If I got out of this scrape I'd have a word or three with the good Lady Besti. Yes, by Krun! What a way to deliver a fellow!
The voice of Khonstanton's wizard sounded out of my sight as he said: “The man smells of sorcery, notor. He was dispatched through—that is—”
“Get on with it, San Wocut, if it is important. You are merely delaying this shint's death.”
“I was going to say, notor, through thaumaturgical arts frowned upon by the late king. Power to bring him here has been used, there can be no doubt of that.”
The Lady Besti's power might be kharrna I did not comprehend, I did know it put a fellow through torture worthy of the old Hanitchik in Ruathytu or of poor fat Queen Fahia in Huringa. My eyes unglued a little more. This fellow Larghos held his damned dagger close. In those first bemused moments I might well have imagined that the Vallian ambassador held the blade. Squinting up I saw he was a Chulik. His golden-banded tusks gleamed in the light; he enjoyed this kind of work.
“Slissur take the how of it.” Mak Khon's voice grated. “The how of it is easy enough to guess. That dignified prig Brannomar! Before this scum dies he will tell us exactly.”
Digesting that interesting item of information I came to the conclusion that I really could not hang about any longer. The dagger was cutting in unpleasantly. There were two of them holding me and although I couldn't see who it was dragging my head back by the hair he would be the first to go.
With an extremely sharp movement, a very sharp movement, by Vox! I laid the back of my heel into the space I knew he must be occupying. In the same instant an equally rapid jerk of the head took my throat away from that officiously sharp dagger. The fellow at my back yelped shrilly confirming the accuracy of my blind aim. In that tiny space that opened between dagger and throat I twisted. The Chulik doubled up, gobbling, and I span to finish off the other one.
Speed alone saved me. Two more savage blows followed by a charging run at Khonstanton saw me past. The kov staggered away from my shoulder, mouthing incoherently. I didn't stop to kick him as I took off, much though he deserved it, and the shadows of the columned arcades swallowed me up. No one even loosed or threw after me.
Running flat out under the arched roof I went with great speed through several archways and along more corridors. This place was not in the same architectural league as the great palaces of Oxonium, it still was a splendid villa with many rooms, passages and stairways. Reluctant though I might be to deal harshly with Strom Korden's folk, the desperate situation gave me no latitude. The first servant I grabbed just gibbered.
Pushing him away I hared off until a rotund Gon turned a corner to be gripped and held. My face glared into his. His shaven head shone with lavish ministrations of butter; his eyes goggled.
“Where are the strom's private apartments, oh Gon?”
He stuttered and shook and spittle ran down his chin.
“The strom is dead.”
“As will you be,” I said, unkindly, “if you do not show me the way.”
He wore a decent yellow tunic and soft sandals so he was an indoor servant and would know his way about. I gave him a shove. The sight of my face convinced him. Sobbing and whining under his breath he led off.
Yes, I hate this kind of behavior; but so much depended on my getting to the strom's possessions first there was no time for niceties. That pack of killers would be hard on my heels by now.
The Gon did not play me false. Opaz alone knows what I would have done had he done so in the frame of mind I was in. We hurried along and I kept a sharp lookout.
The debilitating effects of the Lady Besti's sorcery wore off as we climbed higher in the villa to reach a series of tastefully furnished apartments overlooking the atrium where I'd landed. A few servants who saw us cowered away. I got the impression certain people had been here before me asking questions and not getting any answers.
Indeed, a Hytak guard stood at the door to the inner rooms; but he went to sleep peacefully before he had time to challenge us. I shoved the Gon through and in we went.
“All the strom's possessions that were brought here.” I gave him a look. “Take me to them—now.”
“Yes, yes, notor, yes. Please do not kill me.”
“Your name, Gon?”
“Affleck the Wine, if it please you.”
So I laughed as we bustled through. “A trifle of a wet would please me greatly, Affleck the Wine. Perhaps afterwards.”
He gave me an odd look; but he stopped shaking. We entered the strom's bedchamber. Strom Korden lived the simple spartan life of the warrior and the practical furnishings of his bedroom confirmed that. Looking about it was easy to see his lifestyle before Khon the Mak or Prince Ortyg had him foully murdered. An iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed looked promising and I released the Gon with: “Stand still, Affleck!” He jumped and stood like a wooden hitching post. I threw the lid of the chest open.
Pitiful—pitiful—the garments, the harness, the boots, the brave helmet with the feathers—tumbled in here as Strom Korden would be placed in his tomb out in Kaodrin past the hills of Oxonium. Masons were already at work out there building the vast and awe-inspiring sepulchers to house the king's son and the old king when—in the eyes of the populace—he in his turn died. Strom Korden's tomb, although of far less magnificence, would hold the remains of a man of just as much, if not greater, worth.
I picked the thing up and buckled the belt around my waist.
A light, amused laugh came from the doorway followed by: “By Krun, my dear chap, you really are a fellow for getting into things.”
The braxter was in my fist, for the moment the belt was buckled up I intended to transfer the blade. So, slowly, sword in hand, I turned to face him.
He took one pace into the strom's bedchamber and so stood, right leg a little advanced, gloved hands on hips, head thrown back and chin jutting. He was well aware of the dashing picture he made. He'd at last changed his shirt for a Tolindrinese shamlak, very suave in a rich silvery-gray material, and silvery-gray trousers were stuffed into black boots. He was what he was, what nature had intended him to be from the moment of his birth, no more and no less. Like him? Oh, yes, I had quite a fondness for him by this time. His light, peculiar, distinctive laugh bubbled through his words. He lifted one hand and stroked a forefinger along his thin black moustache.
“The game has been well worth it, Drajak, my friend. But, now—”
Like anything else in life he wasn't taking this seriously. He held out his hand. “I'll take it now, old feller, if you please.”
There was absolutely no appreciation on his part of the incongruity of the request in these circumstances, no understanding of a viewpoint other than his own. He was self-centered to the point of sublimity.
Cautiously, I said: “I rather think—”
Before I could continue, a hullabaloo of shouting and smashing noises spurted up from outside. Moving swiftly sideways I looked out of the wide bedroom windows onto the atrium.
What looked like a whole damned army of fighting men poured into the space below, spreading out and prodding and prying. There was no mistaking the man intemperately directing their efforts. You couldn't miss that weasel face, the frenetic movements. I swung back to Dagert.
“Prince Ortyg. He'll cut out our livers and fry ‘em—”
“Highly dramatic, don't you know—but all the same I think it best if you handed it across. I'll feel more reassured.”
“There's no time for that now. We have to get away.”
He gave an abrupt nod. He was handsome in his own dark and raffish way and now those clear-cut features set impassionately. “Of course.”
“Affleck!” I called, swinging about. The Gon was gone. Affleck the Wine had taken the opportunity to scuttle back to his vats.
I glared at Dagert of Paylen. “D'you know your way around this confounded place?”
“Come on.” Without hesitation he started for the door. I followed. I did not scabbard the braxter�
��just in case, by Djan!
Together we ran along corridors and through pleasant rooms. We reached double doors before which a wounded Hytak lay, blood seeping from his side. He lifted one hand painfully. Dagert went headlong through the open doorway and I almost trod on his heels.
The moment I saw the assemblage in the room and realized the tables were turned I skidded to a halt, frantically backpedaling. Dagert hauled up in front. Beyond him the chamber was filled with men wearing the badges of Hyr Kov Khonstanton, another whole damned army of ‘em.
“Whoops!” I yelped. “Come on, Dagert. This is too unhealthy for us.” Dagert swung back towards me. That handsome face showed pleasure. For an instant I imagined he was happy to take this bunch on single handed. He ripped out his rapier and main gauche in the practiced motions of a Bladesman. Then Khon the Mak walked forward from the ranks of his men.
“Well done, Amak. I was sure I could rely on you.”
So we faced each other, Dagert of Paylen and Drajak the Sudden.
“You see how it is, my dear chap. Better hand it over right away.”
“You,” I said, foolishly. “You've damned well been working for Mak Khon all the time.”
“As it happens, yes. It is to my advantage, as I'm sure you'd be the first to recognize.”
The moment hung, poised. A number of incidents came clear.
“You drove those confounded nails into Nandisha's lifter controls.”
“Not me, Palfrey. And he caused her to land in Amintin.”
“And Strom Korden?”
His rapier made a graceful gesture. “Had that sorry affair been in my hands the resolution, I assure you, by Krun, would have been different.”
“I believe you.” And, by Vox, I did!
“Well now, don't delay any longer. I assure you—”
What all these assurances of his might have amounted to might well not have weighed against a feather. I shook my head like any onker and he flung himself forward, blades glittering.
Like a leem, he was, quick and lethal. The braxter switched across to block a lunge and a twist of the body avoided the dagger. I gave a sharp cut, his blade slammed across in immediate defense—and the blades met with a harsh and brittle crash. Good Ruathytu steel versus metal of munitions quality of Tolindrin—the braxter snapped across.
Furiously I hurled the hilted stump in his face, swiveled and ran.
He'd have no difficulty in avoiding the throw. He'd be after me instantly. So, I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, ran.
Straight back down the passage I hurled, leaping over the poor devil of a wounded Hytak, haring on with Dagert of Paylen in full chase.
Room after room, chamber after chamber we kept up that mad race.
After a time I knew by the sounds that Dagert alone pursued for we outdistanced the pack. At last we reached a wide, low-ceiled upper room where benches and tables showed this to be a dining area. Man-high windows stood along one wall. At the far end a narrow door led—where? I didn't know and I was tired of running off. Once I had thrown Dagert of Paylen off my track I'd high tail it out of here. I hauled up and swung about to face him.
“Ah, at last, my dear chap.” He didn't sound the least bit breathless. His blades snouted up. “Look here, why not hand it across and we'll say no more.” His gloved left hand lifted the main gauche and a forefinger stroked along the pencil thin moustache. “The kov's folk will not be so understanding.”
Without fuss I drew the rapier and left-hand dagger.
His face suddenly expressed comical surprise. “What! Surely—my dear fellow, I do assure you, I bear you no animosity whatsoever—surely you must understand. You have no chance with the Jiktar and the Hikdar.”
“You tried to murder Nandisha and her children—”
“Hardly murder! I do draw the line somewhere, you know. Just a device to bring them down, that is all. Now, come along—”
“If you want the damn thing you must take it.”
“Then, as they say in Clishdrin, on your own head be it.” He leaped.
Our blades crossed in that soul-searing scrape and chingle of metal. Of two things I was firmly convinced. This fight had to be over quickly. And Dagert of Paylen would be a first-class Bladesman of Ruathytu. The fight was quite interesting. As you know I am always aware that one day on Kregen I may meet another Mefto the Kazzur who is my master with the sword. I do not now and never have claimed to be the best swordsman in two worlds. After a few passes I knew Dagert of Paylen was not another Mefto the Kazzur. His face, at first nonchalant with a tiresome chore to be done, slowly assumed a more sober expression. His attitude changed.
His first attacks were simple enough, designed, I truly believe, to disarm me. My responses brought a more determined onslaught. After a few more flourishes, when the blades met in cunning angles, he drew back.
“I see I misjudged you, my dear Drajak. It seems you have some skill, after all. Well, that is all one now, smoke blown with the wind. If you are pinked or stuck through—”
And on the words he was in with leem-like speed. A twist, the dagger angled just so, and I thrust. He skidded sideways, blades all askew. His face went white.
Pressing him, I forced him back. His skill was considerable and there was no taking chances. Around the room we went, leaping onto benches and tables, thrusting and riposting, the blades blurred slivers of deadly light.
As I say, this fight was an interesting one.
Eventually he realized he would not best me.
Eventually, too, I knew I would not thrust to kill. He was far too engaging a character.
He ran a few paces off and swiveled to face me. His bare chest beneath the shamlak moved more rapidly now.
“Yes,” he said. “I see I have seriously misjudged you. The devil take it! Hyr Kov Khonstanton must do his dirty work himself.”
With a sleight of hand I admired the rapier snicked up to tuck under his right armpit. The dagger appeared in his fingers, as it were, from nowhere. He flung full at me.
With the instinctive reaction of one versed in the Disciplines of the Krozairs of Zy I flicked the rapier up and the dagger chingled away to spin in a twinkling of light and embed itself in a table.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, whirling his blade back and scabbarding it and in the same motion sheathing the left-hand dagger. “A veritable prodigy!”
With that he turned suddenly, leaped for the man-high window nearest and plunged through in a welter of smashing glass and splintering frame. He vanished.
Running to the ruin of the window and looking out I glimpsed him leaping like a gazelle over the rooftops. He kept up that cheeky role to the end. At a chimney stack he paused and turned back. He gave me a wave of his gloved hand, almost an ironic salute. Then Dagert of Paylen, swordsman, killer, dandy—yet hardly a forsworn villain—disappeared.
After that the whole affair dwindled. Fresh uproar greeted me as I stared out and amidst the intermingled shouts I made out the cries of: “Khonstanton!” “Ortyg!” and, thankfully: “Brannomar!”
Cautiously making my way back to the atrium and wary of the slightest shadow, I found the place seething with armed and armored men. They were all there. With that charismatic presence at full blast, Brannomar sorted out the hubbub. People milled. Khonstanton, Ortyg and Brannomar stood together talking heatedly. Little would be required to set all these warriors at one another's throats. Prince Tom and Princess Nandisha appeared and walked towards the others. Abruptly, Fweygo and Tiri stood at my side, chattering away like magpies.
“I don't know what you've been up to—” began Fweygo.
“Drajak! You're safe, thanks be to Cymbaro!” Tiri grabbed my arm.
“Fweygo—the numims—?”
“Safe.”
“I'll tell you all about it directly. First I have a duty to discharge.” I pushed through the people towards the principals.
Brannomar saw me. I nodded. I made the nod significant and he understood at once. An expressio
n of relief flickered across his bronzed face. I walked up to him and he spoke urgently.
“Not here. All of you, come. Let's have it done with.”
In only a few moments the principals gathered in Strom Korden's best reception room. Nandisha looked agitated and I tried to give her a smile. Tom, as ever, seemed distanced from all the excitement. As for Ortyg, his thin face wore the various expressions associated with greed and ambition and self-pride. Khonstanton stuck his hands on his hips.
“Well? Drajak the Sudden, you—”
“Don't worry, notor,” I said. “Everything is under control.” And let him chew the pips in that one, bad cess to him!
Brannomar extended his hand. “Drajak?”
I unbuckled the swordbelt I'd taken from Strom Korden's iron-bound chest and handed it across.
This was the article that had caused so much pain and bloodshed and pure bloody-minded grief. This, and not the sword, lay at the core of the intrigue.
Brannomar took it, his knife was out, and he went at the stitching with single-minded purpose. Layer by layer it unwrapped and its secret was revealed. Korden and the priests of Cymbaro had taken the old king's will, an imposing document—as well it must be—of solid parchment and had used the will itself to form the scabbard. Around it they'd stitched the outer cover and had lined it correctly. Now the stiff yellow pages unwrapped before our fascinated gazes.
“Forget the bequests,” snarled Khonstanton. “The heir!” When a king died he left munificent bequests so there would be clause after clause. Ortyg shoved up to help hold the will flat. He was consumed. He was aflame with greed. If the old king had known anything about his descendants, as I guessed he would have, why then—I felt a pang of pity for this presumptuous prince.
Nandisha held her lower lip between her teeth. Well, yes, her son would do well to inherit, and Brannomar run the country as regent. That would suit Vallia and me nicely. As for Khonstanton, he'd be worse than Ortyg. Who, in a Herrelldrin Hell was it, then?
Brannomar read. He moved his head, and read again. He looked up.
“Come on, man!” ground out Khonstanton.
Ortyg tried to read the upside down will.
Intrigue of Antares [Dray Prescot #44] Page 18
