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the chunky body, the blunt head and those close-set narrow eyes, that luxuriant mane of indigo hair.
I judged the time was ripe.
I entered the room very fast, and struck Nath upon that mane of indigo hair with the hilt of my sword, so
that he dropped to the stone and blood burst from his nostrils and mouth. To the one called Bargo I
showed the sword point, pushed against the leather over his heart. I leaned on the blade and it punctured
leather and skin. Bargo s square harsh mouth clamped down. He glared at me, and there was death in
my face, and he read it there, and he scowled back in savage defiance.
 Where is the prisoner, Bargo? I spoke roughly, yet in a normal voice. I believe that frightened him
more.
He gave me back look for look; then he lowered indigo-stained eyelids over his eyes and said:
 Below 
 The wild leap of my heart must be quelled, instantly. . .
There were no other occupants of the guardroom. Leaning against the wall behind the opened door
stood two of the bamboo-hafted, gladius-bladed, and single-edge bitted toonons, the personal weapon
of the Ullars, favored by them over all others when in the air. Each bamboo haft was twelve feet in length;
with a two-handed grip on that, well-spaced, an Ullar could wield a wide swath of destruction about him
in the air. The idea of carrying a short sword aloft was incongruous and ludicrous; what the Ullars had
done was to mount the short sword upon this extended haft, reinforce it with a single ax-edge, narrow
and deeply curved, and thus bring swordplay into a semblance of possibility aboard the back of a bird,
albeit they had in reality constructed a kind of halberd.
Bargo s narrow and deeply-set eyes were focused upon my sword as its point thrust against the leathers
over his chest. He wore a brave gold-laced sash about his waist. His legs, clad in the bound leather and
cloth that gave him protection when in flight, were quivering. I knew that a moment s relaxation of
watchfulness with him would be enough; he would be upon me like a plains leem.
 Lead, Bargo. Again I spoke almost normally.
The only precaution I took with him as I shifted the sword so that he could precede me from the
guardroom was to relieve him of his sword. The blade was exceptionally long and thin. It was steel,
flexible, keen, suited to the kind of blows a man must deliver if he fights from impiter back. I threw it
down into a corner. I fancied my Krozair long sword would overmatch these impiter blades. Bargo s
torch sputtered redly.
As we walked steadily down the winding stairs noises hitherto unheard became audible at the lower
level. The distant sound of laughter, shouting, music from the single-bagpipes and the wilder, melancholy
strains wrenched from the triple-bagpipes; I could even hear, I fancied now and then, the chink of bottles
and the rattle of the dice cups, the tinkle of money. We went down the stairs in perfect silence. Bargo
understood that his life meant nothing to me.
So confident was I of success that I could worry about Seg now, and hope he could keep clear of the
impiter patrols the Ullars would have flying about Plicla.
The stones were old with that distinctive Rapa odor upon them still. We entered a corridor where dust
lay thickly, marked by a central trail of darker footprints. At each cell door the dust lay undisturbed, at
each one  save one!
To this Bargo unhesitatingly led.
 Open it, Bargo.
This he did, in silence, with the keys from his belt; great clumsy wooden keys they were, each a good
nine inches in length, cunningly cut from lenk. The door opened, creaking. I looked inside, my emotions
held tightly under, and
An old man rose from his filthy bed of straw, gazing up with weak eyes, blinking, his near-lipless
wrinkled mouth working, trying to distinguish us in the torchlit gloom.
 I have told you, and told you, he said in a voice that quavered as much from age as fear.  I cannot do
it  you must believe me, Umgar Stro  there are some things forbidden and some things impossible
for the Wizards of Loh.
 I took Bargo by the front of his leather tunic and I lifted his feet from the floor. My sword point nestled
into his throat. He was very near death, then, and he knew it.
 Where is she, you fool? The prisoner, the girl  tell me, quickly!
He gargled. He managed to spit out words.  This is the prisoner! By the snow-blind feister-feelt, I swear
it!
 There is another, rast! A girl  the fairest girl you have ever seen. Where?
He shook his head weakly, and his blunt snout wrinkled with his fear. His indigo hair hung lankly down
his shoulders.
 There is no other!
I threw him down and my sword struck like a risslaca; but in the instant of striking I turned the blade so
that the flat took him across the head and he pitched forward and lay still without uttering a sound.
 You are not of the Ullars, Jikai. The old man stood more firmly now, clutching his rags about him. His
eyes in the random light from the fallen torch caught reflections and glowed like spilled wine drops in the
wrinkled map of his face. His nose was long and narrow, his lips nonexistent, and the hair that wisped
about his temples was still as red as any man of Loh s. It looked blue-black in that half light, but I knew it
was red.
 Have you seen another prisoner, old man, a girl, a girl so wondrous 
He shook that head and I wondered why it did not creak as the cell door had creaked. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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