Captive Scorpio dp-17

by Alan Burt Akers

  I rubbed my chin, and turned back to face them, saying: “If you can speak plainly and without anger, Ered Imlien, tell me of the troubles you have around Thengelsax.”

  The gist of what he said, shorn of the expletives and the anger and the spluttering indignation, gave a picture of sudden and devastating raids by bands of riders from over the borders of the Northeast. This was crazy. All Vallia was part of the empire, ruled by the emperor, policed by his orders. But the movement for self-determination had flowered in the northeastern sections which were inhabited by peoples traditionally resentful of the authority imposed by the center and the south. That I could understand. What bothered me was the crass folly of people who wished to break the empire down into small units that could never, alone, stand against the hideous dangers of the future.

  “Kovneva,” I said, speaking in a deliberately thoughtful tone of voice. “In your opinion, does this threat from the Northeast constitute a real menace to the throne? Could they topple the emperor?”

  She screwed up that clever, wizened, vicious old face.

  “Yes and no. I do not think they could field an army that could break through to Vondium. But the troubles they cause can lead to such disorder that a strong and better-placed faction could seize the power. Up there they have great faith in their necromancers-”

  “Necromancers? Of wizards and sorcerers, yes; but-”

  “Necromancers I said, and devilish Opaz-forsaken corpse-revivers I mean!”

  I digested that. Then: “And the strong and better-placed faction would be the racters?”

  No one answered. The answer was writ plain on all their faces.

  “Well, that is where we part company. I will stand against you for the emperor if needs must-”

  “You fool! You destroy yourself! He hates you and will do nothing for you. Think again, Dray Prescot. Think of yourself and your family.”

  I did not answer that directly. I fancied it would too directly put a weapon into their hands.

  “And the Panvals? The white and greens? Will they not strike for the power?”

  They laughed their contempt. “The Panvals will fade away as salt dissolves in water when the racters strike.”

  “And the other factions? The Vondium Khanders? The Fegters who grow daily in strength? The Lornrod Caucus-”

  “Them!” broke in Natyzha. “They are contemptible. Their only wish is to destroy everything, to pull down what has been painfully built over the centuries. No, we shall have no truck with them.”

  “As to the others,” Nalgre Sultant amplified the kovneva’s thoughts. “It is natural that accommodations and alliances will be formed. There are many small parties, formed for a particular reason, with whom we can work when the day to strike comes.”

  “And in that day you’ll try to put your puppet on the throne of Vallia? You’ll attempt to make some onker the emperor and then work him with your strings?”

  They damn well knew I’d never be their puppet.

  I was still smarting under the notion that I was the puppet of the Star Lords. I had been working on that, as you shall hear; but the idea aroused blind fury in me.

  They did not say that since my interference they had lost a great deal of their power over the emperor and it rankled. They still held frightening powers; but these days the emperor could act with a greater freedom than ever he had before.

  “If you directly oppose us, Dray Prescot, then you must take the consequences.” Natyzha looked at me and then away, in that typical slanting look that so largely summed up the racters’ way of influencing affairs of state. “You will probably find yourself dead and on the way to the Ice Floes of Sicce when we strike.”

  “But all legally, of course?”

  “Oh, yes, prince. All legally.”

  So I bid them Remberee in an air of chilly hostility, tempered only by the understanding between us, and took myself off. I observed the fantamyrrh of The Sea Barynth Hooked as I went out, for the sake of Irvil the Flagon, the landlord. Then I went off to perform an errand and to uncover some more of the information I sought before leaving for the Northeast — and for an uncomfortable ride into the bargain.

  Seven

  News of Dayra

  The place to which I took myself brought back vivid and happy memories, memories of a time that was, in truth, a happy one even though it was shot through with a deep anxiety for my Delia, and for others of my friends. Here we had roared out the old songs and planned what best to do about the dying emperor. I went down to the Great Northern Cut and there, on the eastern bank, found that comfortable inn and posting house, The Rose of Valka. The landlord, the same Young Bargom, greeted me with genuine warmth and his delighted yells brought the household running. He wanted to know all the news and how we had fared in our voyage to save the emperor. Bargom, who was now grown a trifle grave with the years and his responsibilities, remained still the locus of feeling for exiled Valkans. Exiled no longer, of course; but Valkans who had business in the capital gravitated to The Rose of Valka like bees to honey. If I dwell too long on my friends, and places that I am fond of, I think that natural. I’d far sooner think of and tell you of The Rose of Valka, and the good times we had there than speak of some of those places of horror into which I plunged on Kregen. But life being what it is, and Kregen being the splendid and terrible world it is, the dark and phantasmagoric times seem always to outweigh the lighter and carefree times. More’s the pity.

  They brought me through into that wide spacious room with the lights of Zim and Genodras flooding resplendently through the windows, where the flowers bloomed in their pots along the windowsill, and around me the happy sounds of a busy inn life tinkled merrily, and the superb smells of that divine Valkan cooking brought the saliva to my mouth. So I quaffed a few cups of unsurpassed Kregan tea and ate miscils and talked. No — I lie. I did not drink a few cups. I drank many cups. At last, when my inquiries became more particular and pressing, Bargom put his hands flat on his knees and stared directly at me. This subject had been glossed before. Now he pursed up his lips and looked judicial.

  “Well, strom, it is like this, d’ye see. Yes, we have heard stories of the Princess Dayra. Nath ti Javvansmot, who runs The Speckled Gyp, told me what they did to his place. The fight they started smashed most of his windows, the best part of his crockery and a dozen amphorae, and the devils stove in two barrels of the best Gremivoh — begging your pardon, strom, but facts is facts.”

  “They started a fight and they laughed and left?”

  “They laughed all right, strom. But they didn’t leave until they’d had their bellyful o’ watching the fun. Fun!”

  “Was Nath ti Javvansmot recompensed?”

  “Oh, aye. Aye. The Princess Delia, may Opaz bless her and smile on her, paid up in full. Although-”

  And here Bargom scowled his heavy Valkan scowl. “Although ’twasn’t entirely the Princess Dayra’s doing, not her fault altogether, for she was egged on. I’m sure of that.”

  “And since then?”

  “Nary a sight nor sound of her, strom. Nothing.”

  Well, no need for me to feel disappointment. If the reports were true, Dayra was up in the Northeast, somewhere to the north of Tarkwa-fash.

  “And the name of the man she was with?”

  Here Bargom looked at the floor, and twiddled the strings of his red and white apron, which bore the bright stains of wine here and there, and then he looked at the flick-flick plant on the windowsill which was just in the act of transferring a half-starved fly from one suckered and sticky tendril down its orange gullet. Flies found little dirt to feed on in The Rose of Valka.

  “Come, Bargom. You and I are old comrades. Have no fear of offending me. I know Dayra is mixed up with a scoundrel.”

  “He’s a scoundrel, well and true. And there is a gang of ’em — a dozen, at the least. But who is this scoundrel? Now there you may as well ask Poperlin the Wise! He calls himself any number of names, and not one of them his. Some say he�
��s the illegitimate son of a high noble, others that he’s a fisherman from the islands who stole a purse and bought himself an education beyond his real capacity. Others say he’s a paktun, probably a hyr-paktun who may wear the pakzhan, who is living high on the vosk of his ill-gotten gains. Others-”

  “Aye. Aye, I hear. You have not seen him? You can give me no description? No name, one name at the least, with which I may begin inquiries?”

  Bargom frowned and scratched his ear. “I did hear Nath say that his cronies called him Zankov[1].”

  “Zankov. Now that is a strange name, indeed. Who are the other nine?”

  “Why, strom! There aren’t any, to be sure.”

  “Yes. It is only a use name. But it is a handle to begin with.”

  Now there was little time for more of the pleasant talk about the old days and of the beauty of Valka, and so I patted the heads of his smaller sons and daughters and gave them a gold talen each, and then I stood up and stretched and said: “I must be off, good Bargom. I thank you for your hospitality and your news. Zankov. I shall remember that.”

  They were disappointed that I would leave so soon; but the whole household waved and many were the shouted “Remberees!”

  Bargom yelled after me: “And, strom, I wouldn’t put too much store by Zankov. It’s probably Naghan na Sicce by now!”

  This was a great joke, if a standard one, as you who have followed my story will understand. Naghan is almost as common a name on Kregen as Nath, and Sicce; well, we all get shipped out to the Ice Floes of Sicce when our time is up on this mortal coil.

  As my steps took me out of the gateway of the yard where a team had just been unhitched from a posting carriage and the passengers were alighting, ready to resume their journey on the Great Northern Cut, rejoicing that they would have a far easier passage on the canals, I reflected that Bargom had throughout called me strom. We had been in private. With other high nobles in attendance he would have sprinkled in at least a few princes and majisters. I would not call his attention to this, nor even think of venturing to correct him. Plenty of Valkans call me strom to this day. There is far more to it than simple forgetfulness. Often, I think — and thought then with greater cause — they were jealous that their strom was some prince of Vallia, as though that removed him a trifle from their loyal protection and special relationship.

  A quick, a very quick, trip to speak to Nath ti Javvansmot at The Speckled Gyp yielded no new information save the man who dubbed himself Zankov was a right slender spark, with dark hair, and merry eyes- “Brown Vallian eyes, prince. But, I swear, when he laughed, they went so dark as to be black. Odd.” Thus Nath ti Javvansmot.

  Thanking him, I mounted up again on Shadow and trotted smartly back to the palace. As ever, my weather eye rolled leeward and windward; but I fancied my dealings with the stikitches had borne fruit. Although Kregans can tell the time to remarkable limits of accuracy by the positions of the suns or the moons, and many kinds of mensuration devices are known and used, truth to tell, I fancy, most Kregans tell the time by the state of their insides. Good square meals dominate the time-structure of Kregen. And, provided all get enough, who is to say this is not an admirable system? The trouble is, there are many who do not have enough, many who starve, many slaves who subsist miserably. These evils Delia and I had vowed to remove from the fair land of Paz, and, if the gods smiled, to eradicate entirely from all of Kregen.

  But that objective — that dream — lay decades in the future.

  Decades! Well, I was still, despite the length of time I had lived, still a comparatively young man then, and I was naive, hurtfully naive. .

  So I knew the twin suns were telling me that my interior clock was true; I went roaring into the palace and toward the stairway that led to our private wing. The palace is enormous and convoluted, as I have said, and to save time I slid through a cross corridor that would chop off a whole section of the ornate courtyards. The Crimson Bowmen of Loh stood guard, where they were accustomed to stand, and of the Chulik mercenaries only a few were left. Their proud dark eyes looked alertly about, their sharp fox-like faces with the bristling whiskers reminding me that they were a race of diffs well-thought of as mercenaries. Their Hikdar was a paktun, the silver mortil head, the pakmort, looped on its silken cord over the shoulder of his corselet.

  These were newly hired mercenaries. Kov Layco Jhansi, the emperor’s Chief Pallan, had been busy. A Crimson Bowman standing beside a tall balass door with silver chavonth heads adorning the bosses recognized me and stamped to rigid attention, his three-grained staff flashing into the salute. He was Log Logashtorio.

  Seeing the old professional salute me, the Khibil paktun bellowed an “eyes right” and brought his sword into the salute.

  I was hungry. But these niceties of military protocol are overlooked at one’s peril. But it was no venal thought of that kind that made me return the salute with all punctilio. I called out to the Hikdar as we passed: “A smart turnout, Hikdar. Congratulate your men for me, please. I welcome you to Vondium.”

  He was a waso-Hikdar, that is, he had climbed five rungs up the rank structure within the rank of Hikdar, which is, I suppose, nearly an equivalent to an Earthly captain, in that he commands a pastang, or company, usually of eighty or so men.

  Going rapidly on I gave a half-turn to look back and saw the Hikdar speaking to Log Logashtorio. So he was finding out who I was. That was all a part of the duties he and his men must perform here. Being hired by the Emperor of Vallia to serve in the imperial palace was a plum job. A parcel of slaves, all wearing the gray slave breechclout with red and yellow armbands, went past carrying an Azdon which they treated with all the care and frightened anxiety such a precious object always demanded. Past them I hurried, with a respectful salute from the Chulik matoc in charge of them. His tusks thrust up from the corner of his mouth, and he’d savage any poor damned slave who caused the slightest trouble.

  A Relt stylor hurried past, his scrip bulging with ink and pens, his robe stained with blobs and spatters of ink. Everyone hurried in the palace. There was always a toing and a froing. I made my way along past the Chemzite doors and saw one of the emperor’s Lesser Chamberlains scurrying toward me. He looked puffed and immensely relieved, and he shook with the release of some pressing fear.

  “Majister! The emperor has been calling for you these last two burs! He awaits you in the Sapphire Reception Room. Majister! We must hurry.”

  I try to be polite to these fussy, pompous little fellows; for they have been made as they are. His red and yellow robes with the silver embroidery fluttered as he waved his arms, his balass, silver-banded rod of office almost hitting me on the nose.

  Having studied a deal of the palace architecture when I’d first taken up residence here, I had a fair idea where the Sapphire Reception Room was. I glowered at the little chamberlain whereat his knees knocked. It was in my mind to tell him to say he hadn’t found me — him or his fellows who would be out looking — and bash on to my apartments, for I was sharp set. But that would only prolong whatever lay in store.

  “I am hungry,” I said. “Is there any food there?”

  “Yes, Majister. A spread buffet — and the Princess Majestrix, upon whom Opaz shine the light of his countenance, also awaits you there, Majister.”

  That settled it.

  So I followed the gaudily-clad Lesser Chamberlain to the Sapphire Reception Room, more interested in the spread food than in what my father-in-law wanted.

  The Reception Room had been decorated out in colors that were predominantly green. Well, I have no need to elaborate my ambivalent attitude to that color. Long tables were spread with food. I barged in through the door. People stood about in groups, talking, eating and drinking, laughing. It was a proper reception. The air smelled sweet with perfumes and, best of all, with the appetizing aromas of exquisite food.

  Four clowns in gaudy uniforms at the door slapped long silver trumpets to their mouths and blew blasts that nearly took my ears off. T
he major domo in his fantastical rig of red and yellow, silver and gold, burnished, awash with feathers and lace, bellowed in a voice that would have stood a trick on the quarterdeck of a seventy-four off Biscay.

  “The Hyr Jikai, Dray Prescot, Prince Majister of Vallia.”

  He knew everyone and bellowed their styles as they came in. I gave him a dirty look, and rubbed my ear, and then headed straight for the food. Bargom’s cook’s tea and cakes had merely sharpened up my appetite.

  This scene presented the refined, polite, society face of Kregen. Men and women in their early-evening attire stood about, daintily sipping and nibbling. The conversation was light and frivolous, and yet, here and there, serious talking went on as people disposed of Vallia’s wealth and slaves and mines and ships. Politics was never a taboo subject here, either. A knot of people, somewhat larger than the others, contained the emperor. His leonine head towered, massive, purposeful, and he threw that powerful head back, laughing.

  Well, let the old devil have a good time. He’d been at death’s door until Delia had carried him into the Sacred Pool. He did not see me and, as I could not spot Delia, and the food beckoned, I strode across to the tables.

  He must have heard the trumpets and the majordomo’s bellow. He must have thought I’d go straight up to him and be introduced. Well, maybe I would have done had I known the purpose of the reception. There was no time for shilly-shallying around with a tiny plate and a few miscils, a few thin sandwiches, canapes, a spot of yasticum on the superb Kregan bread; I went for the real stuff. I piled the largest plate I could find with food. I stacked the biggest cup of tea available on the plate. Slaves hopped here and there trying to help people with silver trays of goodies; I brushed them away and got on with the job of loading the plate. Truth to tell; it was all light frothy stuff with not a solid mouthful all along the long table. The slaves wore white instead of slave gray, for they were privileged to wait on their masters here. I had to ignore them. The idea of slavery could always put me off my food, and I was sharp set. Come the day, I said to myself, and not the day which those damned racters dreamed, either. . So, wearing still the buff suit in which I had traipsed over Vondium, my hat hanging by its string down my back, girded with weapons, a monstrous plate of food in my hand, and a cup — it was a basin, really -