WoP - 02 - Istu Awakened

by Robert E. Vardeman

  High Medurim in a thousand years. It is my Oracle who will bring about a renaissance of knowledge and wisdom and make Medurim mighty again.'

  Sneering, she yawned ostentatiously and raised her arms above her head, squeezing her shoulder-blades together so that her heavy breasts jutted straight at Fost. Areolas like targets showed clearly through the gown's flimsy fabric.

  'You spend all your time with that unnatural thing!' Inch-long lashes batted at Fost; he almost felt the wind. 'I'm sure Sir Fost would never neglect me so.'

  He felt as if someone had poured molten wax into his stomach. Damn the woman! Why didn't she leave him alone?

  And why did she have this effect on him?

  'Unnatural?' Teom's voice rose to a shrill scream of outrage. 'Unnatural, you witch? How can you say that about my creation?'

  'Because it is. And it's not your creation.'

  'I sponsored it. Without my patronage it would never have been completed!'

  'But what's it good for?' the Empress shouted. 'Will it fill the Imperial coffers? Can you eat it, drink it, make love to it?' Her lip curled and her voice lowered. 'But knowing you, dear brother, you probably could. And enjoy it!'

  'It would make a livelier bedmate than you.'

  In the thick of silence, Fost and Moriana rose and murmured excuses which went unheard amid the gathering storm. Scooping up the genies' satchels, they pushed through a group of serving maids that had crowded around to watch. As they began walking rapidly toward their suite, they heard the explosion of a shrewdly hurled crystal decanter against a wall.

  No sooner had they entered their chambers and chased out the dewy-eyed blond youth and girl they found already in their bed, than Moriana went to Fost and ripped his shirt open from collar to navel.

  Swaying, he put a hand on the wall to steady himself. They were both more drunk than sober. 'What'd you do that for?'

  Her hands slid cool and smooth along his ribs. She undulated against him, her breath warm and sweet in his ear.

  'The way that slut Temalla's been making eyes at you,' she purred, 'I thought it best to give you something else to think about tonight.'

  Moriana kept him occupied until dawn, when they both slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  The next morning, they took advantage of their leisure to tour the fabled Imperial Palace. They wandered to and fro along the marble corridors, gazing at paintings hung on the walls and statues standing in silent alcoves. The place had been decorated in early plunder. Whatever hadn't been nailed down or too heavy to move, the Imperial Army had taken from its country of origin. There was no scheme to the collected art. Much of it was dross, much incomparably fine. What impressed Fost was that the collection spanned two continents and almost a hundred centuries.

  The sun was high when they drifted into the western courtyard. It was a garden replete with tinkling fountains and divided into nooks and crannies by an ornamental hedge. Fost suggested it had been designed as a trysting ground. That gave Erimenes much satisfaction imagining past activities.

  He waved a vaporous arm at a marble statue in a niche as they passed along the grassy path.

  'That's what I call art,' he announced. 'Consider the interplay of line and form, consider the dynamics of the poses, the subtle imbalance inherent in the juxtaposition of human form and delphine. And such mastery of expression. Behold the girl's face. Was ever a transport of ecstasy made more concrete? And see how the dolphin smiles at it . . .'

  'Dolphins always look like that,' said Ziore. 'Can you find no pleasure in art that isn't lascivious?'

  A puzzled frown creased his face.

  'Why, no. Why should I?' Then he brightened and said, 'During my own lifetime it was definitely established that male dolphins were altogether willing to mate with human females. Keeping in mind that this is High Medurim, Moriana, you really ought to consider. . .'

  Fost would have liked to hear Moriana's retort. He never had the chance. Just at that moment they rounded a corner to see Gyras sitting on a bench, huddled head to head with another. As arresting as the dwarf's appearance was, it was the other who brought a gasp from Moriana's lips and made her hand crop to where her sword hung.

  Gyras spoke to a Zr'gsz.

  The Hisser saw them before Gyras. He came to his feet in a fluid motion, a dazzling white smile splitting his dark green face.

  'What have we here?' His voice was a well-modulated baritone, quite human in pronunciation and inflection. 'You must be the Princess Moriana, and you, sir, you'd be Fost Longstrider.' He clasped clawed hands at his breasts and bowed. 'I am honored to meet you.'

  He was as tall as Fost, clad in a single garment of shimmering gray cloth that reached down to his sandalled feet. His shoulders were broad, his waist lean. Gyras hurriedly pushed himself off the bench, landing with a thud.

  'May I present Zak'zar, Speaker of the People.' Shrewd eyes studied Moriana. 'I take it you've not met?'

  Moriana's lips moved but no words emerged.

  'No, we haven't,' Fost supplied. The words ripped at his throat.

  'But he's an enemy!' Erimenes shrieked. 'How can you welcome this viper into your nest?'

  Zak'zar bowed again.

  'And you would be Erimenes the Ethical. It is a pleasure to meet you, too, sir.'

  'I assure you, fellow, the pleasure is entirely yours! Lord Gyras, what does this mean?' Gyras feigned astonishment.

  'Surely, you do not think we would convene a debate and hear only one side, especially one as important as this?' Malevolent glee shone in his huge eyes. He raised one eyebrow before saying, 'The revered Speaker arrived the day before you did, my friends. I'm surprised your good friend His Radiance the Emperor neglected to inform you.'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The languid young officer leaning back in the uncomfortable chair on Fost's left stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. The President of the Assembly was hammering for order to quell a minor riot taking place on the floor.

  Ensign Palein Cheidro said to Fost, 'The Guilds oppose going to war with the Hissers. It'd disturb their precious status quo.' He examined the lace at the cuffs of his blue velvet doublet.

  The President recognized a nervous cricket of a man from Jav Nihen. Fost didn't even bother listening to a speech he'd heard a dozen times before, reworded but essentially the same in content.

  'Why do the Guilds oppose war? They were quick enough to back the Northern Adventure when I was a boy.'

  'That was a war conducted safely on foreign soil,' explained the ensign. He smiled a lazy half-lidded smile. 'Until a suicide commando raid landed and burnt a dozen warehouses, that is. Then the Guilds cried to bring home the troops. If you offered them a really safe war against some foe too primitive to strike back at Medurim, they'd jump at it right enough. Think of the fat government contracts.'

  'But that large gentleman denounced expansionists,' Ziore said. 'Do you say the Guilds really want a foreign war in spite of that?'

  'My dear lady, do you mean to say you actually believe what politicians say in speechs? Oh, my.'

  In Fost's youth, the Imperial Life Guards had been a fighting organization of renown. Ensign Cheidro made him wonder if the Life Guards had been devalued along with the money. Painfully thin, cat-elegant, dressed always in outfits that cost a common trooper a year's pay, Ensign Cheidro didn't fit Fost's image of a member of an elite unit.

  Whether by coincidence or otherwise, no more invitations to dine in the Emperor's apartments were forthcoming after Fost's chance meeting of the Zr'gsz. On the morning after, the ensign had appeared stating he was to be their guide. That he was also their keeper was left unsaid.

  The debate over Moriana's petition to the Empire to declare war on the Fallen Ones had now dragged into its second day. During the long-winded disputes, Fost had come to a grudging liking for the officer, highborn fop or not. Cheidro had wit and used it utterly without regard for place or prestige of each speaker.

  'Why do they go on so?' Fost heard Moriana co
mplain. 'I thought they were discussing whether or not to hear that damned lizard.'

  As if on cue, a small man with impressively broad shoulders bounded to his feet and shouted, 'We won't listen to the snake! We border folk have had enough words. It's time our swords spoke for us!' The men around him rushed to their feet, waving their fists in the air and shouting.

  'Assemblymen from the Marches,' Cheidro said in bored tones. 'Excitable fellows.'

  'Order!' cried the President, using his gavel freely.

  'Up yours, Squilla!' the small Marcher shouted back.

  The turmoil grew until a figure rose in the center and climbed from the floor toward the spectator's gallery. Silence fell as the commanding figure leaned forward, hands on the railing.

  'Foedan speaks rarely, and never without effect,' said Cheidro. 'This could bode ill if he favors hearing Zak'zar.'

  'Assemblymen,' began Foedan in a voice like a bass drum striking up a slow march. 'The question is not whether the Speaker or the princess is right or wrong, it is whether we should hear what Lord Zak'zar has to say in answer to Moriana's request that we make war upon his people. There can be but one answer. In fairness, we must hear him before making so grave a decision.'

  Squilla pounded down the tumult greeting the words and called for a voice vote. No roll call was needed. Overwhelmingly, the Assembly voted to permit Zak'zar, Speaker of the People, to plead his case.

  Moriana sat staring at Foedan as the vote was called, twisting the hem of her tunic as if it were the Kolnith Assemblyman's neck.

  Zak'zar walked out on the floor of the Assembly Hall in silence. The usually rowdy delegates seemed hypnotized by the Hisser. He held all their attention in one clawed hand - and he knew how to wield it.

  'I will be brief,' he said. He let the small ripples of comment die before continuing. 'You are asked to go to war with my People.

  What have we done to you? We menace no Imperial holding. No resident of any City State has suffered at our hand. What wrong have we done that you would raise hand against us?'

  'The Princess Moriana Etuul's written petition claims it is your duty as humans to resist Zr'gsz aggression. What aggression? And if it be the duty of your people to fight mine to the death, why did she come of her own accord to Thendrun seeking our aid in reclaiming her throne?'

  A babble of voices washed about the podium. He raised his hand, stilling them.

  'The Princess Moriana tells you we treacherously seized the City in the Sky from her, our ally. Examine the record. Who first built that fabled City - and who seized it by treachery from its rightful owners? We assisted her in unseating Synalon - but for our own ends. Is this wrong? Who among you would not resort to subterfuge to avenge the murder of your kinfolk and reclaim from thieves the house you built? We only took back what was ours.

  'I come before you in the name of my People, bearing the willow-wand of peace. For your own sakes as well as ours, I ask you not to grasp instead the firebrand of war!'

  He bent forward, voice dropping to a sonorous whisper that penetrated to the farthest reaches of the room.

  'Weigh well your decision, men of the Empire. Much hangs in the balance.' He straightened and strode from the podium amid a barrage of cries.

  Moriana vaulted over the rail and scattered Assemblymen in all directions as she moved forward. Head back, eyes ablaze, she walked down the aisle to the podium Zak'zar had just vacated. Squilla faced her, gavel raised as if to repel her attack on orderly procedure. Their eyes met; he fled before her.

  She needed no gavel to bring the hall to silence, any more than Zr'gsz had. With hair streaming about her head like liquid fire, she launched into an impassioned speech.

  The door to the Assembly Hall crashed open. Moriana paused, one fist raised in emphasis of a point. An old man stalked into the room. He walked ramrod straight in spite of the burden of years. Gray hair hung lank about his haggard face. The lips Moriana remembered so well were now twisted from emotions too great to be expressed. He was clad in scarlet and his eyes shone with fanatical light.

  'Sir Tharvus!' she exclaimed.

  The only survivor of the three Notable Knights who had ridden her banner at Chanobit Creek stopped and flung out his arm to point at her.

  'Do not heed this witch!' he shouted. 'Her wiles lured my brothers and thousands of our countrymen to their deaths.

  'On peril of your souls, don't listen to her!'

  'So what happens now?' Fost asked.

  A smile pushed up the ends of Cheidro's moustache.

  'Why, what always happens when there's an impasse in a matter close to His Effulgence's heart.'

  'What's that?'

  'He throws a party.'

  'This is more like it!' crowed Erimenes. Fost stirred from his fog. 'What is?'

  A tall, lithe girl, nude except for diagonal stripes of blue and gold, walked by on the arm of an officer in a purple plumed helmet.

  'This is!'A sweep of Erimenes's vaporous arm indicated everything.

  At long last the travellers were face to face with the seamy, steamy decadence of High Medurim. The Golden Dome was every bit the voluptuary's vision of heaven popular repute made it out to be. Niches lined the wall, dark and inviting. Already Fost dimly made out writhing tangles of pale limbs in alcoves across the circular chamber. In the center, a round pit was filled with lustrous furs in careless profusion. Tables bowed under the weight of delicacies. Serving maids circulated everywhere to keep the wine and high spirits flowing. Many wore no more than kohl and inviting smiles.

  In the middle of the pit reared a dais. On it lay a throne and on the throne sat the Emperor. He wore a ludicrous tent-like garment patterned in white and black diamonds.

  Here and there Fost saw forms or faces he recognized. Magister Banshau sat with his chubby legs dangling over the edge of the pit, his garb standing out even in this profusion of color. He held a wine jug in one hand and the shapely thigh of a young noblewoman in the other. He looked mightily pleased with the world. Over by the far wall stood the dignified Foedan of Kolnith. His doublet was askew, his hair rumpled and he gazed on the crowd with bleary-eyed gravity while a short, plump redhead poured brandy into a snifter the size of his head.

  At the center of an eddy of gay costumes rode Zak'zar, laughing like a rakehell at something the two young women he had his arms about said, a striking, chilling figure in a robe of woven midnight.

  'Great Ultimate!' Erimenes shouted in Fost's ear. 'Look at that, will you?'

  Moving through the crush with lithe grace was a strange and beautiful figure. Her body was that of a voluptuous woman but it was clad in soft, short, creamy fur. A long, sensitive tail swung behind her. Her face combined the best characteristics of human and feline. Her ears were pointed and set high on her head, poking out from the midst of a lustrous cascade of blue-black hair. And at her back was folded a pair of wings.

  'I'll be damned,' said Fost with feeling.

  'So you like Ch'rri?' A slender blonde woman in a short tunic, her hair cut boyishly short, dropped onto the bench at Fost's side. 'She's quite a sight, isn't she? If you have a taste for the exotic'

  'Uh, Ch-chu-chri?' Fost couldn't manage the throaty purr.

  'Ch'rri,' the blonde woman repeated, laughing at Fost's doleful look. 'She's the only one of her kind, poor thing. Another Wirixer experiment. Or work of art, perhaps. One of their genetic wizards wanted to see what a winged cat woman looked like, and she was the result.' She frowned. 'She's a terribly lonely thing. But she does know some interesting ways to make up for it.'

  'What are you waiting for?' demanded Erimenes. 'Introduce yourself! You're the hero of the hour, Fost. You'll sweep her off her feet'

  'I think that sums it up well, spirit,' boomed a voice. Fost turned to look at the group approaching. 'Wild tales of your exploits are flying all over the city. We'd be honored to hear the truth from your own lips.'

  The speaker was a rangy man in a flame-colored robe. His head was shaved and a gold earring swu
ng from one earlobe. A tawny-haired woman, taller than Fost and with a patch over one eye, walked to one side. On the other was a shy, towheaded youth.

  'I'm Sirsirai. This is Osni, and Jerru.' He nodded to each of his companions in turn.

  Something in the way they moved clicked in Fost's brain.

  'You're fighting masters,' he said, almost accusingly.

  The one-eyed woman bobbed her head in agreement.

  Erimenes cleared his throat, then said, 'What you've heard about Fost is true. All of it - and none of his marvelous adventures would have happened without me . . .'

  Across the room, Moriana smiled and nodded mechanically and fended off still another smiling face. She was a celebrity. That she had balked at wearing frilly, fleecy finery in favor of her russet and beige tunic and trousers seemed to draw rather than repel the revellers.

  'Why don't you relax?' said Ziore. 'Enjoy yourself.'

  'You're as bad as Erimenes,' she accused, then softened her tone. 'I'm sorry. That was unfair. But I've no appetite for this sort of thing.'

  'That might be a pity,' Ziore said, her voice holding a tone of longing.

  On his dais, Teom sat fondling his chin and regarding various gorgeously painted and costumed courtiers, male and female, who had arranged themselves in front of his throne to vie for his attention. Deciding, he flicked his little finger. A slender woman in a feathered skullcap and sky blue tights widened her eyes in happy anticipation and scampered to the dais in response to his summons. His knees spread. She knelt between them, took hold of the tent-like robe and hiked it up about his Imperial waist. Beneath it Teom wore trunks and a codpiece of epic proportions that laced up the front. Licking her lips, the woman undid the laces . . .

  And fell back as something sprang at her.

  All sound ceased as every head turned to see a giant wooden phallus crowned with a painted jester's head bobbing at the end of the spring which had launched it from Teom's crotch.

  It was the signal for the orgy to begin in earnest. Flinging his pink-trimmed orange blouse off, Magister Banshau teetered with his splayed toes gripping the edge of the pit. Then with a happy mating-walrus bellow, he launched himself into the sea of naked bodies below. A crowd stood watching as Zak'zar took advantage of a physiological peculiarity of his race to pleasure simultaneously two naked and ecstasy-flushed young women who lay back to back on a buffet table.