“But the treasure?” persisted Pompino.
“I do not know where Zankov got it from. He fell out with his master, the Hyr Notor, and when he died, Zankov seemed relieved of a great burden. But it is certain sure Zankov could never lay his hands on so much gold. There is someone—or some group of people—anxious to harm Vallia—"
“Anxious to open the gate to plunder and slavery,” I put in, quickly. Dayra might be an accomplished agent in Vallia; here in Pandahem she would have to be more careful. Already, she'd said “kot” for koter, the Vallian word for horter, and now she was showing a lively concern over the island empire that, to most Pandaheem, could sink into the sea to general joy and thanksgiving.
As though echoing these unpleasant thoughts of mine, Pompino said: “That might be a capital adventure."
Casually, being careful, I said: “Better to lay our hands on the treasure now. That is real and within our grasp."
“Aye. You are right, Jak. By Horato the Potent! What it would be to return home with gold enough to make my lady wife blink—maybe then the gold might match her ambitions.” He considered. Then: “No. No, I do not think gold enough exists for that."
“I,” quoth Dayra with great firmness, “am starving hungry."
“And I!"
While on Kregen some taverns stay open all night, not in general being irked by licensing regulations, we deemed it prudent not to patronize a public eating place. To the best of our knowledge no one spied on us as we hurried into the Zhantil Palace. Our friends were relieved to see we were still alive. The temple had blazed awesomely. Some of Pando's property had burned along with it, and Pompino and I exchanged glances. That problem was for the future. Just when young Pando would get into Port Marsilus remained unknown. Framco had not returned, and this was perfectly understandable; there was no message from him.
Tipp the Kaktu had disappeared en route here—gone home, clearly. He and Monsi would not know who I was, if Naghan Raerdu exercised his usual caution. Only my daughter Dayra was aware of my true situation; and, as you may imagine, there were very many things we had to talk about—very many, by Zair!
Also, you may imagine my relief when no one had heard or seen the Vallian ambassador, Strazab Larghos ti Therminsax. Naghan Raerdu must have shuffled him off successfully in some other way than involving Captain Linson and the ship. Tuscurs Maiden, I gathered, had pushed off from the jetty and moored up a few hundred paces offshore. A sensible precaution, that...
We ate hugely, plundering Constanchoin's best, and drank moderately, refreshing ourselves, and then we slept ready for the morrow's exertions. Like the day that had gone, tomorrow would be a big day...
We stood to as the mists of dawn curled silvery vapors above the battlements and the twin suns began their daily shafting of emerald and ruby light across the world. There was time only for the Fristle ord-Deldar, Naghan the Pellendur, to shriek out a single warning.
The main gate simply erupted as the iron-headed ram burst through. Smashing the splintered wreckage aside, leaping ferally into the palace, armored men shocked into instant combat with the guards. The clang of steel and the hideous uproar of battle told us we were abruptly faced with mortal danger. Men swarmed into the palace, the Brown and Silvers brandishing weapons and seeking to destroy all within and take back the Vadni Dafni—for, striking magnificently in the warriors’ van, Strom Murgon led that devastating onslaught.
* * *
Chapter nineteen
Sheathed Talons...?
In a twinkling, Deldar Naghan the Pellendur's men were tumbled back from the gate and the first courtyard. Rushing up I was in time to join the defense as we sought to hold the inner wall. The uproar flowered to the rising suns.
Arrows shafted in; but the overhang prevented them from striking down upon us. That first abrupt onslaught was held—somehow—and we gained a breathing space. When the next attack came an odd thing happened.
Now, as you know, I am not one of your fighting men who believe they must have one special weapon in battle. Any paktun who depends on a particular sword is likely, if he goes adventuring, to be parted from it smartly. If, then, he feels incapable of fighting well with another weapon—oh, no! Oh, no. Your true paktun will fight with whatever comes to hand, a master of any weapon.
I own that I have gone to some lengths to retain a particular Krozair longsword, or a matched set of rapier and main gauche. But not to extreme lengths, by Zair...
So, as we fought, I used a thraxter. The stout weapon, shorter and fuller than a rapier, served well in the crude bash of the melee. A warrior, brave undoubtedly, tried to get at me over the wall, and I cut him down. His companion, a moltingur, tried to stick me from the side. I blocked the blow and, even as I struck back, recognized the weapons the man wielded. They were the rapier and main gauche I'd had from Captain Nath Periklain in Schydan Imperial, the very matching set I'd lost when the zhantil-masks knocked me over. Without hesitation I trampled the moltingur down—in turn, in turn!—and snatched the weapons. The fellow wore my belts, also. In the next few moments, as we drove back that assault, I was able to drag him in by the proboscis and strip the leather from him.
Pompino said: “You're getting fussy, Jak.” Then he saw the weapons, recognized them, and said: “You know what you told me—"
“Aye. But, right now we are like rats in a trap."
“True. But you must admit we are trapped with as bonny a bunch of fighting men as you could wish."
“I'm past being choosy in whose company I die."
“Ha! By Horato the Potent, you speak sooth. And, my friend, I'd like to know how this Murgon knew and why he chose to attack now."
“Spies, Pompino, spies. They get everywhere."
“We can hold them in that chamber with the zhantils painted along the walls—for a time..."
“I'll tell you one thing that is no longer a puzzle. This rapier and dagger were taken from me by the zhantil-masked people. Now they turn up here with Strom Murgon. That means that moltingur was a leem-mask who slew the zhantil-faces."
“And they roar out into the open—and here they come again!"
So, once more we went at it, tinker fashion, hammering them back. Just how many men Murgon would commit we had no way of knowing. We did know that he'd have more men than we did. Also, through his lavish dispersal of the funds provided by Zankov, he'd have no trouble from the ordinary folk of the city. No doubt they fancied they'd be better off under Murgon than serving Pando. I did not share that opinion...
As we battled and then drew back, using all the tricks of which we were masters to delay the foe, everyone became aware that we were never going to halt Murgon until he had destroyed us all. The odd little thought occurred to me that one was entitled to wonder what Zankov would think of this use of his money...
The booming roar of Cap'n Murkizon as he exhorted us to: “Hit ‘em, knock ‘em down, tromple all over ‘em!” heartened us. The two varterist sisters, Wilma the Shot and Alwim the Eye, highly displeased there were no ballistae they could shoot, got stuck in with bows and then cold steel. Rondas the Bold, in his element, fought magnificently. Nath Kemchug, dour, fought as only Chuliks can fight. Quendur the Ripper, like quicksilver, slashed now here, now there, battling back. Larghos the Flatch shot superbly—I even fancied Seg might have nodded a quiet approval. Chandarlie the Gut had a gigantic boarding pike and this dripped red. As for Lisa the Empoin, despite Quendur's entreaties, she stood shoulder to shoulder with us in this fight to the death. The Lady Nalfi was not with us and for the sake of Larghos the Flatch we welcomed her absence.
In a quick breathing space as the enemy pulled back and the remnants of the Fristle guard joined us, with Naghan the Pellendur shaking the drops from his scimitar, Pompino spoke in a fretful way, as though affronted. That this, in the midst of battle, was highly amusing was almost—almost but not quite—lost on my comrade.
“We're trapped here, Jak—and for what? We do not have to hold the palace, for Pandrite'
s sake!"
“True. Murgon can bring so many men he'll push us back until there is nowhere left."
“It will be dead men and women who reach there, that place at the end,” said Rondas the Bold. He whiffled a finger through his facial feathers. “But I shall not reach that end. I shall charge into them, going forward—"
“Yes, Rondas,” I cut in, “admirable. But wait a few murs first. Strike with us, together; that is our strength."
“Normally, yes—but this is not your usual battle."
They had all missed my meaning.
Pompino, I knew, although he talked of retreating until we were all slaughtered in some hole or corner, would instantly seize the other course. He would, even though it meant us all rushing out to what appeared certain death. Each one of us would believe that he or she would scrape through somehow.
So I spoke the obvious words, and they all agreed.
“Although,” said Lisa the Empoin, “and remember I stick with Quendur—although this Kov Pando ought to be here soon. I stayed in the palace, and they talked of nothing else."
“My heart,” said Quendur, gently—and with the blood splashed gorily upon him,"Do not put too much store by a miraculous rescue—"
“You know me, Quendur, by now! I merely pointed out what I had heard—onker!"
So, we were all in good heart.
In good heart to rush out upon our sudden deaths.
Constanchoin was told to take all his people and the slaves and those who could not fight and find some secure place where they might bargain for their lives. At that, a number of sturdy slaves volunteered to join us, and we provided them with weapons, to the horror of the good Constanchoin. He would, we felt, strike a bargain with Strom Murgon.
The best place to make the break lay toward a side entrance. Naghan knew the palace. In furtherance of these preparations we had pulled back swiftly, abandoning a whole block of the building within the courtyard, and barricading doors and windows behind us. We collected in the ground floor hall of what we were told was the Nathium Cupola. That lofted many stories above our heads. We prepared to rush out.
Someone called in excited shock. Heads turned.
Through the distant clangor as Murgon's men broke down our improvised barricades, through the buzz of the people, through the nervously clinked sounds of steel against iron, that voice lifted high.
“Mindi the Mad!"
She was there, standing as before, head lowered and her pale blue gown depending in its straight folds into that neat circle about her feet. She stood against a small and insignificant door leading to a slave's cleaning room. She lifted her head. Her hand rose, a forefinger beckoned.
Naghan yelled: “Mindi!” Then he rounded on us. “She is a witch and she knows many strange things—"
As Mindi beckoned again, I said: “And she knows a secret way out of the palace, that is clear."
“Aye!"
They roared out, now, most of them, yelling: “Show us, Mindi, show us!” And: “Lead us to safety, Mindi!"
Rondas looked thoroughly put out. Murkizon whistled his axe about.
“Now then, you two!” and Pompino spoke with barbs in his tongue. “No fighting without cause—remember where we are going and what to do, and then think again!"
“Aye, you are right, Horter Pompino, although I was set upon the last great fight—"
“Not today. Let us follow this Mindi the Mad."
So, that is what we did. We trooped along through the slave's cleaning room and down stairways and along flang-infested corridors and so, after a goodly distance, came to a blank end to a side corridor. The pale insubstantial specter beckoned us.
We looked at the blank masonry, dripping and green with lichen, and our torches struck sparks from nitre specks.
“Is this it!” demanded some.
The dead-end corridor contained a broken chest to the side, holding rusted iron, and the place stank of rotting vegetation, a dank, stagnant stink.
Pompino brushed up his reddish whiskers and stepped forward. No haughty and smart Khibil, his manner proclaimed, could be beaten by a small mystery like this—no, by Horato the Potent!
Cap'n Murkizon let rip a bellow. “The lever to open the secret block is here, in this rusty iron.” He stalked over to the broken chest. “It is obvious!” With that, he bent to grasp a projecting rod of orange-rusted iron.
With a liquid flash of blue the spectral form of Mindi the Mad reared before Murkizon. He staggered back. One arm flung up to protect himself and the other groping futilely for his axe.
Mindi pointed up. She stabbed up twice, and then brought her palm down, flat and squashing. Her face reflected the greatest alarm.
It was clear—as Pompino acidly pointed out.
“Had you pulled that lever, Cap'n—a great block of stone would have dropped on you—and us! Squash!"
Cap'n Murkizon stood back. He did not mention the Divine Lady of Belschutz.
Mindi the Mad pointed to a certain junction of masonry where a finger hole showed, black and oozing water. Into this Pompino stuck a finger. He did so with great aplomb. He might have had it bitten off, and he knew it. He twisted. With a groaning like a miser paying out gold, a doorway-sized block of stone revolved before us. The stink gushed out, gagging us.
Quietly, Dayra said to me: “I think I like your Khibil friend very much—for a Khibil and a friend of yours."
People pushed through the opening. Dayra and I stood aside as the crocodile of children went along. We'd brought them with us when a chance of escape favored by Mindi had presented itself. Caring for them were Natalini, Sharmin, Tinli and Suli.
One little girl's slipper fell off and she was too scared and too pushed along by the others to stop for it. I bent and picked it up.
“If we leave any signs Murgon will know where we've gone."
And—I swear it!—even as I said this we heard the first sounds from the maze of corridors at our backs. The tread of iron-studded sandals, the clink of spear or sword against stone, told us we had to hurry. A small group remained to the last, ready to bash anyone who tried to stop us. Rondas was still in half a mind to rush out to the last great fight; we did not quite drag him into the opening; but he was highly reluctant. As for me, I had greater schemes afoot than enjoying a bout of sword-fighting in the cellars, by Krun!
All the same, I managed to persuade Pompino to go on and sort out what lay ahead while I brought up the rear. So, it chanced that I was the last to go through into that dark opening and Dayra the penultimate.
A wooden horizontal bar across the inside of the slab afforded purchase to close it. I put a hand to this, Dayra stood at my side and helped. The slab began to revolve to close us off in secret and, far off down that main tunnel the sounds hastened on and a gleam of light struck into the nitre flecking the walls, reflected like an accusing host of eyes.
I stopped shutting the slab.
“What's up now?” demanded Dayra, still pushing on.
“Wait a moment, Ros.” With that I turned sideways and slid through the narrow crack. I reached down to the certain junction of masonry where a finger hole showed. From it I drew out a palm's length of ribbon. Water stained the ribbon darkly, but the stripe of zig-zag silver down the center had reflected that accusing flicker of torchlight, Dayra's whistle of surprise was stifled instantly. I stuffed the ribbon into my flap-pouch, squeezed back into the opening and together we closed the slab.
The stink really got up my nostrils, and Dayra said: “By Vox! What a pestilential place!"
I said: “Use Pandrite, or Chusto or Chozputz—"
We crept along a narrow and slimy ledge with the sounds of the others before us and the erratic light of their torches to prevent us from stepping into the sewer at our side.
“Chusto?” said Dayra. “Chozputz? I've never heard—"
“Nor has anyone else. I made them up."
“Oh!"
“And we have someone in our midst who leaves ribbons to mark wh
ere we went."
“You have no suspicions?"
“None. It is probably one of the slaves we armed and brought along. Or, possibly, one of Naghan's guards. They seek to earn a disreputable coin or two from a grateful Murgon."
“They will earn something a little different from me, by Vo—Chusto!—when they are unmasked."
“When."
The small sewer led into a medium-sized sewer which led to a large sewer. The striking fact was the stinks did not improve or lessen; the folk of Port Marsilus were median in their ablutional functions. Scurrying claws fled from us; we met no fearsome monsters and I was mightily thankful for that. I thought of the girl children and the way their new dresses were being ruined. At last we reached a manhole where Pompino's fiercely whiskered face peered down, and he said: “Come on, Jak! We're waiting for you! Oh—my lady Ros—here, take my hand."
With great gallantry he assisted her up. We were in a shadowed shed racked with implements like shovels and brooms and water-carrying equipment. So we could wash some of the muck off before we started out into the daytime streets of the city.
“To skulk off from a fight does not please me,” Pompino said. “But the greater good demands this dishonor."
“Gold demands it,” I pointed out—with little pleasure.
“Lead us to the gold,” quoth Cap'n Murkizon. “I fancy we know what to do with it after those pestilential sewers."
“Beng Dikkane will wax fat,” said Larghos, his arm protectingly around the lady Nalfi. She looked disheveled and unhappy.
We decided not to split up to slink through the city but to go in a bold body down to the docks. Dayra guided us. We met no one who offered to stop us; we guessed word of our presence would quickly reach Murgon. We just had to beat him for speed.
Talons of Scorpio [Dray Prescot #30] Page 19
