Masks of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers

occur on this Earth unaccountable sudden silences. These occur at twenty minutes to or twenty minutes past the hour. In one such abrupt silence two things happened.
    One — Twayne Gullik craftily snitched out his sword scabbard, tangled it in the busy legs of the little tump serving girl and toppled her over. The tray with its freight of half-empty wine cups spilled. Twayne Gullik laughed, a clever Ift scoring over a stupid tump in the eternal rivalry between the two races.
    Murkizon snorted, and turned away, disgusted.
    And, two — I said, hard edged to Pando: “Tell me, Kov Pando, why did you choose the zhantil as your emblem?”
    He knew. Of course he knew, and he damned well knew I knew, too.
    Pando gripped a gem-encrusted golden goblet. He looked down the table at me. “I recall a certain day, with the caravan, out in the New Territories of Turismond. I lost the pelt, seasons ago. But I said, then, and I kept my promise. The zhantil is the noblest wild animal—” He stopped himself, and then went on:
    “You called yourself Dray Prescot then.”
    “I have used the name, I admit,” I said casually. “And the zhantil-masks we spoke of? I admire your craft there. It is a great gesture, potentially a Jikai, to smash the leem-masks with zhantil-masks.”
    “And that is our true purpose!” cried Pompino, very bristly. “And not this unseemly wrangling among ourselves.”
    I hid my smile as I drank. My haughty Khibil comrade Pompino not enjoying a bout of wrangling! Come the day!
    “Murgon has the king’s ear,” said Pando. He spoke moodily. “He is ensconced in the Zhantil Palace in Port Marsilus. He raises an army. I begin to think that perhaps he has won this bout, and maybe this is the last contest.”
    “Nonsense, kov!” said Pompino. “Do you not have the Vadni Dafni at your side!”
    I must admit I wondered what the talkative Dafni would have to say about being lumped together as what amounted to a chattel along with the king’s ear and the Zhantil Palace. Mind you, given the circumstances and the customs, that was exactly the situation, and she was enough of a noble lady to understand that. I wondered, too, what she would do about it.
    What she did do was to stand up and say — inter alia with comments about the new dress she had ordered and the way she required her eggs in the morning — that now she would retire. Her handmaids went with her. Of all the ladies left only one, I judged, might not wish to join in the drinking and singing that would follow. Perhaps two, if Pynsi Mytham was feeling too frail. The lady Nalfi stood up. “I, too, will retire.”
    So that was a simple wager won.
    Pynsi stayed on and this, I judged, was because Pando did. We sang a few songs; but they did not rollick out with the required gusto. We were not, all told, a happy band.
    In the end I’d had enough. I said to Dayra: “I’m for bed.”
    So, Dayra, Pompino, two or three others, we made our respects and cleared off to our quarters.
    Larghos vanished. We slept. We awoke. We breakfasted. All that day we argued back and forth, and Pando did not put in an appearance. We renewed acquaintanceship with the cadade, the captain of the guard, Framco the Tranzer. He was pleased to see us, for he recognized the crew as seasoned warriors.
    Naghan the Pellendur had copied his cadade’s habit of pulling his whiskers.
    Everyone wanted to go and inspect the voller.
    I said to Pompino, “We can’t call her Pride of Bormark .”
    “True. Well, let your young friend Pando sweat. We’ll call her Golden Zhantil .”
    “Capital!”
    At our own request we saddled up zorcas and rode through the forests, admiring their richness. The animals were very fine, not as fine as Filbarrka’s zorcas of the Blue Mountains of Vallia, but then, as he would be the first to say, there are no zorcas in all Kregen to match his.
    Three days thus passed in idleness and chatter.
    On the fourth day we cantered back gently through the falling shadows