Rebel of Antares Read Online Free PDF Page B

course, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that one of those Klactoils might succeed in the Arena, might win his victories, advancing from coy to apprentice, to kaidur, and then, if the gods smiled on him and he trusted in Beng Thrax, he might become a hyr-kaidur. Then his fortune would be made. Of the fifty or so I did not think more than one percent would do that; which meant not one would succeed in the Jikhorkdun. The opposition would be just too fierce, from savage animals and giant beasts to extraordinary proficient and cunning kaidurs who’d have their tripes out as they stood on the silver sand gawping at the crowds and the color and the noise and the whole impressive and diabolical display.
    The life of a hyr-kaidur could be alluring. I knew that. Once you had made your mark, achieved your victories, stayed alive, you were a man set apart. The life could suck you in and overwhelm you with sensory impressions, with the fierce surge of combat, with the ferocious partisanship and courage that sought victory for your color. The Mystique of the Arena might possibly transcend areas amenable to reasonable analysis; it existed. I had been a hyr-kaidur in Huringa at a time that, with the stink of the place in my nostrils, did not seem at all long ago... Yes, the Jikhorkdun possessed its aura, and between harshly defined limits the Arena did have a genuine feeling, a sense of passion in victory, an involvement with means which, in themselves, created a mystery above reason, even if the ends were despicable to me. I wanted nothing more of the Jikhorkdun, where I had been known as Drak the Sword.
    Jaezila threw down the remnants of the shonage. “All the same,” she said in her bright, no-nonsense voice, “the Jikhorkdun in Ruathytu is far more bloody than the one here in Huringa.”
    Tyfar hunched a shoulder. “True.”
    Ruathytu, the capital city of the Empire of Hamal, was well-known to me. I had visited the arena there, unwillingly.
    “We were interrupted at table,” I said. “Let us find a fresh bottle.”
    “And we can talk more about this Vad Noran. You know him well?”
    “No, Jaezila. Only to sell wild beasts to.” I laughed, shaking off the dark mood. “Oh, and to provide him with a vicarious Jikai.” We jested, between ourselves, in an easy companionable way, and made light of ponderous matters. But the ponderous matters pressed in hard.
    We found a small tavern that was not too congested and a bottle of red Corandian, very low in alcoholic content, and split it between us. “And did you see this mysterious swordsman, this Gochert with one eye and the other all covered with crusted diamonds and emeralds?” Jaezila lifted her glass and before she drank, added, “I am intrigued how a one-eyed man can be so sure with a blade.”
    “As to his prowess as a bladesman, that I cannot say,” I said. “But, yes, I did see him. He moved with a deliberateness, rather like a stalking leem, very quiet and smooth. He wore good blades. He dressed austerely. And he was thin, by Krun! At the time I remember I thought he looked like a starving ferret.”
    Jaezila laughed. Tyfar nodded. “Such men are quick with a blade.”
    “I’ll tell you one thing. He gave Vad Noran the Jikai [1] for the fight with the schrepims. But I don’t think he could believe Noran had really done what was claimed. He looked at me with his one eye, very fishy.”
    “A Klactoil eye!”
    “Precisely.”
    “But he was apim, like us?”
    “Assuredly. What do you know of him? For I confess, he intrigues me.”
    “I know little and that little bodes ill for Hamal.” Tyfar lifted the bottle, which was empty, and signaled the serving girl, who was a Gonell slave with silver hair wound around her body three times. The fresh bottle opened, Tyfar said, “My people here keep their eyes and ears open. They tell me this Gochert is a part of a conspiracy against Hamal.”
    This sounded promising. Maybe Gochert had been too harshly judged.