She pushed the hood back only as far as it had to go to enable her to drink. The parclear went down in one gulp and she held out the glass again. “Now, horter, if you please. Wine.”
When two glasses of that middling Pantuvan followed the parclear, she held out the glass again. Pompino poured.
So I said, “The kov has not yet arrived, kovneva.”
The glass in her beringed hand shook, and some slopped.
And, despite all, she drank that third glass of wine before she spoke.
“How do you...? Who are you...?”
The lamp cast me in shadow, and I was grateful for the space it would give me. Pompino smiled. “We are waiting while Strom Murgon—”
“Him!”
She tried to stand up, and her bulk dragged at her, so that Pompino put a hand under her elbow. He grunted as he felt her weight. I felt the weight of the years crushingly upon me.
“I must see the kov!” Her voice indicated no trace of drunkenness. She spoke with that breathlessness habitual to her. I guessed she was never truly drunk: just permanently in a state of lushness.
I said: “How did the kov — how did you — come to believe in Lem the Silver Leem?”
She twisted her head to look at me, and the hood fell away.
I felt the pity and then condemned myself. This was what life did to people. This puffiness under the eyes, this flabbiness of the skin, this coarsening, this trebling of the chins, glistening like vosk-skin, this whole obscene rendering down of a beauty that had once given this woman the sobriquet of The Beautiful.
“We have not exchanged a Llahal—” she said. “What do I know of the Silver Wonder, save what my son has told me?”
“You do not believe?”
“And you will slay me for that, you will kill me for venturing here, where I am forbidden to go?”
Pompino said, “I see!” And, then, with a touch of excitement he could not conceal: “You are safe with us, Kovneva Tilda.”
“Tilda of the Many Veils,” I said. “Tilda the Beautiful.”
Her face, gross and ruined by drink, closed up, glistening, frowning, her befuddlement struggling under a sudden and impossible conjecture. She stared at me, muzzily.
“You...?”
“Oh, yes, Tilda. It’s me. I’ve spoken to Pando... I’ve told him why I left — fat King Nemo had me sent to the swordships. And you—”
She collapsed into the chair. That gross body shook under the enveloping cloak. She would never dance again to make a man’s blood go thump around his body like a cavalry charge.
“You abandoned me — left me—”
“No. I told you—”
“If you loved me you would have come back.”
“But I couldn’t come back. And, if I could have done, I would not. You know that. I told you.” That was brutal and horrible, and the truth.
Her hand reached for the glass again and in a grotesque parody of gallantry Pompino poured wine for her.
I said, “You do not ask me about Inch.”
“I did not love Inch.”
Season ago — seasons and seasons ago — we had met and in all that elapsed time she might have passed but a single hour. Memory rushed back, fresh and scalding. I had expected drama, histrionics, hysteria, not this befuddlement, this puzzled struggle to understand.
“Inch,” I said. “He was sold as slave to the swordships also—”
“Poor Inch... Was that his real name?” Her hand held the glass poised at her lips. Wine glistened there. “Would you tell me your name, if I asked? I often wondered. Pando and I, we met Dray Prescot, the Lord of Strombor. It was not a happy time for us. He did look a little like you; but he was a smooth, distant, sanctimonious prince—”
“Sanctimonious?” And I swear my mouth hung open, foolishly.
She went on as though I had not spoken, sunken in a reverie that encompassed too many memories and too many years. But when I said men called me Jak, she heard, and nodded, and then went on as before, in a low breathless voice, to talk of those days we had spent together with Pando and Inch fighting to gain his kovnate. Pompino shifted restlessly.
“The damned temple’s here, Jak. There are plenty of materials. I think I’ll take a look around.”
“...he wants her for himself and Murgon wants her for himself, and Pynsi is in tears.” Tilda’s voice droned on without taking the slightest notice of Pompino. Now she began to tell me of the problems facing Pando, of his quarrel with Murgon, which, as is the way of two worlds, concerned the love of a young woman. It all seemed a rigmarole at the time, although frighteningly important later on, as you shall hear, and I wanted to get on and help Pompino. But Tilda held me, held me by what she said, her whole defeated attitude, her dejection. She drank. She drank like a fish. But in that desolate face still remained traces of the beauty that had once conquered without artifice, still she was a woman. I would not admit pity into my thoughts of her — for that would demean us both — I did admit a spontaneous feeling of affection.
The Vadvarate of Tenpanam, whose borders marched with those of Pando’s Bormark, had recently lost its vad. Now a young and charming girl claimed the vadvarate. The Vadni Dafni Harlstam — vivacious, quick-witted and well aware that powerful men would wish to woo her for the sake of her province — appeared to have settled on Strom Murgon as the man for her. Then Pando, seeing great advantage in uniting the houses of Marsilus and Harlstam, had presented himself as a suitor, so that the issue hung in the balance. And the Mytham twins — Pando’s friends of long standing and loyal to Bormark — were in despair; Poldo for the Vadni Dafni, and his twin sister Pynsi for that young scamp Pando himself.
As I say, a rigmarole, droned out by Tilda between healthy swallowings of wine — any wine to hand — and yet a net to entrap the wariest of politicos in the passions and greed of ambitious people.
“I thought Pando, after Shamsi died — a tragedy, a tragedy — would settle down again and marry Pynsi. But no. No, he must aggrandize the kovnate and take this Vadni Dafni. I fear that his cousin Murgon will kill him for the sake of it.”
I glanced at the door, there was no sound beyond and I fretted to be with Pompino and about our business. But I had to say: “Shamsi?”
“A lovely girl. She made Pando very happy, and the twins are a joy. But she died, she died. I wept for a sennight.”
So Pando had made a life for himself, and it had been smashed up and his wife snatched from him. Maybe there lay one answer. My agents had not kept as full an observation as they might have done; and while this was understandable, I promised myself to find out just why that was. Tilda drank more wine.
“Why did Pando join up with the Silver Leem?”
Her glass trembled. “I came here to plead. Even although I know it to be useless. The foul wretches of Lem would have me killed without a care, if they could. Pando joined so that he might better stop his cousin, who is an adherent. I know a little, a little. Pando has plans for Murgon, and Lem offered him a chance to strike without suspicion...”
I felt much better. Pando had become an adherent of the Silver Wonder not out of love for the Silver Leem but with an ulterior motive. He was using the cult for his own ends; he might yet prove an ally.
Then, suddenly, she said, “Do you remember The Red Leem?”
“Aye.”
“I danced in the tavern — I could dance, could I not?”
“None better.”
“You saved me in The Red Leem, and we came here back home, and then you left me...” Not quite maudlin; not quite, but Tilda of the Many Veils was fast approaching that state. I could not wait any longer. I stood up.
“I do not think it will serve any purpose for you to remain, Tilda. I have to tell you that this evil temple will soon be burned to the ground, and—”
“But the king!” She was shocked into an emotion I could not identify.
“Nemo the flat slug has no part in this—”
“But you are wrong! The king is the Hyr
Prince Majister. This temple lies directly beneath his palace!”
As she spoke I sniffed. Smoke wreathed in under the door. Pompino had been busy.
He came bouncing in and slammed the door after him. He rubbed his hands together briskly.
“We have done that,” he said. “Or, rather, I have done it, while you’ve been chatting away here.”
“The king is the chief villain,” I said. “And his palace is directly above us.”
“Capital! He’ll be burned out with the rest of the cramphs. The whole place will go up in flames in a moment or two. No one will get through there. We can leave quietly by the way the kovneva came in.”
Smoke billowed under the door, thickly and more thickly.
“Then let us be off,” I said. “Tilda, my arm.”
She appeared dazed. “My chair—”
I guessed that her gross body would be carried about everywhere; her entrance here must have exhausted her strength. Pompino and I would have to carry her. She weighed a ton.
“The things one does,” observed Pompino. And, then, he said, “You have — interesting — friends, Jak.”
“Aye. And if the stairway is steep—”
He groaned. “Don’t say it!”
We reached the small wooden door set in the shadows of the groined overhang. I tried the handle and it opened outward.
In that instant a torch flared in the passageway beyond. Heavy metalled sandals rang against stone. A harsh voice called out.
“Lock them in!”
The door slammed shut. The grating slide of iron bolts rattled against the door. I gave the wood a savage thrust of my shoulder, and it did not budge.
“We’re locked in!”
“And the temple at our backs is a sea of flame!”
Chapter twenty
Fire
When Pompino the Iarvin set the temple of an evil cult alight, he set it alight in no uncertain fashion.
Sea of flames or no damned sea of flames, we wouldn’t be leaving this place via that route.
Pompino let rip a few fruity curses, and came up and kicked the door nastily. Tilda let out a single small shriek. Then she fainted clean away. She weighed a ton and a half.
We were in a serious predicament. If we were not suffocated to death, we’d be burned to death, and if we somehow managed to bash this door open, there were armed men beyond ready to cut us to death. And yet, despite the gravity of the situation, I continued to find it extraordinarily hard to take this seriously. I kept thinking of what a ludicrous sight we must make. More than one of my comrades would find the sight we presented comical. Mind you, they’d be up there figuring a way out, ready to blatter anyone who wanted to stop us. But, all the same...
Now I have often mentioned that in these enormous castles and palaces of Kregen the walls are riddled with tunnels and secret passageways and entrances. So I suppose some of my feelings of levity arose from this fact; that I was confident we’d find a way out. We began to search.
Tilda had to be arranged as comfortably as her bulk and the chair and table would allow. She flopped over, a billowy blue mass, and I made sure she wouldn’t slip off before I joined Pompino. Now we could hear the crackle of the flames. Heat, although not as yet excessive, began to blast at us through the door to the temple. No sound reached us from the small door under the groined overhang.
“If that is the only way out—”
“If it is, Pompino, there is one desperate way of breaking down the door—”
“Burn it down?”
“Aye.”
“Do you continue to search. I will prepare.”
“If you do halfway as good a job as you did on the temple, we should be all right.”
He favored me with a look that said, more or less, “Go on! Blame me!” and bustled off. I went on tapping at the walls with my dagger.
Pompino wasted no time. Labyrinthine though Kregan palaces are, that is no guarantee that every room has a secret exit. He collected up combustibles, the stuffing of chairs, a spindly-legged side table. He had to shift Tilda and place her on the floor, a blue mound, and so break up that table and chair. The pile grew around the door. He sprinkled wine, judiciously some wine burns splendidly, some fizzes and some would put out the Hell Fires of Shurgurfrazz themselves.
My dagger kept on going “thud” instead of “ching.”
By the time I had circumnavigated the walls, Pompino was ready. I called across: “Fire her up!”
The door to the temple emitted jets and wisps of smoke from all over its surface. No flame played directly upon it yet; but it would burn and the heat would lick through in tongues of flame. Pompino struck flint and steel and the pile of combustibles roared. He stepped back, looking pleased.
“It’s a race, a race between which door goes first.”
“Are you quoting odds?”
“Not me.” He twirled up his moustaches. “I started both these runners!”
“As we have to wait and see which lot of flames gallops past the winning post, I am thirsty.” I licked my lips. “This is, indeed, thirsty work.” The heat in the room was now intense. We moved to the center. Pompino brought over a flagon and we drank. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth in a deliberate and theatrical gesture, for I saw that Tilda’s eyes were open and she was regarding me. “By Mother Zinzu the Blessed,” I said. “I needed that!”
“Dray! — Jak! What — I am hot—”
“We didn’t have the key of the door, Tilda — no need to fret. We’ll be out of this soon. Here, have some wine.”
That was an invitation she understood very well. The next flagon we happened to snatch up contained a light rose, Morceling, generally regarded as unassuming and satisfying. The wine all went down Tilda’s throat, red white or blue, it made no matter. Her face shone with perspiration. That glorious dark hair that in swirling out as she danced so quickened up the pulse, now lay dank and slick against her skull. I thrust sadness for her away. Very few, if any of us, choose our lives. We just have to make the best of what we get shoved onto us, tough though that may be, tough often to the point where it becomes insuperable. I condemn no one for that.
“Hot work,” commented Pompino, and he upended a jug of parclear over his head.
“Hold steady,” I said, somewhat sharply. “Have we plenty of parclear left?”
“At least four amphorae, over in the corner. Why?”
“I’m hot,” Tilda more moaned than said. She lay gasping, her breath a rattle of desperation. Pompino bent at once, wiping liquid around her forehead and cheeks. She shook that gross head pettishly; but Pompino persisted. The heat now roared at us from the door to the temple, pulsing waves of physical oppression. The door the other way flamed up, burning where Pompino had piled his combustibles. I studied the door carefully. We had precious little time left.
We were trapped between furnaces, flames leaping and shooting up, the very air drying and scorching our throats.
“Come on, come on!” I said, my impatience with the laggard flames turning my voice into that old ugly harshness. The orange and crimson filaments curled upwards mockingly, the smoke puffed impudently, the roar crackled out threateningly.
We waited between fires for fire to free us.
“I think...” said Pompino, at last.
We could scarcely breathe. The air scorched. The pain stabbing my lungs was not confined to me; Tilda now lay puddled and glazed, barely able to groan.
“It’s got to be now,” I husked out.
If we miscalculated, we’d be done for properly.
Pompino hefted one amphora of parclear, I took another of the sherbet drink. With flaps of our clothes over our heads, we approached the door under the groined overhang. In that instant the door at our backs leading to the temple burst into a gouting whirl of flame. It bellowed and shattered. Sparks shot everywhere. Flames licked in as though deliberately seeking us out individually to burn and crisp and devour.
Black smoke choked into the room
, writhing like the coiled hair of demons.
“Bring the kovneva!” Pompino rushed on. “I’ll open the door.”
I did not argue. My amphora went flying through the air alongside Pompino, hit with his. I swung back without looking again and swooped on Tilda. She weighed, by Krun! She weighed!
With her in my arms I ran like a crippled crab for the door. Pompino had simply put his head down and charged. He wrenched the last few bits of smoldering wood aside, the black charred edges glistening. Smoke wisped. The whole room boiled in an inferno of flame and smoke. We smashed through the door, ripping clothes, leaving a great chunk of Tilda’s blue cloak, battled on.
The stone corridor beyond led onto a small room in which the smell of raw blood mingled with the stink of the smoke flattening in streamers after us. Here lay the bodies of four Womoxes, clad in blue with the red zhantil badge of Bormark upon their breasts. They had been slashed to death. Tilda’s carrying chair still stood where they had put it down to allow her to make the last effort to totter into the inner room.
We bundled her into the chair. It had four carrying handles, a wooden varnished roof and hanging curtains. This gherimcal with Tilda aboard was regarded as a fit burden for four Womoxes, large, horned, strong people. Men and women who carry gherimcals are often dubbed calsters, and these four calsters had served their last time for their mistress. Now we two, Pompino and I, had to stand in their stead.
“Don’t hang about, Jak! The rasts who did this and locked us in might still be about.”
I said: “When you fired up the door I imagine they took it that the fire from the temple had reached there. I do not think they expected a fire.”
Pompino laughed. He was very pleased with himself.
“We’ll make it even more hot for ’em!”
We took the poles and lifted. We carried the chair and Tilda. We went along the stone corridors. We saw no one. And, by Vox, the chair and Tilda weighed two tons.
Fires of Scorpio Page 18
