A Fortune for Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Watch this, Jak,” said Quienyin. “It is something worth the seeing.”

  The Chuliks of San Yagno’s bodyguard — there were but five left of the original dozen — formed a ring about their master. But Quienyin and I could still see. San Yagno opened the hyr-lif, thumbed the stiff paper over, found the page he sought. He held the book close to his face and began a long incantatory mumble. Most of it concerned sunderings and breakings and smashings of one kind and another.

  The first bronze lock, shaped like a risslaca, snapped open.

  The second through to the ninth snapped up in turn.

  San Yagno puffed his cheeks out. He was panting. He stowed the book away and motioned to the Deldar of Chuliks.

  This one lifted the lid.

  “A vast expenditure of thaumaturgical lore,” observed the Wizard of Loh. Only the slightest tinge of irony colored his mild words.

  “Had it been Kov Loriman,” I said. “He would simply have taken an axe to the fastenings.”

  “Precisely, young man.”

  And, I swear it, we both laughed.

  We did not stop to see what San Yagno found in the chest after the first reeking objects were revealed.

  But they seemed to delight the sorcerer. He was laughing away to himself and distributing his loot among his followers. I wondered if they would hurl it all away to load themselves down with gems.

  Ariane’s four handmaids were cooing and aahing over her and attempting to tidy her hair and prepare a quiet corner where she might change into a clean new dress, of which they had a store borne by patient slaves. That made me realize that the arrivals did have slaves with them.

  I said to Lobur the Dagger, “How did you fare with the Fliktitors?”

  He didn’t know what I was talking about.

  It turned out that Nedfar’s party had followed a vastly different route from ours. Once they had branched off, the fortunes of the Moder had treated them as harshly, but had spared some of their slaves.

  They had lost Strom Phrutius.

  “He is now being ingested in the guts of some half-invisible creature we could only see in the dark. As soon as there was light he incontinently disappeared.”

  “San Orien mentioned such a monster. I am sorry to hear about Strom Phrutius. It was a Laughing Shadow.”

  “Oh, aye, Master Quienyin. It laughed most dolefully when Tobi, a fine archer, shafted into its nothingness. It took itself off, then.” Lobur pulled his lip. “Tobi is dead, now. He was engulfed by a poisonous flower that grew from a crevice in the wall at prodigious speed.”

  We expressed our regrets at the losses suffered by the Hamalese, and it was clear to me, as to Quienyin, that while we might be on the threshold of the heart of the matter, for this short space a sense — a damned false sense, to be sure — of release from tension eased the burdens on the minds and fears of these people. It was cat and mouse. That seemed clear. I asked Lobur the Dagger about his slaves, and he mentioned casually that they had picked up a couple of odd fellows somewhere who had almost been cut down before they managed to convince Prince Nedfar they were not demons.

  And then I quelled a quick grimace which might have been misconstrued as a smile as Lobur said: “They were left over from an earlier expedition, wandering about, poor devils.”

  Hunch and Nodgen had hit upon the same lie as I had to explain wandering slaves without a master. As for Tarkshur — well, that must wait.

  I made myself look eager. “By Zodjuin of the Gate! They might be two of my fellows!”

  It was now vitally necessary for me to get to Hunch and Nodgen and browbeat them into dumb acceptance before anyone else espied their stupefied reactions when they saw me and, at last, recognized me by what I would say. It would be nip and tuck. Here, in the wider danger of the Moder, this small and social-order danger remained just as perilous.

  They had dressed themselves up in finery which had been sadly ripped and stained in their struggled advance along the corridors. I found them with a bunch of other slaves, all goggling at the uproar. The slaves were nerving themselves to break constraints and join in the looting.

  I took Hunch’s Tryfant ear between finger and thumb of my left hand, and Nodgen’s Brokelsh ear between finger and thumb of my right hand, and I ran them a way apart, yelling as I did so: “You pair of yetches! You have caused me great concern! But I forgive you! You have done exceeding well! To have remained alive!”

  They almost hung on their ears, swinging, as it were, to glare up at me. I bore down on them, bellowing, and, between bellows, I rasped in a low voice, “Yes, you famblys, it’s me — and a word will have your ears — no, your heads! — off. Act up. We came here before; but your memories are bad. Say nothing!”

  They just looked at me as though a demon had opened his mouth and spat out all his fangs at them.

  In a bull-roaring voice I said, “I promised you manumission and manumission you shall have!” I glared about and saw Lobur and Princess Thefi and Prince Tyfar looking at me with undisguised curiosity.

  “Witnesses!” I raved on. “There are the witnesses. When we are out of the Moder the bokkertu can be concluded, all legally — but, as of now, you are manumitted, Hunch and Nodgen, both — free!”

  Had the audience broken into a small and polite round of applause it would have been perfectly proper.

  In this place it would have been incongruous. But the deed was done and seen to be done, and these two would — if we lived — receive their papers.

  The idea of gratitude did not cross my mind. All three of us knew that Tarkshur would turn up — almost bound to — and then our deception would face a sterner task. But these two looked at me, at the continuous looting, and Hunch stood up rather taller than was his usual wont, and Nodgen bristled up in such a way that he looked fierce rather than boorish.

  Curiosity touched me as to what exactly they would do. When they launched themselves at the overturned cases and shattered cabinets, I sighed, and went off to see what Nedfar would have to say about the damned nine key-bits we needed.

  As Quienyin joined me and we started to move off from the area where the slaves squatted, still quaking, still not sure just how to breach the domination of the lash, we saw an odd — a pathetic — act.

  One of the slaves, more bold, more hardy than his fellows, crept cautiously from that shivering group.

  These were slaves who had been slaves for a long time, many had been born into slavery. This tough one of them inched across to a toppled cabinet and scooped up a brass dish and then, holding it with his back curved and the bowl pressed to his belly, he scuttled back. We watched. He began to hand out chunks of the stuff in the brass bowl. The slaves stuffed it into their mouths and began to chew. It was cham, the great jaw-moving panacea of poor folk on Kregen — and a delicacy for these poor slaves. Quienyin and I exchanged looks and walked on. When the slaves, at last, broke out, would be time enough coming.

  From the actions of the group of principals around Prince Nedfar, we judged most of them had found what they sought. Tyr Ungovich, still shrouded in his hooded robe of red and green checks, stood among them. We walked up and San Yagno, glittering, said, “You have a place here, Master Quienyin. But who is this fellow to come thrusting himself in where he is not invited?”

  I said, “I leave you to your discussion.” I took myself off. There was nothing to be gained by making an issue of this petty business yet; I felt the Wizard of Loh would inform me of the decisions reached. I went off to find Tyfar and Lobur.

  Ariane’s handmaids had taken her off to the shelter and they would be making her presentable. Slave labor was a mere part of her expectancy, and her handmaids were slave girls, no doubt of it.

  Princess Thefi said, “You cannot know how much I am in your debt, Notor Jak! My brother has been telling me of your adventures—”

  “You are fortunate to have such a brother,” I said, in my best gallant way. But it was true. “And we are going to come through, safe and sound, all of
us.”

  Lobur the Dagger said, “By Krun! I know so!”

  Well, he knew more than I did then.

  Kov Thrangulf hovered. Somehow, these three managed to have their backs to him. I felt awkward. But Kov Thrangulf, as though bearing a burden to which he was accustomed, went off toward the treasures again.

  Presently, Prince Nedfar shouted for Kov Thrangulf, and he went gratefully off to join the conference, along with other second-in-commands. Lobur the Dagger laughed, all bronzed face and flashing teeth.

  “You have to feel sorry for him.”

  “Yes,” said Thefi. “But if only he wasn’t so — so—”

  “Did I show you this?” said Tyfar, hauling out a pretty bauble, and thus changing the tone of the conversation.

  Among the profusion of treasure and magical items there lay scattered about a vintner’s dream. Some of the mercenaries, unable to resist free booze, had been drinking and had, apparently, suffered no ill effects. We four decided not to risk sampling the wines or food. Lobur, with one of his raffish smiles, produced a squat green bottle, and we drank companionably, in turn. It was a Hamalian porter, dark and brown and heavy, and went down with a rich taste.

  The sensation was distinctly odd to stand thus in pleasant conversation and drink Hamalian porter in the midst of the scenes caterwauling on about us, in this horrific Moder, and know the three with whom I so companionably drank were avowed enemies of my country. Odd...

  The Princess Thefi had outfitted herself in charming style, with tight black trousers and a blue shirt with a darker blue bolero jacket, all in fetching fashion, with a green cummerbund around her waist, which was delightfully slender, by Krun! She wore rapier and main gauche. She looked splendid.

  I said, “Princess, my lady — did your clothes come from this place — or did you acquire them within the other zones of the Moder?”

  “Oh, we found a veritable storehouse of clothes and weapons.”

  “Then, princess, best you had don clothes from here. Otherwise,” I said, and I did not smile, “you will find yourself stark naked when we emerge onto the outside world.”

  “Say you so?”

  “Aye!”

  She gave a little amused squeal and turned her quick lively gaze on Lobur.

  “I know those who would joy in that!”

  “Princess!” protested Lobur, outraged. “You impugn my honor!”

  Well, it was all pretty stuff. But the Moder stretched about us with its dark secrets and we must find a way out — if we could.

  Talk of clothes brought other thoughts to their minds.

  “You wear deuced little clothes, Jak,” said Lobur. “I call to mind stories I have heard — vague, distorted — of a man, a very devil, who went everywhere clad only in a scarlet breechclout.”

  “Oh?” I said, injecting surprise into my tones. “Can you remember anything...?”

  “Only that he was no friend to Hamal,” said Prince Tyfar.

  “In that case, I shall find something else. When it comes to the fluttrell’s vane... Blue, would you say? Or green?”

  They began to discuss this with some seriousness and Thefi went off to find clothes that would not vanish to reveal her splendor to the goggling world.

  As they talked I wondered just how much they did know from hearsay of that very devil in the scarlet breechclout, that Dray Prescot who was the Emperor of Vallia and deadly foe to the Empire of Hamal, and also the same Dray Prescot who had good friends in Hamal and despaired of a country unjustly governed.

  I saw Nodgen and Hunch talking to Quienyin. The two ex-slaves were clad sumptuously and garnished with a Kregan arsenal of weapons. Nodgen held a broad-bladed spear. They went off together, the three of them with Quienyin in the lead, searching among the tumbled magics.

  Prince Nedfar called his son over to join the discussion with the chiefs and principals. The princess returned dressed in new clothes, tight black trousers and blue shirt as before.

  Lobur looked at Thefi and then at me.

  I said, “I have urgent business...” I drifted away.

  The situation appeared that we might stay in this wondrous chamber — the Chamber of the Flame, it might have been called — for as long as we wished. When we made our move to break free would be the time when the horrors would pounce.

  Yet the object of challenging the dangers of the Moder was to escape with the treasures one desired.

  Escape was the problem.

  Ariane, radiant in a pure-white gown, her hair impeccable, her face rosy-red and glowing, had joined the conference.

  “Well, Notor Jak—” This was Quienyin, smiling, ironic, striding up to me with Nodgen and Hunch looking sheepish. “They want you to join them. I have persuaded them that you are not a monster or a djinni or any form of ghoul.” He snuffled. “It was a hard task.”

  “He’s a right old devil,” said Hunch.

  I said, “Strom Phrutius may be dead, Hunch, you hulu — but his chief cook, Fat Ringo, has survived to bring his gross bulk into this place.”

  “I know. I have kept clear of him.”

  “Stick by me when we quit this place. We’ll win free, have no fear.”

  Easy words, those — but how were they to be accomplished?

  Quienyin and I walked across and joined the enlarged group around Prince Nedfar.

  “You are welcome, Notor Jak. I am glad I did not cut you down when we entered through that Havil-forsaken hole.”

  I said, “Had you not hurried you would have had a puzzle to solve and the Jaws of Death to dare.”

  “I have been told. Now we need all our wits to riddle the way out of here.”

  Ariane had regained much of her composure. “The way lies down beside the Shaft of Flame.”

  “There is a wall of insubstantial iron, lady—”

  “There are nine gates!”

  “To which we do not have the keys.”

  Tyr Ungovich’s shoulders moved, as though he shrugged in resignation, or laughed quietly to himself.

  The red and green checkered hood did not move as Ungovich spoke in a voice like a rusty hinge:

  “Without the sorcerous power of San Yagno the party would never have reached here. You are fortunate, Notor Jak, that your party is still alive without the aid of so mighty a thaumaturge.”

  Carefully, I said, “We survived.”

  “Let me set one of my fellows to climb the wall!” burst out Kov Loriman.

  “By all means,” said Tyr Ungovich.

  We remembered what had chanced the last time he had said that. Loriman hunched himself up, his face bloating with anger.

  “Well, Tyr Ungovich. What do you suggest?”

  “Do we have all the parts of the key?”

  They were produced as though they were precious relics, and Nedfar laid them out on a table which his son quickly turned up the right way. There were eight curiously-shaped pieces of bronze. We all stared at them solemnly.

  Well, and by Zair! Weren’t they the most precious objects in all this Moder?

  And, without the ninth part, they were valueless.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Of a Gate — and Honor

  Much of the rampaging about and the ecstatic sorting through treasures to uncover the finest abated. The explosive release of tensions neared its own exhaustion. Men still capered about, fantastically arrayed in cloth of gold and festooned with gems, they still played stupid silly magical tricks one against another, with spurts of blue fire and whiffs of occult stinks, causing Yagno to twitch. But gradually they quieted and looked toward the group where the decisions of their fates rested.

  The hood of ruby and emerald checks drew forward, shadowing all within, as I spoke to Ungovich.

  “You sold Kov Loriman the Hunter magics to ward off the magics here. And the others bought trinkets of some power.” As the Hunting Kov started forward, clearly about to blaspheme by Sasco over the uselessness of the tiklo, I went on in a louder voice, “Perhaps in view of your know
ledge of conditions here, you have knowledge of what it is we need to open these gates.”

  “It is in my heart to have been with you and witnessed what went on when you were separated from us.

  Did any of your party find a key?”

  “What we have is there on the table.” Tyfar pointed.

  Kov Loriman subsided, caught up in the importance we all sensed in the words of that rusty-hinge voice, consigning the matter of his tiklo to a Herrelldrin Hell.

  “Nothing else?” Tyr Ungovich sounded as though he was becoming annoyed. His rusty voice grated unpleasantly.

  These men had talked over and over before I had joined the group, and had settled nothing. We were going to be trapped here if one of us did not come up with the right answer.

  “We found a golden key,” said Ungovich. “But an oaf lost it for us.”

  Prince Nedfar drew in his breath. He spoke and all the quiet dignity of the man showed splendidly in that place. “Amak Rubbra, who was a just and honorable man, lost his life with that golden key.”

  “An oaf, I said,” the rusty voice said spitefully. “And an oaf I mean.”

  “Without a key—” San Yagno started to amplify.

  “Here,” snarled Kov Loriman. He hauled out the box of a size to take a portion of cham and, opening it, proffered the contents. “A silver key we found. Is this what you want?”

  “Ah!” grated Ungovich.

  We all craned to look.

  Ungovich reached for the silver key. It was left to Yagno to say, startled, “Tyr! Careful! It may be—”

  “Quite.”

  “A silver key for a silver gate, notors?” said Tyfar.

  We all moved across to stand before the silver gate in the insubstantial iron wall. The shaft of pure white light lifted blindingly over our heads. Shadows fled away in long fingers of darkness. A smell of ancient decay hung in the air here.

  “I do not think the key will harm me,” said Ungovich. He lifted it out. Nothing happened. We all watched him as, carefully, he inserted the key in the keyhole and turned, pressing sideways as he did so.

  The silver gate moved inward a hand’s-breadth. He paused.