A Cat of Silvery Hue

by Robert Adams

  The Confederation commander walked his mount into the group, saying, "Perhaps the rebels' leader realized that such old-fashioned walls and towers couldn't be held."

  Vahrohnos Spiros Morguhn shook his head. "Not that damned Myros. He'd hold Morguhnpolis as long as life remained in his wretched carcass! He's always felt that it, rather than Deskati, should be his rightful patrimony. We warned Hwahruhn it was a mistake to make him city governor of the capital. More than likely he's trying to make the city look deserted so we'll be tricked inside to be butchered at his leisure."

  "No, vahrohnos," the High Lord disagreed. "Were such the case, that gate would be open." He turned to Bili. "Have you tried fargathering?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "And?"

  "Nothing, my lord, which could mean something or nothing. I tried fargathering during the siege of Behreezburk and got the same results."

  Milo shrugged. "Well, gentlemen, we accomplish damn-all in sitting here and speculating. Prehsvootehros, some of your more agile men should be able to top that wall. Then, if things are as they seem, they can open the gate to the rest of us."

  With the gate tower strongly manned, well-armed patrols trickled out through the empty streets, the lancers guided by Raikuh's Freefighters, most of whom had formerly been Morguhnpolis city guards and knew well each alley and byway. All rode warily, visors down and beavers up, steel bared or lances presented, archers' bows strung with one arrow nocked and one or two more ready in the fingers of the bowhand.

  Thoheeks Bili and the High Lord, with Vahrohnos Spires, Komees Hari, Master Ahlee, Chief Hwahltuh Sanderz and Clanbard Gil Sanderz, the hulking Komos Morguhn and one Khlai Ehsmith, a lieutenant of the Confederation lancers, were trailed by Geros, three or four Sanderz clansmen and a couple of Freefighters.

  The party rode directly for the palace of the city governor, but walking their mounts no less warily than the other patrols, eyes constantly scanning house fronts and deserted shops, the mouths of alleys or intersecting streets.

  The steel-shod hooves rang on the cobbles, saddles creaked and bridle chains jangled discordantly, armor clanked and clattered as the riders turned to left and right. But there were no other sounds… and all found this silence eerie, threatening. And when the High Lord's chestnut gelding suddenly reared, startled, every sword was instantly ready.

  A scarred, rangy tomcat followed close on the heels of the scuttling rat which had spooked the warhorse, making a quick, practiced kill in the center of the street. Heedless of the column of horsemen, the cat stalked away, bearing his feebly twitching prey between his jaws.

  Pigeons strutted the small square before the palace, fluttering up in a gray-white cloud before the horsemen. Like the city gates, the palace gate was closed and barred. But the low wall was easily scaled, .and soon the noblemen were dismounting in the minuscule courtyard, scrutinizing the facade of the palace, whose windows stared back sightlessly, like the empty eyesockets of a bleached skull. All of the palace doors were secured from within, but the main portals, despite their showy brass sheathing, required but two hard swings of a jerry-rigged ram before they slammed splintering asunder.

  Bili was first to stalk into the foyer, his axe at the ready, the clanking of his armor echoing from wall to marble wall. Halting in the center of the dim, cool chamber, he dropped his beaver and roared.

  "Vahrohnos Myros, you rutting rebel, you perverted traitorous swine, come out and meet the death you've so long cheated! Or do you lack the courage, you forsworn, buggering bastard?"

  But once the echoes had ceased to carom off the muraled walls and high, carved ceiling, only silence answered his challenge. Turning to the group which had followed him, he grounded his heavy axe and shrugged.

  "Of course, well search, but my fargathering senses no menace within these walls. Where could all the dogs be hiding?"

  "It is possible," commented the High Lord slowly, "that there really is no one left in the city."

  Master Ahlee carefully sheathed his double-curved saber. "The High Lord supposes then that the rebel lords drove out the inhabitants, barred the gates and then went down the walls?"

  High Lord Milo nodded. "Either that or… these old Ehleen cities often are honeycombed with subterranean passages, both connecting important buildings and giving a hidden means of entering or leaving their confines."

  Spiros Morguhn shook his head briskly. "There're no records of any such thing in Morguhnpolis, my lord, nor even any legends of such."

  "Since they generally were used for secret or clandestine purposes, by the old Ehleenee," Milo said, "there were probably never any records to begin with. And since, as I recall, Morguhnpolis fell by storm, the Ehleen governor or lord could have taken many secrets to his grave. But this is all supposition, gentlemen—we'll not truly know until we search."

  He turned to Staisee. "Prehsvootehros, mindcall your other troop and bid them ride straight to the palace. I'd feel better with more force behind me, ere I start probing this place."

  Drehkos and his party had not progressed far when they chanced upon a small detachment of Vawnee cavalry, who had halted to bury their former commander, freshly deceased of wounds sustained the night before. Fortunately this band had lost some third of its original numbers in the firelit debacle below Morguhn Hall but had retained most of the now-riderless horses; consequently, all members of the allied party were able to ride when they left the nobleman's grave and turned their faces west.

  The only remaining Vawnee gentleman was a sixteen-year-old nephew of the dead commander, one Kleetos of Mahrtospolis, who was overjoyed to confer his unwanted responsibilities upon the middle-aged Drehkos. The Vawnee seemed much relieved at this transference of authority. And, sensing their immediate trust in him, Drehkos had not the heart to tell them the cold truth.

  Although reared to the sword and the horse, as were all Kindred and most Ehleen noblemen, Drehkos Daiviz had never acquired any formal military training or experience. When, thirty-odd years before, his brother, Hari, and the bulk of the other young Kindred of Morguhn and Daiviz had ridden to the Middle Kingdoms to seek fortune and adventure as members of the Freefighter condotta formed by Djeen Morguhn, Drehkos had flatly rejected all blandishments and remained in the duchy of his birth.

  At his father's death—which many attested had been much hastened by Drehkos' almost continual misconduct and profligacy—Hari, the elder by eighteen months, had returned to Morguhn to be confirmed in his komeesteheea. For his part, Drehkos had then been well content to accept the baronetcy which was the patrimony of a second son of his sept of Clan Daiviz and the very munificent maintenance income which the new komees generously and most unexpectedly offered to furnish his brother until he was well married or had otherwise made his fortune.

  And Vahrohneeskos Drehkos had married well, financially speaking, though many had frowned upon his choice of a girl who was neither Kindred nor Ehleen. But there were few who said aught of their feelings in Drehkos' hearing, for the sloe-eyed Rehbehkah had been the only living child of the most successful goldsmith-moneylender of the archducal city of Prahseenospolis—two hundred kaiee southeast of Morguhn—and the heiress-bride had brought to her new husband a vast fortune, so much in fact that not even twenty-five years of Drehkos' debaucheries, harebrained business ventures and large contributions to the Ehleen Church or other questionable causes had forced him to lower his standard of living.

  Rehbehkah Daiviz of Szohbuh had never presented Drehkos with a child, but he could not fault her for that lack, for neither (to the best of his knowledge) had any other of his multitudinous women. Though he never tried to conceal the fact that he had married her solely for her wealth, as she proved gentle, companionable, forgiving of his frequent excesses and an admirable chatelaine of his palatial Morguhnpolis townhouse, with the passing years, Drehkos came to truly love her… and, in the three years since her death from summer fever, he could not recall ever being really happy.

  He had thought deeply about ever
ything in the course of that ride from the rout below Morguhn Hall to Morguhnpolis, and had decided that his constant loneliness and longing for his dead wife was actually what had driven him into this sorry mess of a rebellion. Not religion, not envy, not hate, just simple, soul-deep loneliness.

  Brother Hari had urged him to take another wife, either from within the Duchy of Morguhn or from beyond, had begged him close his empty, echoing townhouse and come to bide at Horse Hall, at least for a while. Dear old Hari—no man could ask a more loving brother or more generous friend. And, at that thought, Drehkos felt real regret that he had had even a small part in the slaying of the one person his older brother sincerely loved—Vaskos, the komees' illegitimate son.

  As he led his heterogeneous band of Morguhnpolisee and Vawnee westward toward Bloody Ford and Raider Gap, he bade a silent and infinitely sorrowful farewell to the duchy of his birth, knowing that he would never again see its rolling leas, its verdant fields, or the Morguhnpolis house where he once had been so happy.

  "Goodbye, dear brother Hari, please try to forgive me. Goodbye again, Rehbehkah, my own dear love, I'll be with you soon."

  If Vahrohneeskos Drehkos Daiviz was repentant, his sister-in-law, Komeesah Hehrah Daiviz, was anything but. For days she raged whenever anything or anyone reminded her of her three youngest daughters. She had been so certain of their loyalty, so sure they would cleave always to the True Faith, into which they had been baptized and in which she had reared them, regardless of Komees Hari's frequently loud and vociferous disapproval. Yet, when the time at last arrived, what did the three sisters—flesh of her flesh—do but betray her and everything which she believed in and had taught them? Not only had her recreant spawn given the bastard sufficient forewarning so he and his man were able to arm and fight their way out of the hall—killing four good Christian men in the process—but the shameless hussies had most certainly been responsible for jamming the closing mechanism of the main gate and had been waiting in the courtyard with saddled horses.

  Even so, it had been a near thing, and the valiant warriors of the Faith might still have run them down or arrowed them, had not that whoreson's retainer lingered within the entry passage, his presence unsuspected until he had treacherously cut down three more of her warriors. But God had favored His Cause with regard to that one pagan. The brave Danos had crept into the passage and driven an arrow into the heathen's chest, then put another in his back when he tried to ride out. But the delay had been enough.

  Hehrah could not imagine why three good, pious-seeming girls, who had not appeared at all attached to their Sun-worshiping sire for many years, would become so murderously disloyal, all of an instant. Why, why would Eeohahnah and Mehleesah and… and even little Behtee conspire to cost the lives of decent, God-fearing men with no higher motive than to prolong the unholy existence of a bantling half-brother? And the truly amazing fact was that he was almost a stranger to the girls, since even the eldest had seen him no more than two other times in her life.

  The Bastard, which was all she ever called Keeleeohstos Vaskos, was a byblow of her husband's youth and, consequently, of roughly her own age—though she always asserted him "old enough to be my father!" She had, since first her father had married her to Komees Hari and she had learned of her noble husband's love for both the boy and the half-kindred peasant who had farrowed him, actively hated them both almost as much as she hated her coarse, barbaric heathen spouse. She had long relished the thought of seeing the Bastard dead—as dead as his pagan bitch of a mother, who, no doubt, had been frying these twenty-odd years in the deepest pit of Perdition. But his demise had not really obsessed her until his old fool of a father had announced his intention to have the Thirds Council legitimatize the object of her hatred, that he might be named and confirmed heir to the title and lands of Daiviz.

  Since none of her boy children had survived infancy, she had long ago promised her eldest daughter, Djoodith, that title and lands and wealth would, upon the death of Komees Hari, go to the girl's husband, Eeahgos of Mahrtospolis, second son of the komees of that city, a Kath-ahrohs or pure-blood Ehleen and, most important, a good Christian. She knew the Bastard to be as much a pagan as his horse-loving, Christ-hating father. To declare him legitimate and confirm him heir would be to dash her fondest hopes and dreams; it would mean that, barring a heaven-sent miracle, never would she live to see the lands and monies of Daiviz reaffirmed to the service of God and the True Faith—from which, service they had been stolen by her husband's barbarian forebears.

  She had confided her hopes and her fears to her only peer then a member of the Thirds—dear, sweet Myros of Deskahti. It was thanks only to him and to the few other fine, upstanding men who clove still to the old loyalties that Komees Hari's nefarious design had not been accomplished three years ago.

  Because he knew of her fears of her husband and the Bastard, knew of her unparalleled devotion to the Faith, knew of her love for all things Ehleen and her deep and uncompromising contempt for the Kindred and all they represented, Myros had first approached her, dropped a few hints of the planned glories, then introduced her to the new kooreeos of Morguhn, the saintly Skiros.

  She had become one of the very few women and the only noble woman who had been initiated into the Deeper Mysteries of the Faith, and, if she had been a zealous Christian previously, the witnessing of her first Holy Sacrifice made her a fanatic. The spurt of blood under the keen edge of the Holy Skiros' knife, the dying screams of the pagan child whom he was sending to God, had fulfilled in her a longing which she had never before recognized.

  And when she partook of that Communion Cup, she had known to the innermost fiber of her being that the blood of that pagan child truly had been transmuted into the authentic Blood of Christ, for she could feel that precious holiness spreading out from her vitals, permeating the whole of her being with its blessed goodness. Since that miraculous event, she had never missed any of the necessarily rare and clandestine repetitions; indeed, on one occasion when the blessed Skiros had lacked a Sacrifice, she had contributed little Ehlaina, her pretty blond love girl.

  She had hoped to take both the Bastard and his retainer alive so that the personal priest, recently sent her by the Holy Skiros, might offer them as Sacrifice, and all true Christians in her hall, especially her three daughters, might be recipients of that all-encompassing holy goodness. Which was another reason why the defections of her girls had so maddened her. Nor had the defeat of her alternate plan improved her disposition.

  Red Death, the blood-bay king stallion of Komees Hari's herds, had been an object of her hatred since, upon the death of his predecessor—the redoubtable Boar Killer—her husband had bought him back from the barbarian princeling whose warhorse he had been. In the nearly ten years since this dumb, brute animal had been brought from the north, she had watched in sick hatred as the komees evinced more and ever more friendship and respect and, yes, even love for the huge beast He lavished more devotion on that horse than ever he had on. her or their daughters, yet had the temerity to brutally denounce the civilized pleasures she took with her succession of love girls as depraved and unnatural!

  Still trembling with rage at the escape of the Bastard, she had called to her Gaios Morguhn—despite his name and un-Ehleen appearance, he was a good and dutiful son of the Holy Church—and ordered him to mindcall Red Death. It would do her heart good to sea him, at least, butchered to the Glory of Christ.

  Knowing the dangers inherent in displeasing the Lady Hehrah, even when she chanced to be in a good mood, Gaios fidgeted uncomfortably and slowly shook his red-blond head. "My… my lady, the… the king stallion will… will only respond to the mindcall of… of Lord Hari."

  Then Gaios was frantically ducking the heavy silver ewer she flung at his head, and when he and three others rode out to rope their quarry, his hair, shirt and trousers were still wet and sticky with the wine that ewer had contained, and his ears still rang with his mistress' screams and curses. As the four men came near to t
he farthest pasture, that one most favored by the king stallion, Gaios shuddered involuntarily at their proximity to the Forest Bridge where so many of his friends were struck down by that hideous axe of the young son of the Morguhn, and the arrows and dripping swords of the other Kindred. And once more he breathed silent thanks to his god that, since his mount had thrown a shoe while they pursued Lord Bili along the forest road, he had not been called upon to take part in the subsequent battle—actually, subsequent debacle, he was sufficiently honest to admit to himself, since those three Kindred nobles had easily beat more than seven times their number to a virtual standstill even before the arrival of the rescue party.

  The big old warhorse raised his large, shapely head at their approach, then trotted out to meet them, weaving a way among his grazing mares, while a number of his frisky get gamboled around him. His keen ears had registered the unforgotten sound of clashing arms from the faraway hall, and he had been expecting the mindcall of his brother, Hari, at any moment. Now came four of his loved brother's servants, two bearing strung bows. So strong was his anticipatory shudder that he almost stumbled; it would be good to fight again.

  "Greet the Sun, Lord Red Death," Gaios mindspoke.

  The stallion halted a few yards from the riders, his head nodding. "Greet the Sun, Gaios, two-leg of my brother. There has been fighting at the hall." It was a statement, not a question.

  Successful lying in mindspeak is difficult and requires long practice. Gaios lacked that practice and knew it. "Yessss," he agreed, trying to becloud his motives and intentions long enough to get a couple of ropes on this potentially dangerous animal.

  Toeing his mount closer to Red Death, he added, "Unexpected events have occurred at the hall, Lord Red Death. Your brother would have you there, near to him."

  "Then why has my brother not mindcalled me, two-leg?" demanded the horse.