by Robert Adams
“Then … then you must tell Master Lokos this,” insisted Neeka. “Tell him quickly, for he is Koominon’s friend. He will persuade him to leave.”
Again the komees shook his head. “No, Neeka, Lokos will not. Lokos is a good man, a kind man, and completely lucid in most matters, but in affairs of ee Klirohnohmeea, he is a deranged fanatic.” Seeing her horrified expression at hearing her master so maligned, he added, “Oh, it’s not entirely his fault, Neeka. The tortures and mutilation to which he was subjected for his very small and inconsequential role in the Great Rebellion, and the sufferings and privations of his long imprisonment, addled him a bit, as they would have addled any man.”
“Mutilation?” Neeka queried, puzzledly, for Lokos had a normal complement of fingers, toes, and ears; his face was scarred and his scalp, but so were those of most adult males, and she had naturally assumed that those scars and a limp noticeable in damp weather resulted from youthful warring or dueling.
The komees’s lips firmed into a grim line. “Have you never wondered why a man who loves children and young people as much as Lokos never sired any of his own, Neeka? The reason is that he cannot. After they had flogged him until the white bone shone through the bloody tatters of flesh from his neck to his buttocks, they gelded him. That he survived such treatment at all is a miracle.”
*
Wholly dedicated to never again being dependent upon anyone for her sustenance, Neeka applied every bit of her not inconsiderable intellect and her youthful vigor to her new craft. Within only three years’ time, Master Lokos confessed in mingled pride and consternation that she had absorbed as much as or more than any other apprentice had done in twice the time. Thereafter, Neeka did much of the workaday compounding and distilling, leaving the master free to attend customers, instruct other apprentices and do the research and experiments which were his passion.
When she had read every book in his library written in either of the two languages she had mastered — Ehleeneekos and the various regional dialects of Mehrikan — Lokos taught her to read the flowing, cursive script called Ahrapsahbos, in which most modern medical texts were written by the justly famous Zahrtohgahn physicians.
Therefore, Neeka knew immediately just what the prism dangling from those black fingers was and just what it was for. Summoning the last ounce of will, she fought back up, back out of the beautiful, sleepy world into which the scintillating prism and the soft, soothing words of the skilled man had drawn her.
“Sahlahmoo ahlaik,” said Neeka, when she was certain she had regained her self-control. “Ahlahn wah sahlahn.” When he made no reply to the greeting, she added, “Fehemtinee?”
Master Fahreed consciously lowered his eyebrows, unconsciously raised in surprise at hearing the Zahrtohgahn language spoken by this strange, sinister woman. Not many unbelievers expended the effort to learn the difficult, guttural tongue, which was why Zahrtohgahn physicians must, in addition to being accomplished mindspeakers, learn so many languages and dialects, since the Great Council of Masters might send a given physician and his apprentice to any one of a far-flung range of posts.
Big, white teeth glittered as he smiled. “Ywah, fehemt.” Then he switched to fluent Ehleeneekos. “But if we wish to continue to understand each other, it were perhaps better we speak this tongue or Mehrikan, for,” he smiled again, “noble as is your effort, your accent is atrocious.”
Neeka shrugged and leaned back against the table. “That is not surprising to me, master. I have spoken your language but little, and that was years ago with one who possibly did not speak it well himself; but I have no difficulty in the reading or the writing of it.”
She waved at the prism. “A Mookahdir, is it not? I have, of course, read the treatises of the Illustrious Master Wahdjeed al-Ahkisahee on the production and use of the Mookahdir, but this is the first one I have ever actually seen. You were attempting to send me a-journeying, were you not? May I ask why?”
Fahreed spoke bluntly, as was his wont. “I am sworn to exert my efforts toward the preservation of health and life. I was but attempting to make your death unnecessary.” He sighed. “It is certainly but the Will of Ahlah, that I should fail.”
“My death? What do you mean?” Neeka demanded a little louder than she meant to, feeling a cold prickling coursing the length of her spine.
“The rightful lord of this place, Sir Tim, feels you to be responsible for the senseless poisoning of his friend, Rai, the sergeant He is a man of action, not subtlety, and he would likely have run his broadsword through your body by now, had I not promised to neutralize the threat you present to him and to his lawful accession by other, less sanguineous, means. But now …” He sighed once more and drew from within his robes a small dagger with a thin, tapering, four-inch, double-edged blade of light-blue Zahrtohgahn steel.
Neeka saw certain death in the black man’s quick, sure movements, and she felt apprehension but, oddly, no fear. She thought briefly of those instruments on the table behind her that might be utilized as a weapon, then mentally dismissed them all, for the physician was a tall man and no doubt strong and agile. The rigorous pre-apprentice training administered in the Emirate of Zahrtohgah eliminated those applicants weak or clumsy of body or slow of wit.
In a friendly, conversational tone, she asked, “I thought you were sworn to preserve life and health, master? How can you justify my murder with that oath?” While speaking, Neeka realized that it was not a sham; she truly did feel a friendliness, almost a kinship, for the knife-armed man before her. That was why she did not scream or mindcall for help, for such would not save her life and might easily cost his as well. With real shock, she admitted to herself that die or no, she did not want to cost this man his life. She was tired of killing simply to stay alive; a quick, clean death seemed a pleasant prospect to her after these years of being forced to pervert and prostitute her craft and her person in virtual slavery to the cursed ee Klirohnohmeea.
Master Fahreed paused in his slow approach and frowned “I consider this an execution, woman, not a murder, for if you are of the guild I suspect you have violated oaths no less worthy or binding than mine own. Where do you prefer the knife-heart, throat, or brain? Fear not, there will be but a single, brief pain, if you cooperate with me.”
Neeka began to fold down the front of her garments. “I did what I did because I then felt I had no choice — if I did not do what they bid me, I feared I would be returned to a certain coastal city for trial and probable execution. During the twelve years I have lived in this hall, I have shielded my own life behind the corpses of no less than five men who never had harmed me in any manner, simply because an evil, depraved lunatic of a woman demanded their deaths. But there will be no more deaths on my conscience, for my life is no longer precious to me.”
She had bared her body to the waist, and now she lifted her left breast and leaned back again, steadying herself with an elbow on the worktable. She smiled and said, “You are doing the best and most proper thing, master, and I go willingly. Strike hard and true.”
With a nod, the tall black man stepped close, felt until he found a spot that suited him, then placed the point of the knife where his fingers had been and thrust with controlled strength. The thin, needle-pointed blade entered easily, thin lines of blood welling up about the watered steel. Neeka gritted her teeth, forced herself not to flinch and thereby complicate or lengthen the man’s job. She closed her eyes, thinking of her tragically wasted life. How different things might have been if only dear old Lokos had lived but one more year.
Chapter XIII
Tim had refused to await the Zahrtohgahn’s return. Leaving Ahl, Giliahna, Mairee and the apprentice physician to look out for each other, he had stalked out, snarling, “If the bitch wants blood, I’ll give her blood, though she may not like the color of the stuff I shed.” He prowled the corridors and rooms of his dead father’s hall, looking for prey.
Once divested of his porridge-caked clothing, Father Skahbros had not redress
ed himself, rather he had wrapped his pudgy body in a bath sheet, gathered up fresh clothing and padded down to the bath chambers in the north wing. And that was where his coldly raging nemesis found him … and dealt with him.
Tim paced back down the old, familiar hallway, his left hand on the well-worn basket hilt of his heavy broadsword. Through the pantries, into the winter kitchen. A burly cook — a kath-ahrohs by the cast of his dark-olive skin, black eyes and hair-gripping a big, greasy knife made at first to bar the passage of this apparent northern barbarian mercenary in patched boots and stained clothing. That was before he drew close enough to see that the stains were bright-red splashes of fresh blood, and to be chilled to his very marrow by the icy, murderous rage shining from those slitted blue eyes.
When he did not find Sir Geros in his cottage, Tim paused only long enough to tuck an antique but nicely balanced francisca — one of the old warrior’s wall decorations — into his belt, then he headed directly across the rear courtyard to the stables. A row of paddocks adjoined the larger boxstalls, and in one of these he could see a pale-gray, black-maned and-tailed bulk that could be none save Steelsheen, his own warhorse. Alerted by the familiar sound of Tim’s tread, the huge stallion turned from the manger of fragrant cloverhay and moved to the whitewashed bars. When Tim was close enough to recognize by sight, the horse whickered a greeting, stamping and nodding his scarred head in anticipation of a fondling.
As the man hugged and patted the pale cheeks, rubbing up and down the narrow stripe of glossy black hairs that bisected the animal’s face, Steelsheen almost purred. But then the stallion scented the fresh, human blood, recalled the clank of Tim’s weapons.
“Steelsheen was tired, my brother, but he is well rested now. Will we fight soon?” The horse mindspoke eagerly, unconsciously pawing at the earth of the paddock with one shod hoof.
“I may have to fight,” replied Tim. “But it will be afoot, my brother. Are there any warhorses in this place beside you and Red honey?”
Steelsheen snorted derisively. “There is one who thinks it is such, a gelding, one Tahkoos, but it really is only a sexless hunter of furry beasts and little tuskless pigs. At the bite of blade or point, such a creature would likely buck off its rider and run away. A war-trained stallion is pastured nearby, but he is old, his two-leg brother is dead and no one now rides him.”
“Yes,” replied Tim, “he must be — must have been — my sire’s warhorse. Have you or Redhoney had trouble here?”
Steelsheen gave another derisive snort. “Only mares and geldings are within this place and all are frightened of me … of Redhoney, too, for all that she is only a mare.” He tossed his raven mane. “The two-legs fear us, too, all save the one called Tahmahs. He respects us but no reek of fear is on him.”
Tim reflected that he did not blame the other horses and the stablehands one damn bit. A fully trained warhorse was as dangerous as a stud bull, more dangerous, really, because of the added intelligence. No horse of merely average intelligence ever received full war training, which was one reason why they were so expensive and so treasured by their purchasers. Another reason was their unswerving loyally to the one man they considered a brother — warhorses had been known to stand, riderless, over the body of a dead or wounded rider and fight with teeth and flailing hooves until aid came or they were themselves slain.
“Whatever happens,” he admonished the big horse, “you and Redhoney are to allow no man to mount you save me or my brother, Geros. Understood?”
“But what of our brother, Rai?” queried the gray.
“Our brother, Rai, is gone to Wind,” answered Tim, soberly. “Tell Redhoney that I already have taken a partial vengeance for his killing, and I shortly will take the rest.”
Tim found Master Tahmahs in a tackroom-cum-office. Only his silver-shot black hair stamped the horse master as having any trace of Ehleen blood. Otherwise, he might have been a clansman fresh from the Sea of Grass, with his wiry, slender build, fair skin and bright-blue eyes. He was industriously softening a new bridle when Tim entered. He glanced up, saw the visitor and the blood-splashed clothing and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“It’s started then, my lord Tim? Good! How many dead so far?”
“Two,” answered Tim shortly. “My sergeant, murdered by arrow poison and that thrice-damned outlaw priest the bitch was harboring — though he may not be dead yet. I doubt that he is; belly wounds don’t kill quickly.”
The horsemaster nodded. “But there’re no wounds so agonizing. Yet I’ve heard no screams from the gelded bastard.”
Tim laughed coldly. “Nor will you, not from him. I sliced out most of his treasonous tongue.”
Tahmahs chuckled. “That will put a burr under her saddle for sure, my lord. I think she dotes on that priest damned near as much as on her tongue-sister or on that sad excuse of a man, Myron. But what will my lord have of me?”
“Please pardon my asking, but ten years is a long time away. Are you trained to arms, Master Tahmahs?”
Tahmahs grinned. “Twenty years a Confederation dragoon, my lord.”
“Then I need you here at the hall,” said Tim. “Is there a good rider among your men, one you can trust in all things?”
Tahmahs replied, “My youngest son, Divros. He is not yet fourteen or he would, like his brothers, be gone up to Goohm to enlist, but he is as big as me and near as strong and a better rider than I ever was.”
“Call him here,” snapped Tim, impatient to find Geros and start the action.
When the strapping boy stood before him, the young captain asked, “Divros, is your loyalty to me or to my father’s widow?”
Tahmahs snorted. “No need to question that, my lord Tim. Four years ago that precious pair, Lord Myron and his bum-boy, found Divros alone and tried to strip and bugger him by force. Of course my lad fought, but what could a nine-year-old do against two lads near as big as I am? It was a near thing and they’d have had their unnatural way with him, had not your brother, Behrl, happened along and beaten Myron bloody and sobbing. So, you need have no doubts as to where the loyalties of me and mine lie.”
“Very well, Divros, which is the fastest, strongest horse in the stables?” demanded Tim.
The boy did not hesitate. “Lord Myron’s roan hunter, Tahkoos, my lord.”
“Have you ever ridden him, Divros?”
The boy smiled. “Oh, yes, my lord. He says he likes me better than Lord Myron.”
Tim nodded again. “Good. Saddle him and ride to Morguhn Hall, or until you find my half brother, Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn. Here,” with effort, he wrenched the ruby ring from his finger, “hang this on a thong about your neck, under your shirt; show it only to Bili, as proof that you come from me.
“Tell the ahrkeethoheeks that matters here have progressed faster than we had thought or planned for. Tell him to send my company to me at the gallop. Tell him to alert the High Lords that far more than had been suspected is afoot here in Vawn. Tell him that real rebellion is probable unless we strike quickly and drastically. Warn him to not, under any circumstances, impart aught of this to Prince Zenos. Can you remember it all, boy?”
When the lad could repeat the various parts of the message to his satisfaction, Tim sent him off to saddle the gelding and turned back to Tahmahs.
“Do you have any weapons in the stables?”
Tahmahs nodded soberly. “Yes, my lord, Sir Geros secreted a nice little store in my keeping.”
Then arm your son with at least a dirk and a spear; bow and saber, too, if he knows how to use them. No sense in burdening him and his mount with armor or target though. His job is to get to Lord Bili, not to stand and fight.
“Immediately Divros is on the road, turn all the other horses into the pasture. Not mine, though — I don’t want him fighting with your king stallion. You might put Redhoney, the mare, in with Steelsheen. They wont harm each other, and as she has just lost her brother, she might be comforted by being nearer to a familiar horse.
>
“When you’re done with that, round up Sergeant Mahrtuhn and his dragoons. They, you and any of your men you feel are loyal to me are to take as many weapons as you can carry, all the food you can find and at least one skin of water per man and come to the thoheek’s suite. If anyone — anyone! — gets in your way, you have my leave to cut him down. Understood, Master Tahmahs?”
Tim and Geros found just what the young captain had suspected in the cellar armory — the racks and chests and cupboards were all nearly empty of weapons and armor.
“But, my I … but, Tim, there be no place in this hall that such quantities of arms could have been hidden without me knowing of it from the few loyal ones, and that quickly.”
“Just so,” agreed Tim. Then he asked, “How long since you’ve been in any of the hall villages?”
“A month, at least, Tim, maybe two. It’s Tonos, the majordomo’s, part to deal with the villagers, him and the head cook, Myron’s bumboy, Gaios.”
“I caught that castrated goat of an Ehleen priest in the bath chamber and hung him up on a beam with his wrists lashed behind him while we … ahh, conversed. He told me some very interesting things. One of them is that for the last half-year, Mehleena’s agents have been hiring bandits and gutter-scrapings from all over the Principate of Karaleenos, bringing them into this duchy surreptitiously and billeting them in the hall villages, at least a hundred of them that the priest knew of.”
Geros looked stunned. “But why, Tim? She had no idea you were still alive until you rode in this morning.”
Tim chuckled. “She knows the Sanderz Kindred have precious little liking for her and even less for Myron. Had I not come back, if they had chosen one of their own number to be chief of Sanderz, she was going to turn her pack loose against all the Sanderz Kindred, noble or not, and depend upon her cousin, Prince Zenos, to save her hide with Brother Bili and the High Lords by claiming that the Kindred had been in armed revolt against their rightful lord. She might have gotten away with her infamy, but …” He shrugged meaningfully.
