Her
middle name  Kholin  proclaimed to all Djanduin that she came of a most powerful and wealthy tan
 or House or clan or tribe  of Djanguraj. The Fellins and the Stolins were not in the same class as
the Kholins.
 We raced our zorcas against each other, and old Dust Pounder carried me to victory, for I would not
shame her by pulling on his rein and so allowing her a hollow victory.
Her wild coppery hair blazed under the suns as we rode, her lithe and lissome form, clad in gray
leathers, bent urgently over the neck of her zorca, whispering in his ear, entreating, pleading, urging,
commanding him to run faster, faster, faster! Fast enough, at any rate, to beat Dust Pounder. But Dust
Pounder had an aversion to running with another zorca s hindquarters in his view.
Her four supple arms, rounded and aglow with beauty, could not aid her once she mounted a zorca. But
when she wrestled with me, stripped, I found her a most slippery customer. We wrestled for our own
private amusement  not as we raced, as professionals for gain  and I could not bring myself to use
the disciplines of the Krozairs of Zy upon her and so hurl her flat upon her back, panting, and place my
foot upon her neck. She did this to me, though, many times, laughing down on me, her eyes dancing with
mischief, her vibrant form outlined above me, her coppery hair in disarray, superb.
 Now, Dray Prescot, who says four arms are not better than two!
 I won t argue, Lara. But for the sweet sake of Djan Himself, take your foot off my windpipe so I can
breathe!
They knew of the Khamorros of Herrelldrin here, of course, being not all that far distant from Pellow,
and their own Martial Monks were reputed masters of bloodless combat as well as more serious work
with pointed and edged weapons. My hair was growing back and I was shaving, as I sometimes did,
leaving my arrogant old brown moustache to thrust its way up from my lip. I wondered what Turko the
Shield would make of my thus throwing a combat with a four-armed girl  and so cursed and groaned
as again the realization of ten infernal years to serve in my prison of time brought me back to reality.
So the time passed in Djanguraj, capital of Djanduin.
Chuktar Rumferling had guessed right about the attack route of the Gorgrens. I knew there would be
more of sagacity and experience than sheer guesswork in this decision as to which pass to throw most of
his weight. The first of this fresh invasion from Gorgrendrin was hurled back. I stood silently in the
crowded streets to watch the wounded come in. On that day the new king was fished from the river, its
yellow mud disturbed by his finery and his jewels, and a new king installed himself.
The main strength of the army lay carefully positioned along the frontier under the cover of the Yawfi
Suth and the Wendwath; those left at home in Djanguraj struggled to keep the country on its feet.
This period proved near-disastrous to the Djangs. Before the troubles there had been three kings who
had ruled for over a hundred years each, and before that there had never been this weakening rapid
succession. Djang and Obdjang had ascended the throne in the sacred court of the warrior gods at the
center of the Palace of Illustrious Ornament. No continuity could be achieved, it seemed, and even the
expedient of the Obdjangs and Djangs failed in allowing a diff of another species to ascend the throne. A
Rapa, a Chulik, and a Bleg succeeded one another with the rapidity of utter ruin.
I saw Coper when the Bleg was cut down from the rafters of his own country house, and the Pallan of
the Highways looked exhausted, shrunken. Sinkie was lying down.
 It is good to see you, Notor Prescot. These are evil days in Djanduin.
 Rather too carelessly, I said,  The army will have to return to set a strong king upon the throne. You, my
dear Pallan, or Chuktar Rumferling, or one of your friends who see eye to eye with you.
At this Sinkie sat bolt upright with a shriek.
 Notor Prescot! I consider you a good and valued friend! But to speak thus! Would you condemn my
poor dear husband to a terrible fate  do you want his blood to stain the faerling throne?
 Of course not, Lady Sinkie, as well you know. But there must be a man of courage and strength and
sound common sense. The markets complain of the prices of food. Ships from countries overseas do not
wish to trade because we cannot guarantee either their safety or payment. Why, I can only make a living
by winning in the zorca races 
 We have heard, Notor Prescot.
They were a straitlaced pair, these two, and yet I liked them much. We talked more and I believe it was
then that Pallan Coper began to come around to the dreadful idea that perhaps Naghan Rumferling, or
one of their circle, would have to chance his life as king. I was shown out by their personal servant,
Dolar, a massive Djang of ferocious appearance and childlike mind, a man of enormous courage and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]