I said: “In Tomboram, a kingdom up there in North Pandahem. To the west lies Menaham, whose people are called the Bloody Menahem by their foes. Aye! And your wife — and you said the Everoinye selected you because you were married to her and understood her ways — you went to the Kovnate of Bormark. The kov is, I guess, Pando. And his mother, Tilda the Beautiful, Tilda of the Many Veils! That is it, is it not? Tilda is much like your wife—”
He gaped at me.
He licked his foxy lips.
“How—?”
“There is no magic in this, Pompino. I knew Pando when he was an imp of mischief, seasons and seasons ago. And his mother—” I paused. I would not stand condemned in my own eyes over Tilda the Beautiful. If she had begun to drink because I treated her correctly and as a great lady, had helped her to gain the kovnate for her son Pando, and had then left — I would not feel guilt. All my affection, love and life are dedicated to Delia.
“Pando, Kov of Bormark,” said Pompino. He drank hugely. “Well, he may have been an imp of mischief when you knew him. I tell you, my friend, he is a right tearaway now.”
The last time I had to my knowledge seen Pando and Tilda was right after the Battle of Tomor Peak. After the Battle of Jholaix, where Hamal had, for a time, been sent reeling back, I had not stopped to see Pando and Tilda but had flown directly back for Vallia and Valka.
Any king or emperor must keep a finger on the pulse of his world. I had kept abreast of much of the news out of Pandahem. I knew that King Nemo of Tomboram had reinstated Pando as the Kov of Bormark. Nemo was now dead and a relation, a dark and narrow-minded man from the distaff side of the family, now reigned. This King Nemo the Second had confirmed Pando in his estates.
I kept my voice even.
“How fares it with them, Pompino?”
He drank and refilled his glass.
“Bormark is not a happy kovnate, Jak. It is sour. I think — and, mark me, I have no proof — that the cult of Lem the Silver Leem has taken the heart out of the province.”
“And this temple you burned? It did not—?”
“No. That will not settle it. There is more to be done, in Bormark, before the place smells clean again.”
Slowly, I said, “I count Pando and Tilda as friends, Pompino. Even though I have not seen them for many seasons.”
I did not add, as I might once have done, that when those two in their rags and misery had been dragged up before me, all clean and sweet in fresh clothes, and they had not recognized me after the battle, I had felt hurt. I had kept a straight face. But they had not recognized me as Dray Prescot, their old helpmeet. If that did cut me, I had passed it off, had taken the blame and the guilt to myself.
In all these years there had not been time to go to Bormark. All that could be done by the agents I had sent, I had thought done. But Tilda drank, and Pando was — was what? A right tearaway. Could he be anything more?
Somewhat heavily I went on: “And you think that Kov Pando is in league with the cultists, is perhaps an initiate; he encourages the Leem Lovers?”
“There is no proof. I would not willingly stand between you and your friends, Jak. You know that. But if Kov Pando does follow the Silver Wonder, I would not be surprised.”
Thinking of the wildness in young Pando, of the streak of rebelliousness in him, I shared that feeling.
I said: “The Everoinye set a task to your hands, Pompino. You did what they asked. But it is not finished. It seems good to me that I should go up to Bormark and see what more may be done. You would not object?”
He lowered his glass. He sat up. His foxy whiskers bristled.
“Object? Object! Why, dom, I’m with you. We will go up north together, and show them the error of their ways!”
I smiled, whereat Pompino looked at me as though the wine disagreed with my stomach. So that my grimace became wider still.
He let out a sigh. “It seems to me someone up there is in for a mighty unpleasant experience — when you get there.”
We made a middling long night of it. We made plans. I own it was extraordinarily pleasant to be able to sit in a comfortable room in a splendid house, quaffing good wine, nibbling at palines, talking to an old comrade. And, do not forget, Pompino was the only other kregoinye with whom I was able thus to talk. There were others; but our paths had not crossed in quite the same way. He remained still in awe of the Everoinye, anxious to do their bidding, and conscious of his own pride in being chosen to serve them.
So I had to watch my tongue and refrain from cursing and blinding against the Star Lords. Anyway, as I have said, at this time I was beginning to get onto an altogether new relationship with the Star Lords and, perhaps, to discover a little more of what it was they sought to do on Kregen.
Pompino said we would sail in one of his ships.
“One of them?”
“Oh, aye. I have a fleet of five argenters, and I run two swordships to keep an eye on them. The pirates still infest the seas. The wars brought the renders out, to our mystery, their immediate profit and eventual destruction.”
“Amen.”
I marveled. Pompino, a shipowner! It fitted, of course. A man of substance, but careful, shrewd, and as a Khibil a man who would not be regarded as an expert sailor. He was a cunning old devil, and my heart warmed to him. Now that Ashti was to be cared for, what could life offer better than to carry on this crusade, to carry on this Jikai against the evil cult of Lem the Silver Leem? Seg and his party were safely away. They would make their way to the coast. If we sailed along there, we could meet up with them. The future opened out splendidly. And, as soon as Bormark had been settled, it would be a fair wind for Vallia and Valka — and Delia!
I lifted my glass. “To the morrow then, Pompino. To the Jikai against the Leem Lovers!”
Chapter nine
The complement of Tuscurs Maiden signs on
No one on Kregen takes a Khibil lightly. Supercilious, conscious of their own worth, the fox-faced Khibils know they are favored of the gods. Yet they are in no way as offensive in their attitudes as many another race of diffs. One can get along splendidly with Khibils. Because when we had first met down in Havilfar chance had taken Pompino into action ahead of me as we charged down brandishing our lengths of lumber, he had without another thought always assumed he was the leader of our partnership. This quite suited me then, and I was content to let the matter remain so.
Now we were off on our own, and although we fancied we were very clearly carrying on work the Star Lords wished, we were off doing a mission for ourselves and, as it were, moonlighting. Pompino insisted on bringing a veritable warehouse of food and clothes and weapons.
You may well imagine that this, too, amply suited me.
Pompino knew me as Jak. Once, when he’d thought himself quitted of a task for the Star Lords, and had gone off, they’d dragged him back. They’d dumped him down beside me. And the scarlet and golden bird, the Gdoinye, had told him in no uncertain terms to finish his duty. Also, the bird had called me an onker, which is a brand of idiot, and calling me an onker of onkers, had also used my name. Pompino, hearing that name, and even saying he had heard of a Prescot, still did not believe, did not know, that I was Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia. I was only profoundly grateful that he did not know. I valued him as a friend and a blade comrade.
His famous honor, also, had not been overly conspicuous in the short time I had been reunited with him. That honor had tumbled him into a few scrapes before this. Honor is a prickly bedfellow, and something to be steered clear of if you are a plain sailorman like me.
Honor had done for Barty Vessler, and I never ceased to rue that evil day’s doing.
There was the expected trouble in saying good-bye to Ashti.
She just did not see why she had to stay here, even though the Pompino pairs of twins looked likely, and would prove a source of sazz and sweets and practical jokes. She insisted on coming with me. I had to say no. And there was a funny old lump somewhere in my throat as I
tried to explain. But explanations were impossible. In the end, stony faced, I had to shout the remberees and walk off, and leave Ashti struggling in the gentle grip of Pompina and the twins.
“And make sure you mind her carefully until we are gone. She will escape and try to follow else.”
“Jak!”
She was crying and struggling, a wild, biting, scratching jungle girl.
I walked off. I felt terrible.
But a little four-year-old girl had no place in a world filled with the deadly glitter of naked steel.
Although... Mind you... If Ashti got those teeth of hers fastened in your leg you’d not go skipping about so easily, no, by Vox!
The difference in the Pompino of his home and the Pompino of the outside world was remarkable. He came alive among his ships, their people, the impedimenta, the bills of lading, the tarry rope, the barrels and amphorae — in short Scauro Pompino ti Tuscursmot, known as Pompino the Iarvin, turned out to be a consummate shipping magnate. Well, if not with five ships in quite the magnate league, at least a man of substance.
I took a great interest in the technical side of the business, having been away from the sea for some time. I was always amused by a culture which produced barrels and amphorae, one from the north, the other from the south, in the northern half of the world, reversed in the southern, and took that fact for granted. The ships themselves, too, in their ranked mast-raking mass alongside the wharves filled me with a delighted sense of well-being. We went aboard Tuscurs Maiden — Captain Linson, master — and were made welcome.
“We shall be sailing in Captain Linson’s vessel, Jak. So get settled in.”
Linson, master of Tuscurs Maiden, did not appear to be of the usual run of sturdy old sea dogs. He was an apim, which was not at all unusual for shipmasters, and looked to be in the prime of life, clean-shaven, sharp-eyed, hook-nosed, very erect and correct. But, all the same, there was about him an air of devilment I found intriguing — and bracing.
As we stood on the quarterdeck with a tiny breeze fanning our cheeks, watching the busy bustle of provisioning ship, a black smudge rose into the bright midday air. The source of the fire was an old ship, an argenter whose days were long past for sailing the high seas. She lay in an abandoned area an ulm off, and she burned, black and stinking to the sky.
Linson looked disturbed, as any man looks disturbed at a burning ship.
“Do not distress yourself, Captain,” said Pompino.
So I knew that was the temple of Lem the Silver Leem going up in flames. No wonder the wind brought down a sharp unpleasant smell.
Walking across to the rail with Pompino, I said: “I hope they take them all. I do not like leaving before we know there will be no more attacks.”
“Should one or two wretches escape, I do not think they will harm my family, or Ashti. I’ve arranged for a more strict watch. By Horato the Potent! I’ve paid good gold to buy guard paktuns. Can a man do more?”
I was not going to be drawn into that discussion.
“All the same,” said Captain Linson, joining us and tucking his telescope under his arm. “Fire is a mortal fearful thing in a ship, by Heisha of the Fiery Flukes!”
“You are right, Captain,” I said pleasantly. And then, copper-bottoming the bet, added: “You run a fine ship.”
Despite that air of sharpness about him, he looked pleased. His sharp eyes sharpened and this time with pleasure.
“Thank you, horter. You are kind.” And then, like a rapier going in: “You perhaps have some knowledge of ship craft?”
I liked it.
“Some, Captain.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
No flies on this one, by Krun!
Pompino and I had adventured across the land dry enough to make men kill for water. He wouldn’t know how much knowledge of ship craft I possessed. I caught a sly pleased smile on his face. The crafty old devil was lapping this up, thoroughly enjoying it. I made up my mind that, if a chance of showing how clever I was at sea occurred, I would resolutely refuse it. I’d show ’em what a landlubber I was, and joy in fooling them.
A Relt stylor came aboard and Pompino was closeted with him, going over the accounts. Linson went off ashore. I was left at a loose end. We were due to depart with the evening tide, for you do not just step into a ship and close the door and whip up the horses. You have to wait for nature’s pleasure in matters of the tides and weather and the state of the wind. We had no oars, being an argenter. So I explored the ship.
Like all argenters she was broad and round and high and comfortable. Her sail area, as usual, was just sufficient to send her along at a stately pace without any danger of capsizing or of proceeding at a dangerous heeling rate. The gimcrack work and gilding were not ostentatious. Her lines were full and she was capacious. I found only a couple of places where the carpenter must be called to cut out rotten wood and replace it with new. Her rigging, not taut, was in good condition. She carried her artillery well-positioned and the varters snouted their menace out from her fore and stern castles. These ballistae could shoot either darts or stones. Her armory was tightly locked up and a Chulik mercenary stood there, armed with a boarding pike and a sword, and after a few words I found I had no burning desire to inspect Pompino’s ship’s resources in the way of weapons.
“If we are attacked by renders, no doubt you’ll see inside,” said the Chulik. He wore leather and blue and green feathers, and an iron cap, and he let the boarding pike hover around my midriff.
“No doubt,” I said, and took myself off.
Up on deck gulls flew across, shrieking either cheerfully or menacingly depending on the mood of their auditors. They were headed for the fish quays farther along the shoreline. Tuscursmot lazed under the heat of the twin suns. My feet had no difficulty in leading me to the staterooms aft, where I found Pompino just finishing his business with the stylor. The Relt was packing up his satchel of papers and files, his feathers much ink-stained. Pompino sounded brisk.
“You will take a glass before you go, Rasnoli. Ah, Jak! You have come just in time. All arrangements have been made.” He went on to say that Tuscurs Maiden was now cleared for a voyage to the north, some trifles of cargo for the south having been cleared from the ship. She had just taken on a parcel of local produce. We were all set to go with the tide.
“Just in time for what?”
“Why — I do not believe in paying mercenaries to lollygag about. You shall sit with me when we hire on our paktuns for the voyage. They are waiting on the quay.”
This seemed an interesting prospect, for being an old fighting man myself, I take a delight in observing fellow mercenaries. On Kregen, that trade is not held in the low esteem it holds on Earth. For some mercenaries, perhaps, it should be. Masichieri, who are little better than bandits, are bad news anywhere.
But your correct and upright paktun is — or should be — a man or woman of honor. Once they hire out, they take their pay and keep and fight to the death. In theory.
I said, “Are there any Pachaks?”
He screwed up his face. “Four only, I’m afraid.”
“H’m. How many do you take on?”
“I would like two dozen.” In the Kregish he said jikshiv, which is one way of saying twenty-four.
“So you have to find twenty more?”
“Aye. And not a Khibil among them.”
So, up on deck we went and sat on the folding chairs on the quarterdeck, in the shadow of the sterncastle, and watched as the mercenaries trooped up the gangplank.
“That Chulik of yours guarding the armory,” I said. “He looks likely.”
“Nath Kemchug. He costs a lot; but he earns his hire.”
The first two mercenaries up the gangplank and onto the quarterdeck were twins. They wore leather, iron caps, were barefoot, and their hair was cropped short. They were varterists.
One said, “I am Wilma the Shot and this is my sister Alwim the Eye. We know our business, and—”
“Yes,”
said Pompino. “I have heard of you. You are welcome and will be paid the top rate. Next.”
The four Pachaks were in no hurry to come aboard. They guessed we would hire them, for when a Pachak gives his nikobi he will fight for his employer until death or a formal renunciation releases him from his vows. The next fellow was a Rapa, big, beaked, feathered, clad in mail, carrying three swords and a dunnage bag over his shoulder. Also, he carried a shield, an oval thing of wicker, bronze rimmed.
“Rondas the Bold,” he said. Indeed, the feathers around his beak and eyes were red. Sometimes it is difficult to judge if a Rapa’s feathers are his own or decorations. “Churgur.” This meant he was a sword and shield man.
“You have served in ships before?”
“No. But I can learn.”
Gently, Pompino said: “I am more in need of archers.”
“I can shoot—”
“You do not carry a bow.”
“That is true. Try me.”
Pompino leaned a little toward me and spoke softly.
“I like his style, the blowhard. Your thought?”
“If you can get him cheap, hire him. I judge he can fight. Although he may wish to remove that mail and don leather.”
Now that the enormous conflict between the Empire of Hamal and what seemed to be the rest of Paz was over, there were many unemployed fighting men. They sought employment where they could. To be tazll, unemployed, was unpleasant.
Eventually we hired on twenty-five paktuns. In fact, only five were real paktuns, that is, mercenaries elected by their peers to wear the silver mortilhead, the pakmort, at their throat. This marked them as renowned fighters. We did not sign on a single hyrpaktun, who could wear the golden pakzhan at throat or on shoulder knot. But, as I have said, in these latter days almost any mercenary, if he — or she — was not an obvious youngster, a coy, tended to be called a paktun.
Of the twenty-five, fifteen were apim and ten were diffs.
Smells of cooking made all our mouths water, and everybody went off to their various quarters to eat. The aft staterooms were partitioned off so that, as Pompino said, we could indulge in privacy when we wished. My cabin was small, clean, smelling of sweet ibroi, and would serve admirably. I own I craved for the evening to arrive and the tide, and then we would be off. A tug, a low many-oared vessel, came to haul us out past the boom. I remarked on this extravagance.
Fires of Scorpio Page 8
