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would be remiss in my duty if I did not visit that wonderful land very soon.
    But, now, until the Star Lords discharged us from our duty to this tiresome lady Yasuri, I was going nowhere. And, truth to tell, Yasuri was not so tiresome, not after what she had been through and was now reigning Champion, Queen of the Kazz-Jikaida board of Jikaida City.
    I said, “We will see this Nathjairn the Rorvard tonight, Pompino, your new friend, and we will measure his words.”
    The upshot was that all Pompino’s avaricious dreams of quick wealth and superhuman powers vanished like smoke in a gale.
    Dressing ourselves with some thought — for we were going into a shadowy borderline where the Watch would venture in strength and not at all if they didn’t have to — we donned simple drab-colored clothes, of which we had a supply, and strapped up our brigandines, and hitched on our weapons. The feel of steel about me came with not so much a shock as a kind of surprise; I had skulked abed too long.
    The twin suns were just sinking as we walked quietly along the avenues and headed for the poor quarter where the inn was situated. Far and Havil, they call the red and the green suns in the continent of Havilfar.
    It is a point well worth remembering. The Jikaida players were packing up their boards in the sidewalk restaurants and taverns as we went by. The brightly painted and intricately carved pieces were being laid tenderly away in the velvet-lined balass boxes. Pompino looked at me, and his foxy face bristled brilliant and russet in the last of the light.
    There was no need to ask him what he was thinking.
    Perhaps, this night, we two would be laid to rest in the velvet-lined balass box.
    The inn called Nath Chavonthjid leaned against the evening, and the leaded windows spilled yellow light upon the rutted path. A miscellany of animals was tied to the hitching rail. We walked in. I know my hand rested on my thraxter hilt. The fumes of wine reached us and, mixed with them, the stink of dopa, that fiery liquor of Kregen guaranteed to drive a fellow fighting mad. Nobody with any sense has any truck with dopa, as nobody who values life touches kaff, the virulent Kregan drug that wafts to a heaven and a hell.
    “Nathjairn?” said the portly Rapa behind the bar, his beak twisted askew from an old fight. He wiped a flagon on his apron and nodded to where men in leather aprons were hauling something toward the rear door. “There he goes, may Havil take him into his care.”
    We walked across.
    Nathjairn the Rovard was being carried out, sightless, his throat a single crimson wound from which the blood dripped thickly.
     

Chapter Four
I Refuse to Fight in Kazz-Jikaida
    Pompino switched his wooden sword about and thunked me prettily on the shoulder. I nodded to him, saluted and disengaged. The flagon of ale invited from the table and I drained it all down thirstily. In these practice bouts I had hitherto always attempted the difficult task of fighting with the object of losing with superior skill, that is, of seeming to give of my utmost and yet contriving to let the other fellow win. This is, as I have remarked, difficult.
    Pompino took a swingeing draught of his own ale, and wiping his reddish whiskers where the foam clung, said, “I don’t see how you lasted half a mur against Mefto the Kazzur, Jak. I really do not.”
    “He is the best swordsman I have ever met, Pompino. But, I repeat, he is nowhere near the greatest.”
    “You make the distinction?”
    I threw the rudis onto the bed and pulled a chair forward into the space we had cleared for the practice bout. Fighting men must practice their art. If they do not, and grow slack, the fierce clangor of battle is no time to find out they are out of practice.
    “Oh, yes. Swordplay is more a matter of the spirit.”
    “Horato the Potent is my witness you speak the truth. But how may a man attain to greatness without this spiritual quality?”
    “He cannot. Witness Prince