Avenger of Antares Read Online Free Page A

espionage in Hamal I had been a nonentity, someone more in the middle of society, as Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley. But to these men I was Prince Majister of Vallia. I could order them flogged jikaider, put in irons, deprived of rations; I could make life miserable for them at the slightest pretext.
    Captain Lars Ehren, I had made it my business to find out, ranked as a good and concerned captain. I would do nothing to undermine his authority, or to tread upon his firm foundations and weaken them.
    One of the men with the rank marks of a dwa-Deldar looked up from where he was greasing the varter chute. He had a thin, exceedingly black streak of chin beard running under his jaws. In his close-fitting leather cap a bright red feather sported. His lean body was bare, and his buff-colored breeches had been cut off above the knees. He was barefoot. I looked at his face, at the lean jaw, the broken nose, the bright and knowing brown eyes. I saw that if I treated him with scrupulous fairness, this was a man with whom I could do business.
    “Deldar Rogahan!”
    “Aye, Majister.”
    “I hear you can split the chunkrah’s eye at a distance where most men can see only their rumps.”
    There rose a little titter from the varter crews at this, and I felt encouraged.
    “That rast following us there—” I pointed over the stern. The shank foamed along, catching us up, his canvas hoisted fully and, already, the panel we had knocked out replaced. “That cramph of cramphs needs something of your skill, Wersting Rogahan.”
    At this his mates chortled out loud. In their experience, officers of the quarterdeck seldom bothered to use the men’s own nicknames. And a wersting, as you and I both know, is a most ferocious black-and-white-striped hunting dog. They were a free and easy bunch, these galleon sailors of Vallia, men I would be proud to number in a crew of my own and to name as friends.
    “The moment he comes within range of Vela, here, Majister,” said Rogahan, “I shall spit him.”
    By this I knew that the varter nicknamed Vela had a better throw than the other. Men always give pet names to their weapons, as well on this Earth as on Kregen.
    “If you loose with Vela,” I said, and I looked across at the other varter, that on the starboard side, “then I shall loose with Sosie here and try to match you shot for shot.”
    He laughed, for discipline relaxes on occasions such as these. “By Corg, Majister! You may try. But Sosie has a stretched cord and throws poorly these days.”
    I frowned. “I do not care to sail in a ship with varters with stretched cords.”
    “No more do I, Majister! As Corg is my witness, the stretching happened when we exercised on the way south, just to the leeward of Astar.”
    “Nevertheless, Wersting Rogahan, I shall try!”
    “May Opaz guide your shot, Prince.”
    He couldn’t say fairer than that.
    I eyed him.
    “I do not think you have the need of Opaz’s guidance, Rogahan. But for Opaz’s wisdom, perhaps. Shoot straight, for the glory of Vallia!”
    If this was fustian stuff, I plead guilty; but then, I have used the rhetorical fustian to good purpose before in my life, and no doubt, Zair willing, will do so again.
    As you who have listened to these adventures will know by now, I always feel very much at home with these rough men of the sea, hard-cases, shell-backs, and share much of that feeling of comradeship with their brothers of the land and air services. As for that chattering congregation of faerlings down on the quarterdeck, that deputation for Hyrklana, they were a drag and a bore by comparison with these fighting-men of the galleons.
    One of the seamen with a red and blue tattoo of startling indecency across his chest squinted aft and turned to Deldar Rogahan.
    “He’s here, Rog. What are you waiting for?”
    “I’m the captain of the poop varters, Nath, you great onker! I’ll say when, do you hear?”
    “Aye, Rog, I hear. But, by Corg, you’re leaving it