Intrigue of Antares [Dray Prescot #44]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Prince Tomendishto has plans to do with the Shrine of Cymbaro. He has no interest in the throne. I believe him.”

  “And if the old king left the crown to Prince Tom?”

  “I am not sure. It was through Tom that the old king took an interest in Cymbaro. For secrecy and safety they thought the priests could carry the new will after the king's son died and keep it in Farinsee.”

  Farinsee, from what I had seen from the distance, looked to be a stronghold of some importance, perched atop that strange mountain like Ayer's Rock. Even if the priests and their guards were only indifferent fighting men you'd need a good few regiments and engineers to take the place.

  “Strom Korden was entrusted with the new will naming the heir, and then the old king died so the will became enforceable. It had to be returned to Oxonium at once.” He spread his hands helplessly. “You, Dray Prescot, witnessed the first result of the Lady Vita's blind treachery.”

  “Yes.” I spoke with an ugly voice. “Good men and young girls dead.”

  “And no will,” said Larghos who had kept his silence throughout.

  Brannomar said dully: “No will, no heir, and Civil War.”

  Silence fell in that comfortable study in the heart of a mighty palace. The inevitability of what the hyr kov prophesied weighed upon us all. Larghos cleared his throat and said: “The treaty, then, will not be made between Tolindrin and Vallia.”

  Brannomar looked up wearily, the scar almost invisible, his thin mouth curved downwards. “That would appear to be so. But I would implore you to reconsider—”

  “It's not up to me,” I said. “My son Drak and daughter-in-law Silda run Vallia now, thanks be to Opaz. But they are reasonable people.”

  Larghos nodded sagely. “If there is Civil War in Tolindrin then Vallia cannot look to receive, among other things, very much in the way of baltrixes, silk or lifters.”

  “We need good Vallian weapons, among many other trade items.” The hyr kov spread his hands.

  “And there's another ugly aspect to all this.” I spoke harshly, for I felt warm upon the subject. “In addition to the theft of Korden's sword there have been attempts upon the lives of the Princess Nandisha and her children and upon Prince Tomendishto. Opaz alone knows how they've escaped death so far.”

  This information appeared to shake Brannomar. He stood up. “I assure you, majister, that this is not how affairs usually are in Tolindrin. Not in the days of the old king.”

  “That's how they are now.” Larghos's diplomatic manner fell away to reveal the fighting man of Vallia. “Trust is forfeit.”

  I recalled the troubles through which poor old Nandisha and her kids had gone. They were not my immediate concern according to the Star Lords. All the same—I said: “I do not doubt Khon the Mak and Ortyg will try again. I would like to think they would fail through the efforts of loyal Tolindrese. As for the succession, it would be convenient if Nandisha's twins inherited—the boy, that is—and you, Brannomar, continued as Regent.”

  “The succession follows at the hands of the king.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That is how the matter lies, majister. If the will is not found then the inheritance will be decided by force of arms.”

  By the lice-infested hair and maggot-infested intestines of Makki Grodno! All I wanted to do was discharge my obligations to the numim twins placed in Fweygo's and my care and then head off home to Esser Rarioch. All this skullduggery gave a fellow a pain in the skull.

  His mention of the old king's will festered away in Brannomar's thoughts. He thumped a fist down on the table. “If only we could find the will! Strom Korden must have hidden it safely. It is not in the sword. So where in the name of Tolaar is it?”

  Elten Larghos stepped forward. He'd been a warrior for the Liberation Army of Vallia, a Freedom Fighter in the Times of Troubles. Now he was a diplomat. His mind was now attuned in different ways. He said softly: “Majister. You were there. What did Strom Korden say to you. Exactly.”

  My thoughts went back to that hideous scene on the road from Amintin. The dead men, the dead girls, the blood and stink. And young Tiri hiding behind the carriage. What had the dying man said?

  “It was all indistinct. His mouth was filled with blood. He said: ‘Strom Korden. Lahal. Take the sword and take it to Hyr Kov Brannomar. By Cymbaro the Just I charge you.'”

  “That is all, majister?” demanded Larghos, sharply.

  “Aye, Larghos. All. He repeated some of it in his desperate urgency to fulfill his mission.”

  “Take the sword and take it to Hyr Kov Brannomar.”

  “Just so. After a few scrapes I did that.”

  “And he was dying at the time? Able only to say a few words?”

  “As I have said.”

  Then, of course, the understanding hit me. Oh, yes, it is very easy in hindsight. Hindsight confers a most remarkable access of understanding in all manner of arcane matters hidden before. No doubt you who listen to my narrative as the tape spins through the heads of the little recording machine must have been writhing at my blindness. Well, all I can say is that I'd had to hop, skip and jump to avoid sword points and keep my head—and others', by Krun!—on my shoulders. It was all so easy and clear now. Poor old Strom Korden, dying with the dreadful knowledge that he had failed in his charge to the old king, trying with the last few breaths left to him to make this uncouth fighting man bending over him grasp the supreme importance of what he must do for Tolindrin, would not waste precious words.

  “Take the sword and take—” he'd managed to gasp out through the blood. “Take the sword and—”

  There had been no second ‘take’ following that ‘and'. I knew what he'd been trying to say. I understood now.

  There was no doubt that if Khon the Mak or Ortyg laid hands on the will and discovered it did not name them that they'd destroy it. Better, perhaps, because they'd have clever people who had the skills, they'd have the will altered in their favor. Forgery for gold is not confined to Earth. Either way, if the will was not found and made public, the two antagonists would continue their intrigues right up to the moment war broke out. That must not be allowed to happen—for the good of Vallia if not for the benefit of Tolindrin.

  My face felt stiff, as though stuck in hardened putty. Nothing of my turbulent thoughts registered in my expression. Larghos was looking at me with one eyebrow raised. As for Kov Brannomar, he was still caught up in his own mental turmoil, agonizing over the whereabouts of the old king's will, aghast at the prospects for his country. His concentration slipped past what Larghos and I had been saying to bring his thoughts to a point that he must consider central to the issue. I knew it was not; but when he spoke I did not contradict him.

  “Majister. I see the will is vital to the interests of both Vallia and Tolindrin. Tolaar knows, it must be found. But you, you show yourself as Drajak the Sudden and I have read enough about Dray Prescot to understand that. Will you now step forth as the emperor and deny Tolindrin the treaty?”

  “My son Drak is the Emperor of Vallia now. As you know I am called the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz. Well, we will talk of that later. Right now I remain Drajak the Sudden. I would wish you to remember that, Brannomar.” My tone hardened.

  “Drajak the Sudden. Of course, majister.”

  Larghos, who had not stopped staring at me, said: “Very good, majister.” He hitched up his sword belts. “Let us go and get the confounded will, and, by Vox! get this conundrum over with.”

  “Elten?” said Brannomar, suddenly all at sea.

  “Oh,” I said, and felt my lips curve into the semblance of a smile. “I've no wish to give Larghos a swelled head, but he wasn't picked to join the Vallian Diplomatic Service because he was slow on the uptake.” I did not intend to elaborate on that blabber-mouth effusion; but further speech was chopped off by the abrupt slapping open of the door. A strange figure entered, bent over, seeming to be surrounded by a whirl of rags, shaking what looked like a morntarch
.

  Brannomar simply called out: “Sister. You find us at an awkward moment. Is this important?”

  A female face stared from under the piled and drooping mass of hair. Brilliant eyes appeared inturned, the sharp nose, as it were, sniffing into corners, the mouth—so much like Brannomar's—firmly clamped. She took no notice of any of us. She prowled around the study, shaking the morntarch, its shaft wrapped in ribbons, only three small skulls rattling from silken cords to make that eerie, chilling sound that only the sorcerers who use morntarchs in their thaumaturgy may comprehend. She smelled all right; but she smelled sweetly of lavender water.

  Around the study she circled. Larghos and I remained motionless. Most Kregans are mighty careful when it comes to dealing with the practitioners of the arcane arts. Brannomar's scar stood out pulsating against his bronzed skin. “Besti!” he said, an edge to his voice. “Sister!”

  Completely ignoring the hyr kov the sorceress pried into every cranny. The atmosphere in the study suddenly choked in on me oppressively. Brannomar sucked in his cheeks; he said no more. When it was clear this strange female apparition was satisfied with whatever she'd been doing she gave Brannomar a sidelong, calculating look.

  “You always were a credulous fambly, Bran.” She shook her morntarch at him in a gesture at once annoyed and resigned. “Yet your credulity does not extend to what your dear twin sister can do—”

  “The king's views prevail in Tolindrin, Besti. You and your ilk are tolerated if you behave. No wizards may—”

  “Well, brother, I do! I know the old king is dead. And so do others. You prattled on here and that spineless, lily-livered, damned-to-Sicce wizard Wocut listened to you. His traces are plain here.”

  At once Larghos said: “Drajak—Wocut is a sorcerer who serves Khon the Mak. He is reputed to possess powers—”

  “Ha!” spat this remarkable witch Besti. Her voice was not a cackle, as one might expect. It sounded like the chuckle of water over rapids. “Powers he stole from gullible San Nath the Farseeing.”

  This Wocut had to be the mage I'd seen in conference with Khonstanton and his fat major domo. If he'd been listening—just how much damage could he cause? Larghos was saying: “They do not have the powers of Wizards of Loh—well, who has?—but best be wary of them, Drajak.”

  “Nice to have met you, Sana Besti,” I rapped out. “Come on! To the guardhouse, Larghos. Brannomar—tell your guards we're on our way.” The hyr kov jumped up from his chair and started for the door after us, calling: “Wait for me, confound you!”

  That's better, I said to myself. He's remembering he's a hyr kov.

  The first couple of guards who tried to stop our headlong rush were open-handed off. By then Brannomar was yelling at the top of his voice, a Hikdar fell in to run with us, and we had no further interruptions.

  We reached the entrance to the palace guardhouse. Racing inside I headed at once for the corner where I'd sat down to eat the meal they'd provided. A jolly-faced apim who strained the banded iron of his armor and who was stuffing palines into his wide mouth spluttered in protest as I hauled him out. My hand dived down into the crevice of seat and back of the bench. This was where I'd left the damned thing. My fingers scrabbled around like a crab after morsels of food. Dust and breadcrumbs, a sliver of moldy green cheese, some disgusting gunk that stuck—but not that which I sought. Desperately I reached further in, pulling the wood. More and more frantically I hauled away, tearing the bench to pieces. Nothing!

  It had been left here when I'd gone out to venture down into the runnels. By the hairy pendulous protuberances of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! Why did I get myself into these diabolical scrapes? I'd been called an onker enough times in my giddy career on Kregen, and in truth I was, an onker of onkers. I glared about, knowing the damn thing was not here. Hikdar Tygnam ti Fralen had walked into the guardroom and was speaking with Kov Brannomar. Brannomar nodded and called to me: “Drajak. All Strom Korden's possessions have been taken to his villa.”

  As I digested this information a new and horrible realization hit me.

  “That pair of double-dyed villains! If we can work it out then so can they. And I've been too damn long about it.” By this time I was wrapped up in this business and desperate to get it over with. If the Star Lords took it into their little pointy heads to decide I was neglecting my obligations to them I could find myself hurtling through the void back to Earth. “Where away is Korden's villa? I must get there at once, before they do.”

  Brannomar's sorceress sister, the Lady Besti, put her hand on his arm. “Yes, they know enough to go to the strom's villa. You will be too late—”

  “I have to try!” I fairly snarled at her.

  “There is a way. I can—”

  Brannomar jumped. He reacted with a physical convulsion of his shoulders. His scar shone as though newly branded on his skin. “Besti! You know the king's ordinance. And it will drain you—”

  “The old king is in no case to interfere, brother. The cost is worth the result. This—Drajak—is the man.”

  From my experiences with the arcane glamor of Deb-Lu-Quienyin and the college of mages I guessed what Besti meant. I stared at her, trying to put stern resolution into my features and knowing some of the old Dray Prescot Devil Look must have flashed across my face, for she lifted her morntarch involuntarily and gave it a tiny shake. The skulls rattled once.

  “I understand, my Lady Besti. Please be quick.”

  “Yes. You are indeed the man. But do you apprehend the peril?”

  “Yes. I have dealt with Wizards of Loh.”

  Her eyes widened at this. I wanted to scream at her in frustration.

  She licked her lips. “You will be disoriented—”

  “For the sake of your brother, for the sake of Tolindrin. Lady Besti—do it!”

  Her eyes closed, her arms lifted, the skulls dangling from the morntarch rattled in frenzy—and I was off.

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  * * *

  Chapter twenty

  Have you ever slipped on a banana skin? Have you ever tobogganed down an icy slope out of control? Have you ever been kicked up the back end by a fractious mule? Have you ever lost the path and fought your way back through thick snow-covered bushes? Have you ever walked in the dark slap bang into an unlighted lamp-post? Experiences of that order, multiplied by googol values, tried to tear me into little pieces.

  By Zair! I tell you, that was a whole lifetime of diabolical experiences crammed into a few hectic moments I wouldn't like to have to do every morning before breakfast!

  Completely disorientated, half-blind, the sound of Niagara in my ears, feeling pains as though my insides were being torn out and plastered all over my outsides, I arrived wherever it was the witch Lady Besti had flung me. And, yes, going over Niagara Falls in a barrel was in there somewhere, into the bargain.

  These experiences were totally unlike those associated with going up to see the Star Lords, or being sent across the planes by Deb-Lu-Quienyin. Vastly different, by Krun!

  A gray haziness hung before my eyes that was nothing like dusty spider-webs. Bright little sparks of spitting fire darted at me. I was firmly convinced I stood on my head at the same time as I stood on my heels. And all the time I was going up and down and around and around in that gut-wrenching roller-coaster that made Montezuma's Revenge—the best, or worst, ride in California according to the pundits—appear a ride in a chauffeured limousine along smooth blacktop.

  This catalogue of dire impressions is mentioned in this way for two reasons. The actuality was far far worse than I care to recall. My arrival in Strom Korden's villa occurred in a fashion not at all in the Dray Prescot style.

  The Yunivils, a race of diffs startlingly unlike apims but nice people, believe that they must be buried with their arms behind their backs and their hands grasping their heels. If they are not they will not be received into their heaven, instead they will be hurled down to their hell, Makchun, peculiarly theirs, which lies
deep below the Ice Floes of Sicce. Executed criminals are buried with their hands on their heads. They stand no chance at all of entering the Yunivil paradise.

  Now I knew what a poor condemned Yunivil felt like when he knew he was to be interred with his hands on his head.

  I just didn't know what was going on. The Lady Besti must have transported me using her arcane arts. I must have arrived, for now I could feel hard floor under my feet. The miasma swirling about me writhed mockingly. I couldn't see a damn thing. A hand grasped my arm and a gruff voice blasted into my ear.

  “You're done for, shint.”

  Another voice, hard, commanding, rattled out: “Stand fast, Larghos! I want that man! Drag him over here.”

  Another pair of hands helped by tugging my hair and away I went across the marble, dragged up towards the owner of that hard voice—Khon the Mak, as ever was.

  If only I could get my hands off my head and grab my heels they might let me into heaven—no, no. I was an apim, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy. Oh, no! I could not allow myself to be done for yet, oh, no, not by the pustular armpits and festering nostrils of Makki Grodno. Desperately I tried to peer into the mist.

  Still badly disorientated I was slapped down on my knees and my head was forced up and back. The unmistakable kiss of cold steel touched my bared throat.

  My eyes stung as though filled with freshly ground black pepper. Was that an indistinct outline forming before me, or only my fevered imagination presenting phantasms? The shape moved. It thickened and took on outlines. Ink-black hair, parchment-white face, oh, yes, there he stood, staring down on me in triumph.

  With agonizing slowness my senses returned to near-enough normality. My surroundings, as it were, created themselves about me. I was in an atrium-like space of a comfortable villa, with columns and statuary and potted plants. Fish leaped in a small pool. The smells of jasmine cooled the air. And this confounded rast Khonstanton held all the aces as his bully boys held me down before him and a dagger was laid across my throat.