by Andre Norton
Then, somehow rising above the constant beat of the drum, there sounded the eerie whistling, which the man-rat had used. The devil things out of the night loosed their holds, surged back and away from the battlefield.
Then they were gone entirely except for the piles of bodies, which the caravaners began to throw into the fire, making sure that there would be no survivors.
The whistle—Not looking to see how badly his leg had been torn, Shank-ji realized that this encounter might well have be a trap—or a sharp lesson. He who held the Plain of Desolation was no longer ready to wait.
This army of rats could well be turned on their own camp. Had such not appeared in company with the man-rat? Not since the night when he had nursed his wrist and faced the fact of his lost hand had he known such a loss of confidence. But there was always a way out for a man with courage and belief in his cause. If he could turn such a disaster as this upon his enemy—perhaps during the Progress—However to do so he at least must seem to accept the terms of whoever skulked now in the midst of that dangerous stretch of country.
Camp of the Progress:
Ravinga sat in her tent at the end of their first night of journeying. Marching by moonlight instead of by day was the way to travel the desert at this time of the year. But the storm season was close. They were still at least four days from Kahulawe, though this was a well-traveled way and there had been refuges hollowed in rock isles along the way. The storm watchers were also on constant duty now. Still, a company as large as this might well overflow any refuge intended for a caravan. From a hidden space beneath the false bottom in Wiu’s carrying tote she brought out the doll she had named “Quinzell.” Placing this with care so it stood upright she studied it. Though it did not contain what would make it a spy—she had nothing from Quinzell’s body to tie him to it—yet there was one ritual which might aid.
No, not yet. They must be closer—which would mean waiting yet a while—until they reached Azhengir. Yuikala and her escort had come into camp. There had been a staged welcoming on the part of the Emperor, and the Queen had offered only the most formal of greetings.
However, Ravinga had sighted one of those standing behind Yuikala at that meeting. That one was ill met indeed. Perhaps even a storm might be welcomed over this brewing evil. Reluctantly she put the doll into hiding once more. All she could do at present was let Allitta know of the presence of that courtier. To be forewarned was always best. Wiu rose out of the pile of sleeping cushions and touched nose to her arm. Ravinga nodded.
“Yes, little one. That we shall do.”
From a script pocket she brought a scrap of parchment and paint stick. In letters almost too small to read she printed out a message in her business code, one long ago Allitta had learned to use.
Allitta:
To be a member of the Progress was indeed a different form of travel than I had known as one of a trader’s caravan. For one thing we went at a slower pace—something which was not to Hynkkel’s liking but there seemed to be little he could do about it. It was true that some of the nobles and their ladies were well along in years and probably had not braved such a trip since Haban-ji had made a Progress. Such were every five years, so that the Emperor could hold court in each Queendom and learn how fared the people.
Valapa was so different from the other Queendoms; its inhabitants having a much easier life, that any trip across the Outer Regions would be a trial to the nobility of the Diamond country.
I rode beside Hynkkel at his wish and ate our midnight meal from the supplies his servants produced. Though these were not the many viands of a state banquet, the number of dishes filled with fruit, and various well-cooked servings was again more than any ordinary traveler could dream of. The fruit would not last long and we would not see its like again until we returned to Valapa. Thus I indulged myself—I hope not greedily—on lanonbemes and slices of the vapears.
At first I found myself at odds with my new rank. But Hynkkel-ji set himself to amuse me. During his own wanderings he had gathered some of the old legends of the wayfarers and we traded tales as we might have bargained for goods.
I relaxed; he did not in any way over step the bounds. His companionship was like that of a brother rather than a suitor, such a brother as I had never had. That I had been wrong in my past opinion of him, I realized before we went into camp at dawn. It did not bother me that my own belongings were brought to his private tent.
Our second meal on the road was eaten and most of the train had gone to their sleeping cushions when Hynkkel-ji dismissed the last of the servants. Murri was pacing back and forth impatiently.
“There are those waiting, you should meet,” Hynkkel said. “Come!”
With no more explanation than that, he took my hand even as he had at the festival and led me to the tent curtain, looping that up to usher me out into the day. A young officer snapped to alert as we passed him.
“Heart-one,” for the first time Hynkkel used one of the customary endearments—and loud enough for the officer to hear, “we do not have far to go.” Then he spoke directly to the officer. “Leader Jaclan, we do not go into any danger and we wish not to be accompanied.”
I believe that the officer would have made some objection but Murri pushed forward and he stepped aside for the great cat. We struck out into the desert in the light of dawn as we rounded a dune. Facing us was a pair of the carven cats the height of a man, flanking a spur of rock. Murri was well in advance and, with my hand still in Hynkkel’s, we followed him as the sky lightened even more and the day was born.
CHAPTER 15
Hynkkel-ji:
Those whose greeting had come to me were waiting. Though Murri had appeared to have his full growth, when confronted by Myrourr, his huge sire, and Maraya, whose cub he had been, suddenly he appeared less impressive. He crouched before Maraya as she welcomed him with a lick on his head. Now as we came closer, he turned to Myrourr who also acknowledged him.
As he moved to one side I brought Allitta forward until we were in touching distance of the majestic pair. I saw no sign of fear in my Companion. Instead she loosened my hold on her hand and went to her knees, bending her head in a gesture far more humble than was used at court.
Her Kotti, who had followed us without my notice, moved in front of her as if in protection, though she was smaller than a Sand Cat cubling at birth.
Now I also went to my knees. I had shed the wristband, which covered the scar of my brotherhood, and I gave greeting, well knowing that these two were indeed more powerful than any Queen or Emperor.
“By the Blessing of the Essence we come, oh, Rulers of the sands. I won to leadership among the smoothskins, but only by the aid of Murri. That you sent him to be my battlemate is a grace for which I ever give thanks. Now I wish you to look upon this she whom I have brought to you. Courage is hers, and good will. There may be danger for her and I plea you to look upon her and accept her—”
Maraya advanced. The fur of the Kotti bushed up, as did her tail, and she hissed. It was easy to read the humor in Maraya’s thought then. She regarded Kassca intently and the Kotti’s warning subsided.
“The smoothskin she is well served by this one,” the female Sand Cat commented. “That this she is accepted by the little ones, speaks well for her. I say let her be made free of the Pride.”
Maraya glanced at her mate. After what seemed a long time he answered. “Does the she ask this,” he inquired, “or is it your thought brother?”
To my vast surprise his answer came not from me but haltingly from Allitta.
“If I am believed worthy, Great Ones of the desert, then grant me this honor.” She held out her arm, stripped off a wide bracelet and pulled back both outer and inner sleeves.
As it had been with me, Maraya took her wrist into her well fanged mouth and the teeth closed on flesh so that blood appeared. Upon loosing her hold, the Sand Cat licked the oozing blood.
I was ready with a short scarf and drew it tightly about the wound, believin
g it was as deep as the one I had taken in my adoption, and I trusted that Allitta would suffer no ill effects.
“To the Great One,” Allitta was plainly addressing Maraya, “do I give thanks, for such kinship as honors all of my kind. The Sword of the House of Vurope shall be also the Sword of your Pride from this hour forth.”
She was adding part of the oath of allegiance, such as is sometimes given between one noble house and another.
I bowed my own head. “Brother and sister, deep are our thanks for your favor. There is evil—”
Myrourr’s thought interrupted mine. “Brother and Sister—you go into dark—not that of night—but evil. There is one who leads others to bring you death—behind him is a greater one who once tore apart the Outer Regions in his rage.
“I say to you that both smoothskins and furred ones must unite. All deaths, which lay between us in the past, must be set aside, for this is our land and we shall not again see it laid waste. Therefore, should there come a time, when you and yours and I and mine must stand so fronting evil, we shall come.”
Murri had moved beside me and I sensed that some unheard order had passed to him from the older cats.
“Be it so,” I replied. This offer was more than I had dared hope for.
Once more I bowed my head. Allitta reached out, did not quite touch Maraya, but the Sand Cat’s tongue licked her fingers.
The full of sun blasted in the day. Now the two cats vanished at a speed my kind could never equal. With my arm about Allitta, we returned to the encampment.
Allitta:
I had tasted a way of power, not one known to most humans. Awe possessed me. It seemed that I came from that meeting as a long-hungry woman might have come from a feast. Some new thing had become mine. The thought speech of Myrourr was a clear voice in my mind. My wrist burned and I stumbled. Hynkkel steadied me at once. Though a wound draws blood and strength from the body, this wound healed an inner part of me, aroused feelings I did not know I possessed—inputting rather than draining.
The young officer was still on guard at the tent. He stared; I knew he had sighted the bloody scarf. But he said nothing as we passed. Servants had heaped a double bed of cushions to which Hynkkel led me. He brought out clean bindings from a chest and a small pot filled with paste, and poured a measure of water into a basin.
Washing my wrist he concentrated on what he was doing, saying nothing. Paste was patted into the tear in my wrist and he rebandaged it. Only then did he sit back on his heels and look up at me.
“If there is any more pain, say so at once.”
“Was this done for my safety?”
He did not answer straightly. “You are as free of the Outer Regions as any of our kind may be. But trouble travels with us, not coming out of the sands to meet us—”
Almost in answer to that Kassca mewed sharply from the cushion beside me and a black Kotti, larger than she, squeezed under the door curtain to come directly to me: Wiu, Ravinga’s companion. Around her neck was tied a strip of parchment. Speedily I freed its knot.
“What is it?” Hynkkel asked.
I smoothed it out carefully with my left hand, but I had to hold it much closer to make out the characters. Every caravan merchant has her own code. This one was well known to me from the days when I had followed Ravinga from Queendom to Queendom.
“Do you know one Kalikur of the House of Zahant?”
He frowned as if he were trying to recall someone. “The House of Zahant—that House is sept to the Queen’s own, is it not?”
I too was searching memory. My return to the ranks of Valapa’s nobility had been so recent that the name meant nothing. I did recall that I had met on one occasion the First Maiden of that family. She was a silly youngster who had companioned Berneen. I said as much and then added:
“But she is not this Kalikur. Ravinga would have you know that he has accompanied Yuikala. Since she thinks it important, perhaps we should learn more about him.”
I was not at first aware that I had said “we” but he was smiling. “Battlemates?” he asked with an amused quirk of eyebrow.
I smiled, “Perhaps, August One.”
Outlaws on Scout:
Shank-ji and what was left of his company escorted the remaining members of the caravan within sight of Kahulawe. He would go no further, though those he had rescued begged him to, that they might replace his slain mounts and have his and his men’s wounds treated by healers.
Slain mounts and men not withstanding, they must return through the territory of the attack. However he wanted no chance of being challenged by Imperial troops scouting for the Progress.
Those unwounded shared mounts, turn and about, so they were kept to a slow pace that the unmounted might match. The sun was well above the horizon and soon the heat would present another problem.
Shank-ji soon realized they must split their troop, risky as that would be, and send ahead the few well mounted at a pace they could command. He chose to remain with the dismounted. Ahead and to the east they sighted a rise of spire rocks. The tallest of these bore the flapping banner, marking a storm station. There they could find aid, for these were always manned.
Shank-ji chose that for the goal of those following him, but ordered that they must represent themselves as trail guards who had survived a most vicious attack.
Barely before the heat became too burdensome, they reached the base of one of the spires and a drum roll from above announced their arrival had been noted. However not only those of the storm station had noticed them, for taking advantage of every possible bit of concealment, two other guardians of the Outer Regions had trailed them.
The ears of one Sand Cat were erect. She no longer watched Shank-ji’s force; rather faced north. Her lips shaped a snarl and deep in her throat sounded the rumble of a challenge. There was no sound from her companion; rather he crept, his belly to sand, heading north as if to attack. His mate remained in place, dividing her attention between those they had tracked and the direction into which her mate had disappeared.
Shank-ji found himself and his men eagerly received by the watchers on duty. He told the tale he had hastily prepared. Food was provided, their wounds tended, and quarters offered in a cavernous crevice inside one the spires. In return Shank-ji gave carefully edited news of the questioning of Hynkkel’s right to the throne, and the fact that he was headed on his initial Progress.
At that news the Head Watcher shook his head, frowning.
“He must be ill advised. The great storms will be upon us soon and the Progress can be in great danger, or else confined to one of the Queendoms, unable to finish the ritual.”
Shank-ji, sober faced, nodded. “Thus it appears that not only is he ignorant of the land, but also he would risk the lives of others to unlawfully retain the throne. Meanwhile the rats grow bolder and caravans may stop. What then will the Outer Regions do?”
“Yes—and we have heard another tale,” the Head Watcher replied. “The Master Of Balance is said to be preparing a journey of his own.”
There was utter silence. Shank-ji found it as sharp a rat wound. If this were true he must indeed change his plans, move before he was entirely ready. The Progress—yes, there would be guards, perhaps enough to stand off any attack he could now launch. What if a rat attack could meld with one by men? That messenger had been able to control the rats. He served the Dark One. The offer—perhaps he had no other choice. The Dark Ones knew his camp—they could wipe him out with such an attack as his company had just survived.
But—that he had not been already wiped out meant that the mysterious ruler saw some use for him. If it were true, he still possessed bargaining power. It was time to forget shadow fears and strike out for what he wanted.
“When the measurement fell upon us before, there were very few Houses which did not lose kin. What ill has come upon us that the Essence would desert us thus again?”
At length, for it seemed that no one wished to explore this memory, Shank-ji limped to join his
men. Then, as loud as the warn drums overhead, came a summons. It was to him only, for the trooper tending the wounds of the man near him showed no sign of hearing it. Shank-ji turned abruptly left and struggled along the side of the watcher’s spur.
He was sure he knew what awaited him—there was no more time left him now. As he reached the back of the spur, hidden from the Watchers’ perch, he saw he was right. The messenger from Desolation was there.
The Sand Cat, who had trailed the newcomer for some distance, flattened himself on a dune, and then slowly slipped down its side. He settled himself in sand the color of his fur and opened his mind.
As Shank-ji approached, the man-rat did not dismount. The beast lowered its three horned head, shook it as any trained war oryxen would do before charging. Its red eyes gleamed.
“It seems you have suffered something of a mishap,” the man-rat commented as Shank-ji came up. “Our warriors have sharp teeth and know well how to use them.”
“What do you want?” Shank-ji replied tersely.
“Why—what has been wanted for far too long, an answer to the August One’s offer. It shall not be made again. What you have just seen is but a small skirmish compared to what will happen when patience comes to an end.”
The man-rat’s tone was almost jocular but Shank-ji was instantly aware of the threat within that sneering speech.
“Such decision should be between your master and me, face to face.”
“Do you then say that the August One should wait upon you?”
“Does he say that I should come to him?” countered Shank-ji.
The man-rat yawned. “You will come . . .” now there was the snap of an order in his voice “. . . to the border of Twahihic at the point of the be-headed cats. There you will learn what the August One will have of you. The storm time comes soon; I advise no delay.”
