The wavering form moved as undersea fronds move in the tidal flow. The gaseous outlines thickened. The simple robes, the absence of runes, told me this was Deb-Lu, and then I saw his face, smiling at me in the old way, and I relaxed, and let out a breath.
“You look—perturbed,” he said. “I am in lupu and send my projection to talk to you. It is no new thing for you. Why does it affect you so?"
“I'll tell you, Deb-Lu, I'll tell you. I thought it might be that bastard—"
“Hush, majister!” The voice cracked in indisputable command. “Do not speak the name."
I nodded. “Very well."
“Khe-Hi-Bjanching and I have surmounted the problems strewn before us. Our communication is now clear. It was a Daunting Task.” I did not mistake his use of Capital Letters, and smiled.
“You are well? How goes it at home?"
“We prosper in most areas; but there is a Blight. Kov Turko has almost succeeded in bringing his kovnate of Falinur into the fold. Soon he will, as you say, hook left against Layco Jhansi. Your son Drak and the Presidio rule Vallia well. I will tell you—"
“The Blight?"
“Ah, yes. It is small at present, and concerns the Southwest."
“Drak said he had a problem down there."
“The man you sent in command of the army to liberate the Southwest has done so. But he raises the standard in his own name, and calls himself the King of Thothclef Vallia."
“The devil he does! I'll have a few strong words to say toKov Vodun Alloran, believe me. I'd better come home right away, although this is a damned nuisance, just as I've arrived here."
The apparition raised a hand. I waited for Deb-Lu to speak, speak to me down here in Hamal all the live-long way from Vallia. But he let the hand drop, and for a moment a silence lay between us.
“Well, Deb-Lu? Why should I not go home and sort out this problem? Kov Vodun was the Kov of Kaldi at the hands of the old emperor, Delia's father. I confirmed him in those rights and sent him off with a goodly army. If this is how he behaves we will have to teach him otherwise. Vallia is a united country—well, it will be once we've chucked all the leeches out."
“I think, majister—” When he called me that I knew he was up to mischief. “Prince Drak is handling the affair. I have great affection for Prince Drak, and trust in him. It may be..."
Drak was the sober, grim, intense one of my lads. Yes, yes, I could see what Deb-Lu was saying. I'd left Drak in charge, and I meant to hand over all Vallia and this stupid emperor part of it to him as soon as the country was back in one piece. If I went haring back the moment there was trouble—how would he feel? How would he look in the eyes of those to whom he gave orders? No, it was simple stuff, naïve, really—but Drak could and would handle this.
“Quidang, Deb-Lu! Give Drak my warmest wishes for a speedily concluded successful campaign."
Now it was Deb-Lu-Quienyin's turn to say: “Quidang!” in acknowledgment.
Then he said, “On the other matter. The great devil is active in Pandahem. There have been rebellions, which have been put down with much bloodshed. Some people here think that an invasion of Hamal is premature. We should clear Pandahem first."
“You are sure, Deb-Lu, that that cramph of a Wizard of Loh is not eavesdropping on us?"
“Quite sure. Khe-Hi monitors the conversation."
“Hm. In that case—no, leave it. Let me think on this."
I did not want to say, even like this, that the island of Pandahem between Vallia and Hamal would fall like that fabulous rotten fruit once we invaded Hamal. Go for the bold stroke—that was the way. Allies from the Dawn Lands to the south, allies from Hyrklana in the east, and we from the north, we'd hit Hamal and crush the empire between us. I did not want my Vallian lads tangled up and trapped in Pandahem.
“One thing, majister. The Fifth Army that went with Kov Kaldi to the southwest—the mercenaries declared for him, of course. The Phalanx and many regiments of our army refused and returned to Vondium. The Southwest crawls with mercenaries and flutsmen—but I thought you would like to know the army remained loyal."
“Thank you, Deb-Lu. That is a bright spot."
“Remberee, Jak. My kindest regards to Tyfar when you see him."
“Remberee, Deb-Lu."
The ghostly apparition faded. The paneling showed brown and grained where Deb-Lu-Quienyin, Wizard of Loh, had stood and spoken to me. What he had not said openly was the crux of this situation. The evil Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, was on the move and actively plotting fresh mischief against us. That was sure...
* * *
Chapter nine
Blades of Spikatur
By the time the suns had set and the Twins, the two second moons of Kregen eternally revolving one about the other and casting down their fuzzy pink light, rose above the pinnacles and rooftops, Nath Tolfeyr had still not put in an appearance at The Blue Zhyan.
It was in my mind to make a round of some of the more insalubrious nightspots of Ruathytu. Nath would have gone with me, for he enjoyed a good carouse as well as the next fellow. Well, if the Bladesman had not shown up by the time the ob-bur clepsydra drained through, I'd be off without him.
What Deb-Lu-Quienyin had both said and not said remained troubling me. He'd called me Jak, as my daughter Jaezila did, and this comforted me. I'd been using the name Jak a great deal just lately, and this new nonsense of Zaydo afforded me amusement. A lot of people knew me as Jak the this or Jak the that; just now I wanted to be Hamun ham Farthytu. The thought also brought up the problem of Deb-Lu's strange lack of progress in tracing down further details on Spikatur Hunting Sword. We knew in broad outline what had happened, although not why, and we were totally in the dark about what the Spikatur Conspiracy intended. Men had claimed there were no leaders, only local chapters, devoted to hunting. They swore by Sasco, whoever he was. Torture had been applied by Hamalese tormentors in the dungeons of the ghastly fortress of Hanitcha the Harrower on its spit of land extended downriver from the Sacred Quarter, ochre water to the left, black water to the right. Men called that castle of horror the Hanitchik. Before they died, after assassinating Hamalese nobles, the followers of Spikatur Hunting Sword had confessed nothing beyond their deeds.
From this unwholesome fact I had pieced together the notion that the Spikatur Conspiracy was directed against Hamal. We knew they burned voller factories. Anybody who was against Hamal in these parlous times bid fair to be an ally. But these people, whoever and wherever they might be, remained vague and unapproachable.
The very last drop of water splashed in the clepsydra. The water was stained a pleasant apple green color. I turned the clepsydra and picked up my evening cape. This was a natty blue affair with golden cords. If Nath Tolfeyr was not coming, I was going to wait no longer.
The wardrobe I'd taken from Paline Valley contained enough foppish clothes to outfit me as a real dandy, from the hard round stiff-brimmed Spanish-style hat to the blue and gray trousers and polished boots. The cape settled over my left shoulder and I did up the golden clasps. With a rapier and main gauche scabbarded at my sides, I sallied out to partake of the raffish nightlife of Ruathytu's Sacred Quarters. In any other time, this would have been the life by Krun!
Perhaps I should mention that my jacket was stiff with gold braid, and that foolish finery almost concealed the brilliance of the green-dyed material. Well, times change, and we all march on into the future that all too soon becomes the past. Green jackets were all the rage in Hamal. I looked, in fine, your true indolent, high-tempered, mettlesome Bladesman to the life.
Dressing up in fancy clothes is easy enough and does not demand overmuch imagination. Adopting a fresh name also does not demand great cogitation. But a face ... Ah, now!
Deb-Lu-Quienyin had taught me the art of so altering my features that I could pass friends unrecognized. The trick was damned painful for faces largely remote from my own arrogant physiognomy; I'd always been able to adopt a foolish sort of face, and had done so in establ
ishing the weak character of Hamun ham Farthytu. So, now, I adopted a face that would be recalled as that of Hamun's, although by subtle touches I removed it from the face that would be remembered as that of Dray Prescot—or Jak or any of the many names I have used on Kregen.
A fat lot of good that did me in the first emergency I encountered.
The idling crowds were out. The taverns and inns were wide open. What was going on in the private rings and arenas of the great ones was not to be dwelled on. I skirted the high brick wall of nobles’ villas, for not all the lords rented out small shops fronting the streets. The avenues were brilliantly lit; the streets illuminated passing well, and the alleys pits of darkness and deviltry.
The heady scent of moon blooms hung on the evening air.
Only one attempt was made to rob me as I passed a gloomy alley mouth, and the fellows slunk off when I whipped out the rapier and flourished it at them, meanwhile detailing what portions of their several anatomies would first be sliced up for mincemeat.
Slamming the blade back into the scabbard, I hurried on into the light of cressets bracketed to a high wall where vegetation spilled and moon blooms opened wondrously to She of the Veils, golden and pink, floating high above. I passed a narrow gate above which a lantern dispelled the shadows. The door was open and men laughed and joked inside, their boots loud on the graveled path. A party of gallants out for the night's entertainments, obviously; I wanted no part of that and quickened my pace.
Beyond the end of the wall, where another wall began hiding off the villa of another lord, the alley between looked shadowed and uninviting. I looked hard, hand on hilt, but the little alley between the villas remained silent. I went on.
Up ahead lay a small tree-bowered square where six taverns stood cheek by jowl surrounding the square and the well at its center. Here, during the day, the gossips from this section congregated. This was Veilmon Kyronik, from the name of the graceful, sweet-scented trees. If you wanted a fight after dark, go to Veilmon Kyronik. Someone would always oblige you.
The silly abortive attack on me by those chicken-brained would-be robbers, and the thought that I would have to avoid a fight ahead must have combined to do the trick. People hurried past, and we kept to the left-hand side of the pathway, as was natural, to keep our sword arms free. I barely looked at them, swathed in their clownish fancy-dress and their capes. I moved on and—
A hand clapped me on the shoulder.
“Jak! By Krun! Jak the Sturr, as I live and breathe!"
Emotions of furious anger, thoughts of courses of action, clashed and collided in my skull and through my blood. Instinct almost undid me. My sword was halfway out of the scabbard, I was half-turned, ready to run this brash newcomer through the guts, before I hauled myself up, shivering, as though taken in irons. By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki-Grodno! Here I was, being myself, being Hamun ham Farthytu, and some idiot had recognized me as Jak the Sturr!
I swung about, slamming the rapier back, and there was Lobur the Dagger, beaming away, his merry face alive with laughter, chuckling and shaking his head where the dark curls danced in his long hair. He still wore the silver belt of interlinked leaping chavonths. He was dressed, as was I, in the height of fashion.
“Lobur the Dagger!” I said. And, then, recovering: “Lahal! Well met."
“Lahal, Jak. And well met. I did not think ever to see you again, even though Prince Ty relieved my mind when he recounted his adventures down the Moder. You and he—you had a fine time of it after we got out."
His face clouded.
So, quickly, I said, “There was nothing you could have done, Lobur. We know that. Your duty was to Prince Nedfar and Princess Thefi. You had to see them out safely."
“That is true, Jak the Sturr, and you are a true horter for so saying.” He laughed, delighted. “And Prince Ty tells me Sturr was a use name, that you are Jak the Shot."
I brushed that aside. I'd been the Jak the lot, it seemed to me. “And Princess Thefi?"
He smiled and frowned at the same time, a useful trick.
“I am still—and she is—and there is no real hope. And, Kov Thrangulf hovers like a damned black crowbird. Damn him!"
That was a triangle of the classical persuasion, and one I had then, as I say, no inkling of solution or of relevance to me beyond a sympathetic feeling for lovelorn Lobur the Dagger.
“And what are you doing in Ruathytu, Jak?"
Boldly, without hesitation, I said: “I thought to join the Air Service."
“Ah! A very wise ambition. You are a fighting man, that I know from what I've seen with my own eyes and what Prince Ty told me of the Moder. We'll be delighted to enroll you."
“Well—"
“Capital! That's settled. Now, old fellow, I can't delay. Kov Thrangulf, confound him—I'm on the way to his villa now with a message from Prince Ty to Prince Nedfar. I shan't be long, then we can crack a few amphorae and talk of that dark, doomed bloody Moder."
He took my arm and we started back the way I'd come. He rattled on, nothing like dear Chido, of course, but very merry and free and good-hearted. The small group of people I'd heard on the graveled path now appeared on the pathway, still laughing. The lights shone on jewels and gold and lace. The air hung heavy with the scent of night flowers, the sound of laughter rose and singing reached us from the nearest tavern in Veilmon Kyronik. She of the Veils shed her diffuse golden light.
A screech of pure hatred ripped through that leisurely scene.
“Spikatur! Spikatur Hunting Sword! Kill!"
Dark forms leaped from the narrow slot of blackness between the walls. Feral bodies hurtled down on the startled group of Hamalese nobles. Steel glittered like icy fire in the pits of hell.
As one, Lobur and I drew our rapiers and launched ourselves forward. Affrays continually burst into the jollity of the Sacred Quarter and no one paid much heed to a fracas here and there if it was no business of his. As the blades screeched with that horrid scrape of steel on steel and we smashed into the dark-clad forms attacking Prince Nedfar and his party, it was clear this was no ordinary flare-up among Bladesmen. The cries of “Spikatur” told us that. The blood lust smoked into the night air.
“Get that big bastard, Jak!” and: “Your back, Hallam!” and: “By Krun, I'm stuck through the leg like a vosk!"
But, all too soon, the cheerful yells of Bladesmen in combat died away as the party with Nedfar fought for their lives.
We were out matched in numbers; but Lobur proved a fine swordsman, and Prince Nedfar stood like a rock, unmoved, and I did a mite of skipping and leaping. But the killers bore in. Screaming forms staggered from the fight. Men with slashed faces and guts pierced through, men with eyes suddenly blotted out, men who hobbled off to collapse and vomit up their lives, men reeled shrieking away from the knot of combat.
It was nip and tuck, as it so often is; I had a persistent fellow who wanted to drive past me and sink his brand into Prince Nedfar. I caught his blade, twirled, and the sword nicked up into the air. He panted, thick coarse gasping under the bronze mask. The attackers wore nondescript clothes, but each one wore a bronze mask over his face. Their gray floppy-brimmed hats, without feathers or ornamentation, were pulled low.
I grabbed a wight by the neck and jerked him to me.
“I do not want to kill you.” The yells resounded about us, the stamp of feet, the slither of steel. I put on a face that bore the mark of Cottmer's Caverns; a devil face with upflung eyebrows and outthrust jaw, and the deep grooves beside the mouth counterpointing that devil-vee above. I bent close. “By Sasco!” I said, with meaning. “You make a mistake to attack Nedfar. He is of value to the foes of Hamal, you onker. Draw your people off. I do not wish to see friends of Spikatur slain."
“You—!” He choked as I eased my grip.
“Get off, fambly. Or you will all be dead."
My face pained me as if I'd been galloped over by a squadron of cataphracts. I couldn't keep that devil mask going much longe
r.
Someone tried to hit me over the head with his thraxter and I swerved and kicked him, and shook the fellow in my grip. “Call them off! By Sasco! Are you witless!"
“You—strive for Spikatur?"
“Of course! Now—go, or you'll drink steel."
A man pitched into me and coughed bright blood, red in the torchlights. I dodged away and threw the fellow I'd been gripping off. I kicked him up the rump as he staggered.
“Run!” he shrieked. Then he let rip a wild ululating scream that would have frozen the blood in a bullfighter. His companions—who had been taking a severe hammering—checked their onslaughts. “Run, brothers! Flee!"
Lobur's face expressed the utmost fury.
“By Krun! They'll not escape my vengeance!"
He stood hard by Nedfar as he shouted, and I judged Lobur spoke thus not only out of honest anger. The attackers picked themselves up, gathered themselves together, panted. But—they ran. Lobur flourished his rapier after them.
“Come on, Jak—let's crop a few ears."
I did not wish to kill folk who fought against Hamal.
“I'm with you, Lobur!” I hollered. I dissimulated, remembered to put away that devil face and that silly face, and wearing the face of Jak the Shot, I galloped off after Lobur. We lost the hunting party of Spikatur Hunting Sword in a maze of warrens past Veilmon Kyronik. They just vanished. The place was potholed with dopa dens and kaff pits, and an army could hide in there and escape detection. Lobur panted, dashing sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand which gripped his sword.
Legions of Antares [Dray Prescot #25] Page 9
