The Starfollowers of Coramonde Read Online Free PDF Page A

up for a moment, staring at the younger man. Then, with a snort, he took
his blade through an exacting salute. He motioned to two men at the sideline,
his attendants. One was a red-bearded bear of a man, the other an apple-cheeked
little guy with sandy curls. The smaller one dashed to hand Brodur a jingling
purse. Gale-Baiter, spinning his heel, left without a word. Gil stopped the
aide.
    “I heard you
used to work for the Lady Duskwind.”
    Captain
Brodur eyed him for a moment. “That is essentially correct. How is it of
interest to you?”
    “Do you still
have contacts in the city? I want to know about Yardiff Bey, where he is and
how I can get to him.”
    “A hazardous
line of inquiry.”
    “Didn’t ask
you that.” He realized he was being brusque again.
    Brodur smiled
knowingly. “Vengeance has spurs with sharpest rowels, has it not? Very well,
meet me at the Arborway at the tenth hour this evening.” Taking his cloak, he
left.
    Watching him
go, Gil said, “All right, Ferrian, cut me loose. What was the big joke?”
    The
Horseblooded laughed, full and loud. “Brodur, you see, is left-handed. He
fought Gale-Baiter with his right to build his confidence and bump him to
higher stakes for the left-handed match, a sure wager.”
    The American
guffawed. Shaking his head at the departing Brodur, he declared, “Now that, Ferrian, is what you call a hustler.”
     
     

Chapter Two
     
    Thou shalt not swear falsely,
but fulfill thy oaths.
    St. Matthew
    Chapter 5, verse 33
     
    GIL used up the brass-bright
afternoon and coral evening prowling Kee-Amaine, the city spread at the feet of
the palace-fortress. He liked hanging out, voluntarily lost, in Kee-Amaine’s
fabulous, twilight labyrinth of a bazaar. He browsed guardedly past the glitter
of copper utensils and stained-glass lanterns, bolts of rich silks and bales of
prize furs, the sparkle of jeweled hilts and the glint of blue steel blades.
There was the omnipresent clink of vigilantly counted coins and pay-tokens. The
place smelled of cheap incense, avaricious sweat, rare perfumes, old dung,
hundreds of pungent foods, and unhappy livestock of every species.
    He kept the
heel of his left hand conspicuously on the pommel of his sword. It was a more
certain insurance against trouble than his pistol; few people here would have
heard of firearms, much less been able to recognize one, but all knew cold
steel well. It was a simple, utilitarian blade, belonging to his friend Dunstan
the Berserker. The American was determined that its owner would have it again.
    The confused
uproar in the bazaar was constant. Each vendor had a song or call, and
bartering was animated, almost theatrical. Voices and chatter here interested
him. People in the Crescent Lands spoke more rapidly, more vividly than he was
used to. Theirs was a verbal culture, and this, very much, a world of the ear
and the spoken word.
    He sampled a
skewer of grease-popping cubed meat. He found it—like many foods here—so highly
spiced that it brought tears. Lacking preservatives, people fought gamey flavor
with a tongue-searing array of seasonings.
    He eventually
threaded his way through the bazaar to the Arborway, main path through the
rambling commons known as the Tarryinground. Trees of many kinds arched above,
a corridor of the diverse hues and textures of leaves and bark.
    At the
entrance he met Brodur, just after the tenth hour had resounded. “You received
my message?” the captain asked.
    “Yes. I’ve
got the money; I grubbed it off Springbuck.”
    “Good. The
man we want is to meet us in a taproom, the White Tern. I thought a walk there
might be salutary. Too, I shall have to know more in order to be of assistance
to you. Any dealing concerned with Yardiff Bey must be presumed to have its
pitfalls.”
    Brodur, who
wore a hooded cloak, held up a broad brimmed hat. “I took the liberty of
selecting this for you, apropos of our excursion. The man we go to see was in
the throne room the night you and