growled, between clenched teeth.
“Boy!” the youthful Kep’túriyan complained indignantly. “I am a grown man and a warrior! When will you ever learn to treat me with proper respect?”
“ Ai, let the ‘boy’ speak,” T’érsite said laconically, tossing the stick to the youth.
As the young man stood, alternately opening his mouth to speak and closing it again to fume at the Argive silently, St’énelo added, “His father was an honorable man, at least. Many of us fought beside him in the Tróyan war. A hero’s son deserves some small consideration.” There was a murmur of assent from the crowd.
The aging mercenary yielded his place and sat beside his scowling son. “Then tell us where you would have us go. But leave rank out of it. I am as royal as any man here.”
“ Idé , you were a prince when your wife was still living,” Peirít’owo scoffed, his pride injured by the manner in which his right to speak had been upheld. “But Tróya would hardly accept a widowed pirate for a king now, pile of rubble though the city may be!”
Both Askán and his father were instantly on their feet, their knives drawn. T’érsite and St’énelo, waving their arms, shoved their way between the two Kanaqániyans on one side and Peirít’owo on the other, preventing bloodshed. “Peace to you both, Ainyáh and Peirít’owo,” St’énelo gulped, gripping Ainyáh’s right arm with his bony hand. “We know your old ranks well enough. But that is beside the point now.”
T’érsite held the younger Kep’túriyan prince’s wrist to keep him from drawing his own dagger. “No man here has any home to speak of!” the balding Argive cried in exasperation. “If he did, he would not be sharing my moldy bread at this miserable fireside. Just tell us where you want to go and then sit down, for the gods’ sake!”
“Very well,” Peirít’owo agreed, nervously smoothing his sparse black beard. “I liked what I saw in Mízriya.”
“ Ai , Mízriya!” scoffed a graying man who had not spoken before. Short and stocky, he squatted close to the smoky fire, poking at the embers unconcernedly. Chewing a dry blade of grass with the same nonchalant air, he did not bother to rise or reach for the speaker’s staff. “Every Assúwan, Ak’áyan, and Kanaqániyan who has a bronze blade wants to go to Mízriya, and many more besides. But that empire is overcrowded and newcomers have not been welcome there for the last decade, or have you forgotten? The Great King of the south has more than enough mercenaries and he cannot feed the ones he has now, anyway. I tell you, boy, I have fought my last battle there. Mízriyans may look small and easy to beat, but they have the archers of Káush to do their fighting for them. The bows they use are as tall as a man, too. Only a bird can fly farther and faster than a Káushan arrow. Those bowmen have the strength of Apúluno himself in their arms, and they never tire, either. Their sight is keener than any eye but the sun’s, and they never miss their targets. The Lady of the Sun herself gave them birth, you know. That is why their skin is so dark, from living so near her house.”
“Do not waste your breath telling us lies, Tushrátta” Peirít’owo said airily. “My father warned me about you. Every other word you utter is untrue. I tell you, dark skin is no more divine than pale eyes. A man will bleed when you spear him, no matter what color his skin is, and whether he comes from the southern rim of the world or the northern edge. I say Mízriya has more need of mercenaries now than ever, precisely because everyone wants to live there. They need a constant supply of new warriors to keep from being overrun by nomads from the desert and pirates from the sea.”
Tushrátta grinned, showing a mouthful of dark teeth, and waved his grass blade at the younger man. “If the Great King of Mízriya had needed your services so badly, you would be there now instead of here. The fact
“Boy!” the youthful Kep’túriyan complained indignantly. “I am a grown man and a warrior! When will you ever learn to treat me with proper respect?”
“ Ai, let the ‘boy’ speak,” T’érsite said laconically, tossing the stick to the youth.
As the young man stood, alternately opening his mouth to speak and closing it again to fume at the Argive silently, St’énelo added, “His father was an honorable man, at least. Many of us fought beside him in the Tróyan war. A hero’s son deserves some small consideration.” There was a murmur of assent from the crowd.
The aging mercenary yielded his place and sat beside his scowling son. “Then tell us where you would have us go. But leave rank out of it. I am as royal as any man here.”
“ Idé , you were a prince when your wife was still living,” Peirít’owo scoffed, his pride injured by the manner in which his right to speak had been upheld. “But Tróya would hardly accept a widowed pirate for a king now, pile of rubble though the city may be!”
Both Askán and his father were instantly on their feet, their knives drawn. T’érsite and St’énelo, waving their arms, shoved their way between the two Kanaqániyans on one side and Peirít’owo on the other, preventing bloodshed. “Peace to you both, Ainyáh and Peirít’owo,” St’énelo gulped, gripping Ainyáh’s right arm with his bony hand. “We know your old ranks well enough. But that is beside the point now.”
T’érsite held the younger Kep’túriyan prince’s wrist to keep him from drawing his own dagger. “No man here has any home to speak of!” the balding Argive cried in exasperation. “If he did, he would not be sharing my moldy bread at this miserable fireside. Just tell us where you want to go and then sit down, for the gods’ sake!”
“Very well,” Peirít’owo agreed, nervously smoothing his sparse black beard. “I liked what I saw in Mízriya.”
“ Ai , Mízriya!” scoffed a graying man who had not spoken before. Short and stocky, he squatted close to the smoky fire, poking at the embers unconcernedly. Chewing a dry blade of grass with the same nonchalant air, he did not bother to rise or reach for the speaker’s staff. “Every Assúwan, Ak’áyan, and Kanaqániyan who has a bronze blade wants to go to Mízriya, and many more besides. But that empire is overcrowded and newcomers have not been welcome there for the last decade, or have you forgotten? The Great King of the south has more than enough mercenaries and he cannot feed the ones he has now, anyway. I tell you, boy, I have fought my last battle there. Mízriyans may look small and easy to beat, but they have the archers of Káush to do their fighting for them. The bows they use are as tall as a man, too. Only a bird can fly farther and faster than a Káushan arrow. Those bowmen have the strength of Apúluno himself in their arms, and they never tire, either. Their sight is keener than any eye but the sun’s, and they never miss their targets. The Lady of the Sun herself gave them birth, you know. That is why their skin is so dark, from living so near her house.”
“Do not waste your breath telling us lies, Tushrátta” Peirít’owo said airily. “My father warned me about you. Every other word you utter is untrue. I tell you, dark skin is no more divine than pale eyes. A man will bleed when you spear him, no matter what color his skin is, and whether he comes from the southern rim of the world or the northern edge. I say Mízriya has more need of mercenaries now than ever, precisely because everyone wants to live there. They need a constant supply of new warriors to keep from being overrun by nomads from the desert and pirates from the sea.”
Tushrátta grinned, showing a mouthful of dark teeth, and waved his grass blade at the younger man. “If the Great King of Mízriya had needed your services so badly, you would be there now instead of here. The fact
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