Talons of Scorpio

by Alan Burt Akers

  Continuing his train of thought, Pompino went on: “Here in Bormark we will have to go about the business in a rather different fashion from Memis and Pomdermam.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye! Look you — I burned a temple to Lem here. No doubt others have sprung up to take its place. But now we have the Lady Tilda with us.”

  He used the general word for lady — shiume — which has so many gradations of rankings Kregans more often than not omit all these subtle shadings, and say simply “The Shiume” and then the lady’s name. This applies from Kovneva to Kotera. I know my Delia has trenchant opinions upon this subject of lick-spittling fawning. Pompino and I, when we did not call Tilda the Beautiful, Tilda of the Many Veils, Kovneva, we addressed her as Shiume, my lady.

  I agreed. Then, with a note of caution, I said: “We are duty bound to see her safely to her palace. This may lay us open to observation. It is certain sure that Murgon Marsilus will have spies, no less than the Leem Lovers.”

  “Then we proceed under cover.”

  Any Kregan knows the nightly tally of Moons. Tonight we were due the Twins, the two second moons eternally orbiting each other, and the largest moon, the Maiden with the Many Smiles. The fourth moon, She of the Veils, would appear wanly toward dawn. As for the three smaller moons, they hurtle past in their headlong courses, casting little enough light, in so much of a hurry Kregans have a whole repertoire of jokes about them and their resemblance to the energetic hyperthyroid types of people to be found everywhere.

  We agreed the best time would be a couple of glasses before the hour of dim, just before the Maiden with the Many Smiles put in her appearance.

  All details of entering the harbor and of finding a berth could be left to the captain. We roused out the four hefty fellows selected to carry Tilda’s sedan chair, the luxurious palankeen in which, besides cushions and pillows and fans and toiletries and other essential requirements she would have a considerable quantity of interesting bottles stashed away. Everyone knew that the Lady Tilda drank, and was usually a fraction on the other side of lustiness and yet was never ever drunk — or, at least, never intoxicated to make it noticeable or herself a nuisance. The chair swung up onto the deck and settled on its clawed feet. The curtains were drawn.

  “It might,” observed Rondas the Bold, his red feathers whiffling in the breeze, “have been easier to have hauled the gherimcal up with the lady seated inside.”

  One or two of the hands laughed.

  As a serious suggestion it was perfectly sensible. To have dropped the gherimcal back down and put Tilda inside and then have hauled the pair up would smack of the undignified now the damned chair was actually on deck. Tilda, despite the drink and her grossness, was, after all, a kovneva and a lady.

  Pompino said, “I, for one, am having nothing to do with getting the lady on deck.”

  Chandarlie the Gut stepped forward. “Leave it to me, horters.” His stomach swelled in its magnificent bow shape; he and Tilda would make a likely pair.

  “And handsomely, mind,” I said.

  It is worth mentioning that of the four men selected to act as calsters and carry the chair, two were apims, Homo sapiens like me, one was a Brokelsh and the other a Brukaj. It has often been said that apims make the best sailors on Kregen, and Fristles among the worst. Brokelsh are found in surprising numbers following the nautical profession. A captain usually has a crew consisting of a mixed bunch of races under command and it is up to him to knock them all into shape.

  Tuscurs Maiden negotiated the buoyed channel and we tied up alongside a stone quay with long black-painted sheds across the cobbles. The port officials descended like warvols and these were left strictly to the master and to the Relt stylor, Rasnoli. They knew how to handle these fellows.

  The declining suns threw long radiances of jade and ruby across the houses and water, casting umber shadows against the terraces and towers, limning in light the opposite cornices. Gulls winged looking for last minute morsels for supper. The air held an evening tang.

  The argenter’s new first lieutenant, a shambly man with a pebbly skin, one Boris Pordon, went about his tasks with a worried expression. I could fully sympathize with the tribulations of the Ship Hikdar, by Vox. And, as we went down for a final meal, I suddenly realized that I might be leaving the sea for some time. What we faced with such casual ease was likely to be exceedingly fraught and filled with the clangor of swords. This was very much a case of frying pan and fire.

  Pompino must have shared much of this foreboding. As we sat to Limki the Lame’s latest creation he chewed thoughtfully.

  “We had best take a goodly supply of weapons with us.”

  “Aye.”

  “And Captain Linson will spare us enough men.”

  “Aye.”

  Pompino eyed me. He took a forkful of Limki’s roast quindil and paused, opened his mouth to speak, and then stuffed the quindil in instead. I am not overfond of poultry, and the quindil, a kind of turkey, however beautifully roasted and stuffed, scarcely merited comparison with the vosk chops Limki had prepared for me.

  When he had swallowed, Pompino said: “Superb! Limki lost no time in buying fresh foodstuffs — yet you stick with those giant chops — and we will need to take provisions with us, also, I think.”

  “Aye.”

  He slammed his knife down hard.

  “You are infuriating, Jak! Is that all you can say — aye!”

  “Anything else would appear superfluous.”

  “We are likely to have Murgon Marsilus, King Nemo, the Pandrite-forsaken imps of Lem, and who knows who else, all buzzing about our ears and trying to part us from our heads — yet all you can do is chomp down Vosk chops and say Aye.”

  “I forbore to point out the facts you have just related with such fervor out of respect for the delicacy of your stomach during a meal.” He might have blown up then; but I went on in what I hoped was an imperturbable tone: “However, if you wish me to add from all we have unearthed and what we can surmise, my own observations, why, then, I will willingly do so.”

  Then he had me. He said: “Aye.”

  I almost laughed around a mouthful of vosk chop.

  “Well, then: Firstly — and there may not be a secondly — the Kovneva Tilda wishes to return to her palace here in Port Marsilus for a number of reasons. She wishes to consult with this mysterious Mindi the Mad, whoever she may be. She wishes to see the twins Pynsi and Poldo Mytham. Also she feels safer in her own palace.” I took up a glass of wine, a full-bodied red — a Jeu O’fremont, I recall — and watched Pompino. He sat munching his bird and watching me. I went on: “The Leem Lovers have committed themselves too deeply in the attempt to kill her and must continue—”

  “Ha!” said Pompino. “We’ve blattered ’em once — let ’em try again, Pandrite rot ’em!”

  “Quite. As I was saying. She must have friends in her own capital city, and in her palace... Surely?”

  “One would judge so, yes.”

  “Once we can place her safely in their hands we can breathe more freely. And we can get on with burning temples.”

  “Aye.”

  “It also strikes me that young Pando got in over his head. He joined up with the Leem Lovers in order to strike at his cousin Murgon. I think that association with Lem the Silver Leem was too strong for his blood. People get to know about these things — people who count, in responsible positions, who run things. The old values wither. The whole of this kingdom of Tomboram is in a mess, and the kovnate of Bormark is in the worst mess. And Pando is at his wits’ end.”

  “With that reading of the matter I concur.”

  So, inevitably, I said: “Aye.”

  We drank a little in silence for a space.

  Then Pompino said: “This young lady, the Vadni Dafni Harlstam, whose lands adjoin those of Pando. Murgon designs to marry her to aggrandize himself. So does Pando. One is allowed to wonder, I think, if she, too, is an adherent of Lem.”

  “Ah,” I said, wi
sely.

  “What is sure is that she is not the cause of the quarrel between them. That has festered since their respective births. She is the catalyst that has precipitated the latest outburst. And she is likely to be the last.”

  “That is a bleak enough prophecy. But, if you look on the bright side, it might be a good one.”

  He reached for more wine, his whiskers very red under the lamps.

  “You mean, Jak, that after we have finished with them all, all their problems will be settled? Aye!”

  You had to hand it to Pompino the Iarvin. Confidence was his middle name in these matters. Once he stepped ashore he became a different man.

  Nath the Apron came in with the dessert. Limki had prepared looshas pudding, a soldiers’ favorite, and both Pompino and I tucked in. There was a cream and fruit trifle to follow that, and Nath the Apron, a quiet and unobtrusive cabin steward, brought in the bowls of fruit and the palines. The wine passed, and we sat, thinking of what lay ahead.

  Thankfully, on Kregen, no one was foolish enough to light up and smoke. Although, and sometimes I admit this with a quiver of guilt, a fine after-dinner cigar would not have gone amiss...

  Presently, Pompino stretched and thumped his glass down.

  “Time?”

  I stood up. Preparations had all been made. So there was but the one rejoinder to make. I said it.

  “Aye.”

  Chapter six

  The Lady Nalfi hides in the Chunkrah’s Eye

  “Where in the name of Suzi the Bowgirl have you been, Nalfi?” Larghos the Flatch sounded both distraught and relieved.

  The Lady Nalfi laughed lightly.

  “Why, you silly man, I went ashore to buy certain things a girl must have, with the money you gave me. And I became lost—”

  “Think what could have happened to you! Why didn’t you ask me—?”

  “You were all so busy. Anyway, it is of no moment.”

  We were crowding down onto the jetty, the four calsters were manipulating Tilda’s chair down, we were trying to keep quiet and stop our weapons from clinking. Murkizon was breathing like a whale.

  “Once Larghos rescued you, my lady, you placed yourself under his protection. I have done so, and joy in it.”

  “As you stand by me, Cap’n,” burst out Larghos. He looked wild. He’d had a fright.

  The Twins shed light enough, too much for nefarious purposes I fancied, with an uncomfortable hitch to my shoulders. Somehow or other, and even allowing for my act with Pompino, the whole business of this night looked awry to me, not quite handled in a logical and successful fashion. But Pompino was trying to shout in a whisper, and his Chulik, Nath Kemchug, dropped a spear, which clattered, and Rondas the Bold, still not abandoning his mail, let it clash slightly as he negotiated the gangplank. Pompino looked to the Moons and stars above, and clutched at my arm.

  “A pack of famblys, the lot of them, by Horato the Potent, famblys all.”

  I did not reply but looked about into the moon-shot darkness of the jetty. The black sheds glistened with runnels of moonshine. The cobbles swam in glisten. I could see no shadows moving out there.

  Tilda’s chair had been draped with canvas to make it appear less grand, and the fake chair done up out of packing crate wood and painted canvas had been sent off earlier with most of the escort. That should have drawn off any unwelcome attentions; now we simply ran straight for the palace.

  That, as I say, was the plan...

  We were to follow in a slightly different path from the decoy party. The walls and towers of the palace provided a clear target, and I was perfectly prepared to wake Tilda up and shake information out of her if we could not find an easy road through.

  As the Owner, Pompino had selected the composition of the parties, and he had undeniably put more weight into the genuine escort. The Ship Hikdar, Boris Pordon, commanded the fake escort with more men in numbers but not, Pompino judged, in fighting ability.

  Also, the fake escort with its wood and canvas dummy chair carried torches to light the way. We, with Tilda in the real gherimcal in our midst, hurried along with only the light of the Twins to guide us. And, as I have indicated, that light was of a sufficiency enough.

  Past shuttered houses we sped, the gherimcal swaying as the bearers moved in rhythmic steps. Nath Kemchug had his spear firmly grasped, and Rondas the Bold’s mail — as befitted a proud Rapa paktun — no longer chittered, link against link. As was his right and duty, Pompino led. Because of that old itchy feeling betwixt my shoulder blades — usually an infallible sign, not always, of approaching danger and action — I prowled along at the tail end. My head kept on trying to twist itself off my shoulders as I turned this way and that watching our backtrack. Every window could conceal a marksman, every shadow a shrieking swordsman, every archway a charging axeman...

  The Brown and Silvers hit us from up front.

  They were waiting for us.

  They simply rushed out into the mouth of an avenue leading to the palace, fronting a square, and charged.

  At the first yell, the first clatter of iron-shod sandals on stone, I was raging up, quivering — and remaining in the rear. Pompino and the others would have to handle the frontal attack. I still suspected a treacherous stab in the back.

  “Hit ’em, knock ’em down, tromple all over ’em!” bellowed a fruity voice.

  The wicked tinker-hammer of steel against steel racketed up, echoing against the walls.

  Anybody who tried to break a way through that powerful human hedge of steel was in for trouble. In the time I’d known them, the comrades I’d made in Tuscurs Maiden had proved themselves. Now, once again, they were fighting and earning their hire. I closed up to the chair, setting my back against the curtains, and staring forward and aft. Mainly, I looked to the rear. This ambush was just right for the attack from the rear that would smash into the unprotected backs of the fighters defending in front. Grasping my thraxter, I watched.

  The two apims, Nath the Clis and Indur the Rope, and the Brokelsh, Ridzi the Rangora, and the Brukaj, Bendil Fribtix, remained grasping the handles of the chair. They were ready to run like stink to smash a way through surrounded by the fighting men. They had a tough task, and one not to my liking, I can tell you, by Krun!

  Something kicked my ankle.

  I looked down, the thraxter snouting.

  A shapely foot and ankle with a silver bangle kicked and then withdrew. I bent and lifted a flap of canvas, and the sword in my fist nuzzled forward.

  “Oh!” gasped Nalfi, twisting around, her pallid face staring up in shock.

  “It’s all right, my lady. But I do not think you are particularly wise. It is not safe under there if—”

  The dagger in her fist glimmered as she crawled out.

  “Larghos told me to seek shelter and this seemed the best place. I am frightened—”

  We had fixed up boards and bronze in the gherimcal against arrows. Nalfi knew this. All the same, the chair was the target and she had chosen to shelter in the chunkrah’s eye, as it were.

  The fight up ahead swayed back and forth as we spoke in snatched whispers. Dark shadows moved in convulsive gyrations, and men screamed and died. The noise would bring other men and women, soon, that was sure.

  Nath the Clis holding the front near side handle looked back and called: “Larghos was right, Jak. But the lady is still in danger here.”

  Even if Nalfi could have somehow squeezed into the chair with Tilda and all her belongings, the additional weight, together with the bronze and wood, would slow us too much.

  “Crouch down small, Nalfi. Here.” I handed her across the shield I’d taken from Nath Kemchug’s armory aboard ship. “Hold this over you. We’ll see off this rabble up ahead. It won’t be long.”

  “I do hope so!”

  Larghos the Flatch ran back to the gherimcal, his bow over his shoulder and his thraxter stained dark.

  “You are safe, Nalfi?”

  “Yes, yes—”

  “T
hey’re giving way up there. We can move on now—”

  And at that moment the back stab I had anticipated and thought to be a mere overwrought fever of my brain erupted in a yelling mob of Brown and Silvers, hurtling down upon us.

  Instantly we were embroiled in a vicious fight to stay alive and to protect Tilda. The four bearers had to thwunk the gherimcal down, draw their weapons and hurl themselves into the fray. We struggled in a mass of contorting bodies across the cobbles, smashing back at the attack, striking and defending, roaring in a mind-wrenching phantasmagoria of action under the light of the Moons.

  Having given the shield to Nalfi, I was in no mood to foin with this mob of would-be assassins. The left-hand dagger whipped free of its scabbard. With the stout cut and thrust thraxter in my right fist and the main gauche in my left I felt that the combination would prove an interesting variation. The things one dwells on in the fractions of a heartbeat!

  The swirl of action revolved away to my left as, with Larghos at my side, we swathed a way through on the right. The Brown and Silvers wore their colored favors openly. Their faces were not masked as assassins’ faces are commonly concealed. We hit them hard, and they hit us hard.

  Ridzi the Rangora catapulted backwards. A thick spear transfixed his belly. Larghos, with a cunning sideways belt of his sword, dispatched the fellow, all eyes and teeth, who had thrust his spear through Ridzi.

  The Brokelsh sank down. For a tiny moment his voice reached me through the hubbub.

  “By Bridzilkelsh the Resplendent! I am done for!”

  Blackness gushed from his mouth.

  “Hold up, dom,” I said. “We’ll carry you—”

  But the Brokelsh, Ridzi the Rangora, keeled over onto his side, the spear haft drawing up his knees in a rictus of agony. In the next heartbeat he was dead.