Gangs of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  Had I been in the habit of smirking I’d have felt a good smirk right now fully justified. Good old Fweygo! He wasn’t following me out of idle curiosity. Oh, no, by Krun! He was on my tail because of what the Star Lords had told him; that I firmly believed. And my smirk would be because I’d spotted him.

  Now the superior Xuntalese lady had not said those usual conspiratorial words so uniformly used in these situations. She had not in a dark and mysterious voice said: “Come alone!”

  From that and my feelings that this was an effective way for Naghan to contact me I did not think I was walking into a trap.

  Of course, on Kregen, that wonderful and terrifying world under Antares, all kinds of skullduggery — including traps — must routinely be expected. At the least, it made life interesting and kept the old blood pumping.

  The last streamers of deep emerald and lustrous rose were fading and the first stars were pricking out when I entered The Crystal Griffon.

  My hope clearly was that Naghan had turned up some information on the whereabouts of the young lord Byrom. Poor old Princess Nandisha and her daughter lady Nisha were in a dreadful state and I felt for them, by Zair. The unpleasant thought that Byrom was already dead had to be kept in perspective. Kidnappers are unpleasant people; until we knew to the contrary we had to assume they wanted something for the return of Byrom. Had they just wanted the young prince dead then they could have cut him down, there and then, finish.

  The Crystal Griffon, as its name implied, was an upmarket establishment. They did quality meals here and the wines were of the first vintages, although, unfortunately, their cellars had no Jholaix. The red eye patch was easily identifiable. The man was a Gon, from whose head every vestige of white hair had been shaved and whose scalp gleamed with butter. He’d use the saponifying effects of the butter to shave religiously each day. Well, his race of diffs suffered from the mistaken belief that their white hair was unbecoming if not downright ugly. Thankfully, most of their women did not shave their hair and it glowed silvery white and splendid in the lights of the suns. He wore dark clothes and carried weapons. I sat down opposite him and the serving girl, a dainty Fristle fifi with impertinent eyes and roving tail, brought me a yellow Charwis, not too sweet and with a decent taste.

  The Gon said: “Lahal, majister. I am—”

  The look I shot him brought his backbone up. He was tall, as many Gons are, with smooth even features. A little flush seeped in over his cheekbones.

  “Your pardon, Drajak.” He spoke in a soft voice and no one could overhear us in the noise of the tavern. All the same...!

  I nodded my head and drank some Charwis.

  He went on: “I am Nalgre ti Poventer. I was at the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. Third Phalanx. Bratchlin. I saw you there.”

  “Lahal, Nalgre. Go on.”

  He had recovered his composure and now drank a little wine and wiped his lips with a yellow kerchief. Very fussy, are Gons.

  “The ambassador wishes to see you. By using me as an intermediary he hopes to avoid throwing suspicion upon you, maj — Drajak.”

  That explained his elementary mistake. He didn’t work for Naghan at all. He was employed by the Vallian embassy here in Oxonium. Elten Larghos Invordun, the Vallian ambassador here, had helped me already and I knew him for a loyal and clever man.

  “When?” I said.

  “I have a room here. There is a disguise. Tonight.”

  I finished off the Charwis and stood up. Instantly Nalgre ti Poventer slapped his unfinished drink onto the table and rose. I sighed to myself. He was no conspirator, that was for sure. So I sat down again and called for more wine. He sat down too, slowly, and gave me a most puzzled glance. I leaned forward.

  “For the sweet sake of Opaz, Nalgre! Relax. You’re supposed not to attract any attention.”

  He licked his lips. “I’m a brumbyte, a soldier more used to hefting my pike in the files. I’m used to showing respect.”

  “If it hadn’t been for people like you, Nalgre, we’d never have won Vallia’s liberty. Now you have a new job that is different. We’ll just saunter up, casually.”

  “Quida—” He checked himself, and said: “A good idea.”

  I allowed a gargoylish old Dray Prescot smile to plaster itself all over the inside of my head. To Nalgre I just looked what I must have looked like to him back during the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. The Third Phalanx, I recalled, had suffered casualties that day of blood. To him, I was the Emperor, the Majister, to be shown the utmost respect and to be faithfully obeyed in all things. If only he knew how I spurned all these titles and ranks! I loved giving away titles and estates to those who deserved them, and I valued the way in which things could be done simply because I was who I was. But through all that I remained Dray Prescot, a simple sailorman.

  Fweygo was sitting inconspicuously in a corner where he could keep an eye on me. I didn’t want him taking Nalgre to pieces. Nalgre had been a Bratchlin, a closer of the file, and was therefore well-used to issuing orders and keeping people up to the mark. But he’d be no match for the Kildoi — a redundant remark, that; very few fighting tricks were unknown to them.

  As we were going up the stairs, Fweygo stood up and went out the front door. If I knew him he’d be looking for another way in. Nalgre’s room lay at the far end of the second floor corridor, and, indeed, in that far end wall was a door which must lead to stairs going down outside. Just how long would it take my kregoinye comrade to make his way in there?

  In Nalgre’s room, furnished to a good state of inn comfort, he unwrapped a parcel. I did not feel surprise. I shrugged off my blue shamlak and donned the buff jacket with the wide wings, the buff breeches and tall boots and clapped on the wide-brimmed hat with the red and yellow feather. Then my weapons went about me again.

  Nalgre also put on his Vallian clothes. He said: “I feel more comfortable in civilized clothes — Drajak.”

  “Oh, they’re more or less decently civilized here in Tolindrin, Nalgre. Except for some cramphs I’ve met. As to the other countries to the north, that has to be tested.”

  “I was up in Enderli recently.” He hitched his rapier forward. “I can’t say I cared overmuch for ’em. Nice zorcas, though.”

  Ready, we moved out. He opened the door onto the stairs and held the key in his hand ready to lock up after us and there stood Fweygo on the top step, a dagger in one of his fists, just about to force the lock.

  Instantly the dagger disappeared. Only a couple of Kregen’s smaller moons went scampering past so it was pretty dark. I kept the wide brim of the Vallian hat down over my face.

  The Kildoi in his most pleasant voice said: “Your pardon, doms. I have a rendezvous and have lost my key—”

  Whether or not he expected a couple of Vallians in a foreign country to believe him I couldn’t guess. Sensible people like to stay out of trouble. Nalgre simply said: “I will lock up after you, dom.”

  From the light in the corridor at our backs which threw us into silhouette I could see Fweygo’s face clearly. His trick had rebounded on him. I was confident he did not suspect it was Dray Prescot who stood before him. Our Vallian attire was unmistakable even in silhouette with those wide shoulder wings and breeches and the broad-brimmed hats. He kept his composure remarkably.

  “Thank you, dom. But — how do I get out afterward?”

  “Why, dom, you must go with Cymbaro’s grace.”

  Fweygo had been hoist, as they say in Clishdrin, by his own varter. His handsome face, smooth and polite in the lamplight, smiled. Oh, yes, by Krun! I was getting to know my new comrade better at each stroke of adventure. “Why, thank you again, dom. I am sure I shall find a way out.”

  Well, and of course he would! If he didn’t knock the door out he’d knock over anyone who got in his way trompling down the inner staircase. That, of course, would be after he’d sorted me out, no doubt considering he’d once again rescued me from peril.

  So, wishing not to attract attention to anyone of our party,
I had to say something. What? Would it matter if Nalgre ti Poventer knew that Fweygo and I were acquainted? Perhaps I had become obsessed with secrecy, always plotting subterfuges, wearing disguises. But that must be in my scorpion nature. And, anyway, by Krun, it had saved my hide on innumerable occasions.

  I said: “The lady became tired of waiting. She left.”

  Nalgre half-turned to give me a quick puzzled glance, so he missed Fweygo’s reaction. The Kildoi shuffled his feet around on the top step, said: “Women! Thank you, dom,” and started off down.

  Nalgre’s low laugh was only half amused. “He’s right, by Vox!”

  By the time Nalgre had locked up and we reached the alley running past the foot of the stairs, Fweygo had vanished into the shadows. The Maiden with the Many Smiles would be up tonight, and the Twins would add their lustrous pink radiance later on. Nalgre led. He hadn’t sounded overly bitter in his remark about the ladies of Kregen so perhaps that was just a lover’s tiff. Well, and by Mother Diocaster, there are plenty of them on two worlds.

  A couple of streets along in the pinkish moonlight we heard a hullabaloo and a rout of people came storming along, all tangled up and bashing away with cudgels and blatterers and dwablatters. Nalgre and I jumped into a conveniently shadowed doorway as the rout hacked and hewed past.

  The light showed up the favors, the schturvals plain.

  “Khon the Mak’s roughs fighting with Prince Ortyg’s toughs,” commented Nalgre. “For the benefit of Vallia they can break one another’s heads in and to the Ice Floes of Sicce with ’em.”

  “Aye. King Tom or Hyr Kov Brannomar are the folk Vallia must deal with.”

  The City Guard took its time about sorting out the riot and this made me uneasy. It could be that they’d been bribed. It could simply be that law and order were breaking down in Oxonium under the pressures of the strains between the nobles. When the street lay deserted under The Maiden with the Many Smiles we set off again.

  Fweygo would be somewhere near keeping an obbo on us.

  We reached the Vallian embassy and Nalgre led around the back to a wicket gate to which he had the key. Inside the archway four extremely efficient guards shone lights upon us and demanded credentials as their weapons glittered. The Deldar recognized Nalgre and stood his men at ease and marched us off. At sight of the brave old Vallian uniform I felt all the nostalgia of a fellow cast adrift in the world dwaburs from his home. So many and many a time have I said why can’t a simple sailorman like me be left on the beach in his home in Esser Rarioch with Delia? The Star Lords dictate otherwise, that’s why.

  The fuming sense of injustice boiled up again. The Everoinye and their insane idea that I, a single man, could become the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz! Even if I did have the yrium, the special even stronger power than mere charisma, to assist? Ludicrous!

  The Elten of Thothsturboin stepped forward eagerly when we were ushered into his study. He was as I remembered him, efficient, now a skilled diplomat instead of a tough warrior of Vallia.

  “Lahal — Drajak?”

  I nodded. Even here I saw no need to have the majister this and majister that bandied about. We sat down, refreshments were served and the occasion for this nocturnal meeting was revealed.

  “You remember when you discovered the secret of the old king’s sword, and your identity was discovered to Hyr Kov Brannomar, who Drajak the Sudden really is, we were overheard by Wocut.”

  San Wocut was Khon the Mak’s personal wizard, that gaunt, gray-faced individual I’d seen next to Khonstanton. He was not a Wizard of Loh; he had powers. Elten Larghos said he had a remarkable approach from the sorcerer Wocut. “He has not revealed your secret to Khon the Mak and—”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Of course. In return for his silence he requests asylum in Vallia, a pension, a villa, immunity from Khon the Mak’s vengeance.”

  “He will trust us to keep our word — once he’s home?”

  “He knows the stories of Dray Prescot.”

  “Um.”

  This, as you may well imagine, had been a great worry to me. Kov Brannomar, who knew, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Khon the Mak would seize the opportunity for deviltry. With all the tensions in the city one more strain in connection with Vallia could tip everything into chaos. That was a very real possibility. Not everyone wanted the treaty between Tolindrin and Vallia that Kov Brannomar had so set his heart on. Khonstanton might realistically want the treaty; if he could use me and the treaty to foment disorder to his own advantage he would do so, do so at a run, by Vox!

  The signing of the treaty had been postponed until after Tom’s coronation. He had made the necessary appearance as king at the Feast of Beng T’Tolin and preparations for the festivities of the coronation were well in hand. Khonstanton — and Prince Ortyg — would make use of anything to seize the crown. Tom wasn’t really interested but Brannomar had persuaded him that he was the old king’s choice and must therefore do his duty. Oh, yes, a secret regarding Dray Prescot would act like a fuse in this situation.

  Nalgre ti Provender coughed and said: “If I may?” At our assent he wanted to know if, in our turn, we could trust Wocut. “He is able, is he not, to spy on us from a distance?”

  Elten Larghos smiled. “The famous Wizards of Loh from Vallia have inspected the embassy and removed certain objects.”

  Well, by Vox, I knew what that was about. Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi or Ling-Li made it their business to clean all our overseas buildings of signomants, the magical discs through which wizards may more easily observe at a distance. Also they placed detectors to warn if any wizard had gone into lupu to spy on us.

  I told them it looked as though the chances were on our side. Once Wocut had committed himself he knew he would be in our power. I left the details of the transaction to the ambassador and scribbled a quick note to Drak, Emperor of Vallia, suggesting Khe-Hi check it out.

  After another drink it was time to get back to the problems facing me here in Oxonium — the numim twins, and, interestingly, a rapscallion of an imp of Sicce called Dimpy.

  Chapter six

  On the way back to The Crystal Griffon we witnessed another street brawl. This time the skull beating erupted between the adherents of Tolaar, the major religion of these parts, and that other, darker and more mysterious cult of Dokerty. Being practical, cautious fellows, we stood aside and let them get on with it.

  As I doffed the buff Vallian costume and resumed the blue shamlak of Tolindrin I reflected that I had omitted to congratulate Elten Larghos Invordun na Thothsturboin on his promotion from consul to full flown ambassador. That must have come as a result of his work respecting the succession and the treaty. My lad Drak, like me, was overfond of rewarding people. In that he showed a trait at variance with the generality of his personality, which was stern and upright. Yet, as Delia knew, he was a loving and loyal son. So the fact that the Emperor of Vallia had chosen to elevate his representative in Tolindrin to the heights of full ambassador must strike Kov Brannomar as a positive omen of good relations between the two countries. Alliance, he must assume, was just over the horizon.

  I asked Nalgre to congratulate Larghos for me, and added: “I think I’ll keep the Vallian clothes — if that’s all right.”

  “Of course. They may serve again.”

  Having given Nalgre my thanks and bid him remberee I trotted off back to Nandisha’s palace. The cable cars still ran at night, at less frequent intervals. There were quite a lot of people about and everyone looked keyed up, tense. Trouble seemed to smoke on the air. The quicker the coronation took place and the treaty with Vallia signed, the quicker Oxonium could settle down.

  Only a few lights burned in the palace as I answered the guard’s challenge and went in. I gave an almighty yawn. A left-over scrap of vosk pie and a swingeing draught of red wine tucked away, and into bed I crawled and thought my last thought of every day, closed my eyes and awoke to see Fweygo bending over me, saying: “Up, you lazy gyp! Up!”r />
  Blinking and stretching I tumbled out. I’d missed the first breakfast. On the way down Fweygo said: “Tiri’s made up her mind. She’s off today.”

  I grunted. Fweygo and I were employed by Ranaj on behalf of Nandisha. The lady Tirivenswatha was a guest, staying on here in the circumstances of our acquaintance with the princess. The dancing girl had responsibilities at the Temple of Cymbaro and San Paynor, the chief priest before Cymbaro at his shrine in Oxonium, required her return. She was already eating at the second breakfast when we went in, the youngster Dimpy, looking resentful, sitting at her side. She pouted just a trifle and her lower lip stuck out. She said: “I love my work in the shrine and San Paynor. But I do like living here. In the dormitory with the other girls... Well, it’s not like here.”

  “We’ll come and visit you,” Fweygo told her.

  “All these religions are fakes.” Dimpy spoke around a mouthful of breakfast. “All they want is your money.”

  “Oh, Dimpy, you are dreadful!”

  “Well, it’s true, by Dromang!”

  They glared at each other, eyeball to eyeball, high of color and breathing too rapidly. Fweygo’s sly glance in my direction and my own reading of the situation curved my hard old lips a fraction. If Dimpy’s business had not been done for him by this curvaceous and lively lass then I hadn’t much idea of true romance. They were both of them quite clearly oblivious of anyone else in the refectory. Fweygo’s tail hand swept across the table and knocked over a jug. The clatter brought them out of that locked glance of future passion. I heaved up a sigh inside myself — Delia! Delia!

  I wanted to know what Dimpy intended to do about the frame-up and as we finished breakfast he told us his story. He was worried over his mother and sisters. If Sleed the Slick harmed them, Dimpy did not wish to face the consequences of that horrific thought.