The Patrimony

by Robert Adams

  “There is one more possible hidey-hole, of which I can think,” the sharp-faced man went on. “I know that you and this girl would be safe there, but I … well, the Lady Rohza dislikes men in general almost as much as she hates the barbarians. It’s a long way, too, outside the city, which will mean taking to the lowest ways, under the walls … and praying that there’s been no collapse of them in the years since I’ve been that way.”

  He resumed his burden of the limp girl, crossing himself awkwardly. “Pray, too, that this poor child remains in swoon a bit longer, for we must retrace our way directly under the bordello, and they are certain to have left guards there.”

  If prayers are truly effective, theirs were answered, for it was not until they were well upon the downward-slanting way that led under the inland walls that the Ahrmehnee began to moan and weakly squirm on Iktis’ shoulder. Iktis stopped and set the girl upright against the stone wall of the tunnel and Neeka tore the hem from one of her undershifts, wet it in a nearby puddle and gently bathed the child’s battered face, both she and Iktis beaming silent soothing assurance, just as they would have to a hurt, frightened animal.

  This time, the sight of Iktis brought no screams from the Ahrmehnee, though still she trembled and eyed him warily. She said something that Neeka could not understand, then began to speak in Mehrikan.

  “Where have you taken me now? What are you going to do to me?” In the light of the torches, tears glittered on her long, sooty lashes and down her bruised cheeks.

  “We have taken you away from that place, child,” said Neeka. “We will try to find a way to return you to your home.”

  “She … that huge, terrible old woman said that … that the only way I ever would leave that … that house of horror was … was dead,” gulped the girl.

  “Djoy Skriffen is, herself, now dead,” said Neeka. “This brave man, Iktis, killed her. I saw him do it, child. He also killed one of those men who abused you … and I killed another.” Neeka had felt remorse at the death of Loo Fahlkop and was a little shocked to discover that she could feel no such emotion upon the reflection that she had slain two men this day. Her uncle, who had been a warrior and duelist of note in his youth, had often said that the first kill was the most difficult, both at the time of killing and immediately after, but that all subsequent kills were increasingly easy. Neeka thought that now she could understand.

  After a few more minutes, the Ahrmehnee girl, Shireen Mahsohnyuhn, was able to walk with minimal assistance from Neeka, so the three proceeded faster than before. The way went downward, downward, ever downward, then began to slant into a very gradual ascent. They were lighting the last brace of torches when Iktis announced that they were nearing their goal.

  “The city of which these ancient, subterranean ways were a part must have been a monster among cities — larger than Kehnooryos Atheenahs, Harzburk and Pitzburk combined — for the ways extend more than a mile inland and, it is said, once ran almost as far seaward. We now are over a half-mile outside the walls and might be safe aboveground, but they might also have mounted patrols out — I would, were I Pahvlos — so I think we’ll go on underground.”

  In places they were compelled to bend low, almost to crawl, due to the accumulations of tree roots growing down through the rough, porous stone of the tunnel’s arched ceiling. But at last they came upon an ancient, badly rusted ladder leading up to another of those curious round iron hatches. Handing his torch to Shireen, Iktis climbed up and attempted to dislodge the cover. The two young women could hear his gasps and grunts of exertion, the cracking of his straining sinews, and finally the iron disc shifted with a grating sound that echoed down the long, dark runnel.

  They emerged into a stock cellar even larger than Djoy Skriffen’s. Against one wall were ranged massive stationary wine casks larger in diameter than the tunnel below, their staves and bandings darkened with age. Elsewhere were stacked hogsheads and barrels of pickled vegetables and pickled or salted meats, stone crocks of salt or honey, stone jugs of brandy and cordials, kegs of oil and, near the stairs leading to the upper cellar, several ironbound caskets secured with huge padlocks.

  It was evident that an earnest attempt had been made to conceal the round iron disc leading to the ways below, and the great difficulty in lifting it was explained by the three inches of packed earth which it had been covered with. Iktis kicked as much dirt as he could back over it, then manhandled a great tun of pickled turnips onto it.

  Weaving and bobbing to avoid the apples and pears hung from the ceiling on strings, Iktis, Neeka and Shireen mounted the stairs and entered a lamplit upper cellar. With all its compartments included, it was larger than the one below though not so high-ceilinged. On either side of the staircase huge bins of white and sweet potatoes, and elsewhere were bins of turnips, horseradish root, onions, squashes, pumpkins and the like. Garlands of dried fruits and great bunches of garlic hung from the ceiling. Barrels of flour and meal were stacked in the center of the floor.

  From behind this stack of barrels came a short, stout man, tally slate and chalk in hand. At sight of the three interlopers-all three filthy with soil and soot, their clothing damp and disheveled, the two women carrying guttering torches and the man grasping a bared hanger, its pierced brass guard crusted over with dried blood — he squeaked, dropped his slate and sprang for the stairs to the ground level — but Iktis made it there before him.

  Leaning his head to one side and regarding the pudgy man closely for a brief moment, Iktis sketched a sign in the air between them with his empty right hand. Neeka recognized the sign, and so too did the strange man. His relaxation was visible and a tentative smile creased his round face as he answered the sign with another. Stepping closer, he and Iktis exchanged a complicated hand grip, then he turned and walked back to pick up his slate and chalk while Iktis sheathed his hanger.

  When Lady Rohza Ahnthroheheethees had heard out the stories of all three of her surprise “guests,” she frowned and rapped her short, square-cut nails on the table for a moment before she spoke. “Well, the hue and cry is up for you and Neeka, friend Iktis. Both the hunchbacked barbarian and the old whorekeeper were still alive when the city guard reached them, and they named you two as their murderers and the killers of the other two men.

  “The killing of that hunchback is of little real importance since he was being sought anyway for suspected complicity in the assassination of Pehtros. But the deaths of the Skriffen bitch and her two pimps is another kettle of fish. She had recently bribed full citizenship for herself and them out of a crooked city clerk and an even crookeder undermagistrate, none of which would ever have happened had Gahbros not been off at the bidding of that asshole of a barbarian, Hari of Danyuhlz. So now you are wanted for the slaying of two citizens and Neeka for slaying one, which means that, if caught, you’ll be tried by the thoheeks himself, unless Gahbros comes back sooner than anyone expects. And considering the fact that our barbarian lord was a silent partner in the operation of that brothel, I’d not wager a pinch of turkey dung on your chances of staying alive.”

  The pock-faced man shrugged. “Well, it is perhaps time that I moved on anyway, Rohza. Perhaps I’ll drift up to Goohm and try a hitch in the Ehleen dragoons.”

  Lady Rohza pulled at her full lower lip for a moment, then nodded briskly. “Stay here for a few days. I’ll secure clothing and boots in your size and see about providing you with a trained warhorse. You’ll have enough gold to see you to Goohm and enough left over to outfit you as befits your inherent station — good-grade armor, hallmarked sword and so forth. I’m sure that ee Klirohnohmeea will reimburse me.”

  Iktis nodded. “And if the Heritage doesn’t, you know I will. But what of Neeka and Shireen?”

  The big noblewoman scratched her mannishly coiffured head. “The Ahrmehnee girl is no problem at all. Apparently no one living is aware she was even in the city. She can stay here until I have word of a westbound Ahrmehnee party — these Ahrmehnee are all thick as thieves and even if the
y are not of her tribe they’ll surely see her safely home.

  “But as regards Neeka, it is not certain that even Gahbros could offer her protection from the thoheeks, so I’ll write a letter to an old friend who is now an intimate of Prince Zenos. Sweet little Neeka will be safe with me until my letter is answered.”

  Iktis rode out in the mist and drizzle of a cold, gray dawn seven days later, looking not a bit like the foppish bravo who had for so long befriended Neeka. The garishly billed hanger — chosen weapon of bravos and city ruffians — was gone from his side to be replaced by a heavy saber, old but well-kept. His trousers and overshirt were of plain, practical linen canvas, his thigh-high boots and leather cloak were oiled and wax-impregnated to shed water. The hanger, the stones prized out and the gilt silver wire of the hilt replaced with brass, hung sheathed on one side of his pommel, balanced on the Other side by a light axe. Saddlebags and a bedroll encased in oilskin were lashed behind the high-cantled warkak, along with water bottle, food wallet and a plain, open-faced helm. On the road, mounted on his war-trained piebald mare, he would look like simply another independent Freefighter riding from one contract to the next.

  Neeka could not repress a shiver of dread and apprehension as she saw the strong and efficient, but quiet and unassuming man put booted foot to stirrup, swing aboard the mettlesome mare and ride out of the courtyard of Lady Rohza’s hall.

  However, by the time Shireen Mahsohnyuhn departed through that same gate with a party of westbound Ahrmehnee merchants of the Frainyuhn and Grohseegyuhn tribes, both dread and apprehension had been replaced with dull resignation tempered with self-loathing — even as she feigned passion in Lady Rohza’s bed and embrace, she loathed herself for placing more value upon her life than upon this utter degradation of her body and soul, loathed herself even more than she loathed the ugly, perverted, grunting creature who tried so desperately to deny her own femaleness.

  And that was why she leaped so eagerly at the opportunity to go west when it was offered. She had been unaware until she actually reached Vawn Hall that the Lady Mehleena practiced the same hideous perversions as had the Lady Rohza. But over the long years, as Mehleena drifted further and further into religious fanaticism, poured more and more of herself into planning and preparing for a true, armed, violent — and predoomed to failure — rebellion, she had eschewed sex of any variety; moreover, as she became aware of Neeka’s undeniable talents and her ability to kill or cure without a subject’s knowledge, the fat woman began to respect her tame witch to the point of fear.

  *

  When Tim finally returned to the thoheeks suite, he carried with him a keg of brandy and a bundle of old polearms which had hung on the walls of the entry foyer for nearly thirty years. The suite, spacious as it was, looked crowded already, what with a half-dozen middle-aged Freefighters and as many Ahrmehnee grooms under Master Tahmahs; Brother Ahl and Mairee and her father, Sir Geros; a burly man with a thrusting sword and a Confederation-pattern dirk belted about his beginning of a paunch and beside him a younger man of similar build and identical armament. But what riveted Tim’s attention when once he had dumped his burdens and looked about were the physician, Master Fahreed … and the person who stood beside him.

  Chapter XVI

  The majordomo, Tonos, chose the three fastest runners from among the young men of the hall and sent each off to one of the three hall villages; it was all he could do, as only the two northern warhorses were left in the stables and he knew better than to attempt to mount either of the stamping, head-tossing, eye-rolling beasts. Then he and his picked band of menservants armed and set themselves to the pleasurable job of butchering all other servants — male and female — not definitely known to be loyal to the lady and the True Faith.

  He decided to start in the kitchens with that arrogant bastard of a meat cook, Hahros, and his adopted son/apprentice, Tchahrlee, the both of them loudly self-avowed pagans. But such was not to be.

  The kitchen, when they reached it, contained no living men. The pantries had been partially looted and Mitzos, the storeskeeper and a good Christian man, lay face down in his own blood with his head stove in. In the bakery, only two or three foot-trampled loaves were left of the day’s baking and the baker, Kristohfohros, was huddled before his ovens with an iron spit run clear through his chest from front to back.

  But the most horrible sight was come upon in the caldron room. The legs and hips of a man hung limply over the rim of a huge soup caldron, flesh and clothing smoldering in the heat creeping up the sides of the vessel from the coals beneath. When they at last got the body out of the soup, they discovered it to be Leeros, the pastry cook. There was no wound in his flesh, so they could only assume that he had been forcibly drowned in the boiling broth.

  From his fruitless search for horses, Tonos already knew the stables to be empty of Tahmahs and his godless crew as well as of any save the two warhorses. Therefore, he and his murderers carefully surrounded and ever so carefully crept closer to the house of Sir Geros, their reverent bloodlust well-tempered by the knowledge that this quarry was a warrior of storied skills and valor and likely to be armed, as well. But when finally they kicked open the door and burst into the neat rooms, only an old, white-muzzled boarhound lay regarding them with rheumy eyes, his tail slowly thumping a welcome. Raging with frustration, Tonos jammed the broad, knife-edged blade of his wolf spear into the body of the aged, inoffensive dog again and again and again. Then he turned and stomped out of the tidy house.

  In the rear courtyard, the pack claimed their first human victims — old Gaib, the hall farrier, and Hail, his strapping but seriously retarded son. Caught in the open, unarmed save for the drawknife he had been sharpening, Gaib was easily struck down, yet he rose again, his lifeblood gushing out, when he saw the mob stalking his childlike son. Lifting the heavy honestone, wooden cradle and all, he hurled it with such force as to smash the ribs and spine of one of the men. Then, hurling his rapidly dying body onto the back of another, Gaib bore him to the ground and had pulled the drawknife almost through the neck before the stabbing spears and hacking swords finished him.

  Tonos ruthlessly thrust his spearblade — bloody with the gore of the father — deep into the belly of the towheaded son, then stood laughing as the boy stumbled about, screaming piteously, until be tripped on his own guts and fell sprawling into the gory mud. When one of the white-faced men stepped forward, his sword raised for a mercy stroke, Tonos pushed him back.

  “No! Let the heathen halfwit die as did Father Skahbros … slowly.”

  Then they went on in search of more prey.

  *

  Mahrkos Kahnstahnteenos sat up and yawned widely, scratching at his hairy chest and reflecting that rural life was not so bad after all … not when the alternatives included the distinct probability of dancing a kahlahmahtzeeos at the end of a rope. City-born and -bred, he had had no slightest intention of leaving the city of his birth, until his mother had caught him having his way with a younger half brother and he had, in a rage, slain both of them. Only a few jumps ahead of the law, he had stolen a mule and ridden west and north to fade from sight in the — to him huge — metropolis which was the capital of the Principate of Karaleenos.

  For five years, he had plied various trades — footpad, sneak thief, pimp, hired bravo — anything requiring muscle and ruthlessness rather than wit. Then, one drunken night, he had thrown a drover into an inn fire after an argument over the favors of a pretty boy. But such things were not unusual happenings in the low places he frequented, and after the drovers had quitted the city, his life might have continued as usual, had he not compounded matters past mending by slaying the innkeeper — a full citizen — as well.

  He had been languishing in the city dungeon for long weeks, awaiting trial and the certainty of either a quick hanging or the slower death of a sentence to quarry, mine or road and fortress building, when a burly jailor and two well-armed city guards fetched him from his cell to throw him, still weighted by his heavy
fetters and chains, into a bare chamber some four levels up from his place of confinement

  Shortly, three men — gentlemen by their dress, manners and speech — entered by a door in the opposite wall. All three wore steel helmets, with beavers up and visors down so as to completely cover their faces and impart a muffled, booming quality to their voices.

  “Fagh!” snorted one of the men. “He stinks! He stinks worse than the others even. Let’s get this done with quickly. My stomach can’t take much more of the stench.”

  “Please … please, my … my lords.” stuttered Mahrkos, blubbering, “I … I didn’t mean to kill im! As God’s my witness, I dint. I … I jest thought …”

  Another of the helmed men waved a gloved, beringed hand in a curt gesture, saying, “We are not interested in what goes on in your sewer of a mind, you pig. Speak when your betters tell you, not before.”

  The speaker turned to the third man and said, “The bastard’s name is Mahrkos, no one seems to know his family name … if he had one … and he has not volunteered any. From his accent, I’d imagine he’s from farther south, but he’s lived here about five years, I’m told. He burned a drover alive and strangled an innkeeper, a citizen.”

  “He’s to hang, then?” asked the third man.

  “Oh, no,” replied the second, grimly. “Just look at the shoulders on him. The mines need men of such strength, the quarries, too. Why he might even live ten years … if he doesn’t prove too intractable.”

  Mahrkos shuddered and whimpered, wetting his filthy rags in his terror. Lost in horrible mental imagery of all he had heard of the mines and quarries, and picturing himself enduring the agonies of the drawn-out and hideous death such a sentence represented, he was deaf to the first questions put to him. It was not until one of the gentlemen put half an inch of swordpoint into his arm that he again became aware of just where he was.