Free Armada of Antares by Alan Burt Akers

hat.
    “Lahal,” said Jiktar Exand, no doubt experiencing relief at this excuse not to talk further to the bully and rapier-rattler Handon.
    “I have business in the fortress,” said this young man.
    “Your name?”
    “I am called Zando—”
    Before he could speak further Kov Lykon burst in with anger trembling his voice.
    “We are talking about your dereliction of duty, Jiktar! Tell this scum to clear off before he is treated as his sort deserves.”
    Still I did not intervene. There are uses for lengths of rope if allowed to lie around.
    “But my business is pressing,” persisted Zando. His face, as I have indicated, lay mostly in the shadows of his hat and the beard concealed the rest; yet I clearly received the impression of a genuine smile. “I must speak with the Prince Majister.”
    “Ho!” said Exand. But he knew me and knew I would speak with anyone, given the correct procedures. “I think we have had enough of strangers seeking to speak to the Prince this day. Your business?” The last lashed out like a risslaca tongue.
    “That I am not at liberty to reveal to any living soul but the Prince. But I can give you messages for him that will—”
    “Enough!” Kov Lykon swaggered forward. His day had not been the best, for the Emperor had heeded my words on the Hamalian question and Lykon Crimahan still smarted. “Schtump, you cramph! Schtump before I have you flogged.”
    This young man Zando put his left hand to the pommel of his rapier. His back went up. Clearly he did not relish being thus addressed with
schtump,
which is a crude way of telling a fellow to take himself off, a word meaning hurry.
    “I do not have the pleasure of your acquaintance,” he said. “But I assure you, sir, I do not take pleasure in being addressed in quite that way.”
    Lykon gave a half-snarl and swung to his toady Handon.
    “Unsheathe that blade of yours, Ortyg, and teach the cramph manners!”
    “With the greatest of pleasures, Kov.” Ortyg Handon stepped forward, sleek and feline like a leem, and drew his rapier and dagger with that slow languid grace of the professional Bladesman thirsting to draw blood.
    Even as Ortyg Handon stepped forward, clearly about to take the utmost pleasure in killing this young man, the rapier and main-gauche appeared in a twinkling in the fists of Zando. I saw that draw, and I sucked in my breath.
    “I cannot allow brawling here,” protested Jiktar Exand.
    Kov Lykon said, “Keep a still tongue in your head, rast. I shall deal with you later.”
    Kornan the Thief withdrew into the shadows, so near he almost touched me; his hoarse breathing rasped with his terror. If Exand wondered why I did not step forward, he knew enough about me to know I would never allow him to suffer unjustly at the hands of this popinjay from Vallia.
    Young Zando spoke softly. “I do not wish the blood of any man upon my blades. Put your sword up, Koter, and let me be about my business.”
    “I shall cut you up first, you who call yourself Zando, and then I shall spit you through like a side of vosk!”
    “I wish you all to witness that this is upon this man’s head.” Zando spoke firmly. Then, to Jiktar Exand, he said a few words that made the whole of Kregen spin about me, in a whirl of disbelief and impossibility:
    “I would take it as an honor if you, Jiktar, would inform the Prince Majister that one called Zando wishes to speak to him. Say to the Prince, this Dray Prescot, say to him that I am a messenger from a Krozair brother who needs his assistance at this moment. Remember that, Jiktar, a Krozair of Zy.”

Chapter 6
    The mysterious Krozair
    I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy — I stood there like a loon. About to step forward, I saw the quick and deadly glitter of the rapiers and the daggers as they crossed and clashed. If I stepped forward now, I knew only too well what would happen. This young Zando would put up his blades and that kleesh of a Handon would spit him as he