Masks of Scorpio

by Alan Burt Akers

  “You are too late, Lintin the Ancho! I was about to call the watch to apprehend this kidnapper.”

  I own I almost smiled.

  This pair of villains waxing righteous about a kidnapping! For the Weul’til, at once serious, exclaimed: “A kidnap! Then let us call the watch at once.”

  No doubt they were working a variant of the badger game; but I had had enough. I restrained myself.

  I looked at the pair of them, and if that old devilish Dray Prescot look flamed across my face and turned me into the semblance of a demon from the deepest pits of hell, I do not think I can be overly faulted.

  “If you do not at once run away, you will not ever run again! Get going! Grak! ”

  Well, if I used that ugly word then, it fitted.

  They flinched back, hovered — and then they grakked.

  I’d not said “Bratch!” nor even the more correct “Schtump!” which means clear off or get out. No, I’d said grak, and this pair of villains had used that word enough times goading on their slaves to appreciate its meaning when applied to them by a wild, sword-armed fellow with a devil’s face.

  I walked on. The air smelled sweeter.

  The little Och from whom I’d inquired directions had directed me through this souk — the Souk of Sweetmeats — as my quickest route. A few moments later I emerged from the arched roof onto the Street of Desires and so turned right onto the Boulevard of Pandrite All-Glorious.

  This was a prestigious thoroughfare, and more than one passing person gave me a curious glance.

  Carriages passed with a flicker of wheels, people paraded in fine clothes, and among them the quick flitter of the slaves in their slave-gray breechclouts passed unnoticed. I carried a sword, and so was clearly not slave, for most if not all Kregans when trusting slaves with weapons dress them up in ornate and pompous finery so as to mark them. I pressed on until I reached the lime-washed wall with its wrought-iron gate, closed, set between stone pillars.

  Each pillar was surmounted by a satyr carrying off a virgin, sculpted in bronze, most lifelike if twice life-size. I did not know whose embassy building this had been before the Times of Troubles. I pulled the bell ring.

  Now — I was doing something I usually eschewed.

  More often than not, of course, the Star Lords hurled me into action where what I was up to now was either not possible or against my best interests. I waited as the pleasant chiming of the bell dwindled to silence.

  An almost naked wild-looking fellow, carrying a bare sword, with a girl child perched on his shoulder, might be an apparition not well-received at someone’s front door.

  That thought had scarcely crossed my mind, incensed by those two slavers in the souk and by concern for Carrie and that ill-starred army mustering under the command of one of the vilest rogues yet unhanged. I just rang the bell and waited for the porter. I’d convince him easily enough.

  There was no need.

  The door in the gatehouse opened smartly and a fellow with one arm trotted out across the gravel. He wore buff breeches and buff shirt with red and yellow banded sleeves. His face was red and purple, beetle-browed and cheerfully pugnacious. The empty red and yellow sleeve was pinned up defiantly across his chest like a sash.

  “And what does a fellow like you want...?” he began as he came up with Carrie and me.

  He stopped.

  He opened his mouth and closed it. His beetle-brows rose as though on stilts. He opened his mouth again and this time he got out: “Now may Opaz the Saver of Souls be praised!”

  He fairly scuttled to the bar and lifted it with his one right hand with a smooth and powerful swing.

  Then he slapped that right arm across his chest with rib-crushing force.

  “Lahal, majister! Lahal and Lahal!”

  Chapter seventeen

  In the embassy

  You cannot expect an emperor to know the name of every soldier in his army, an empress the name of every voswod in her aerial forces. Some of them are canny enough, like Napoleon, to have themselves briefed before a parade so that they can talk to a soldier and use his name in a familiar way. This builds the legend.

  Well, by Vox, I knew a large, a very large number of people on Kregen, and once I’d met them I’d normally remember names and faces.

  This one-armed ex-soldier, beaming away, his purple face an enormous smile, I did not know.

  I would not prevaricate. So — I ruined one legend.

  I said, “Lahal and Lahal. Your name?”

  He looked not one whit disappointed, and, to be truthful, he’d have been a fool had he been.

  “Llando the Ob-handed, majister, that was Llando the Pilinur, Bratchlin in the Sixth Kerchuri when we won the day at Kochwold!”

  “Aye, Llando. When the Second Phalanx trembled, the Sixth Kerchuri saved the day. I do not deny it.

  The Third Phalanx... You lost your arm there?”

  “A hairy Clansman astride a vove would have chopped young Larghos the Fair, my sister’s boy, had I not been quick...”

  He wore three bobs on his chest, medals of campaign and valor. I nodded, gravely, saluting a brave man. [ii]

  He smiled easily. “I have my job here, gatekeeper, the pay is good, the company fine, and although we may be in a nasty sort of land with uncommon nasty people in it, why, majister, one must do what one can, surely?”

  “You are a philosopher, Llando. And you are right.”

  He beamed and swelled up as though to burst.

  It did not occur to me then to ask why he was not more surprised at seeing me than he was at my appearance. Later I realized that the tales and stories of Dray Prescot — of how the emperor sallied forth in headlong reckless adventure clad in a red breechclout, wielding a deadly Krozair longsword —

  were part of the tapestry of life in Vallia.

  That Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia, might turn up anywhere to join a fight, to rescue honest folk, to put down slavers, was an article of faith to Vallians. But they’d expect him to come leaping in with the scarlet breechclout flaming and that deadly silver brand a glitter of destruction before him. And here I was, in a miserable scrap of brown cloth and with a wide-eyed little girl perched on my shoulder!

  Well, Llando the Ob-handed made no more of that, and soon I was escorted through into the embassy.

  The ambassador, Strom Ortygna Felheim-Foivan, met me with immense kindness. He did not fuss; but he saw that the right things were done. A short, stout, abrupt man, he held two small estates down by the Great River in Vomansoir and was therefore one of Lord Farris’s men. Farris and I were good comrades, and Felheim-Foivan an old acquaintance.

  “The Little Sisters of Benediction have a chapel here, majister; they will care for this girl child admirably.”

  “Excellent, Ortyg.”

  We sat in his private withdrawing room, the remains of the repast still on the table, the silver dish of palines to hand, the wine standing ready. The suns declined and Carrie had been half-asleep when the sisters carried her off.

  “I admit, majister, to grave doubts when I was offered this post. Vallia and all of Pandahem have been hereditary enemies since times immemorial. But you have changed all that. The Bloody Menahem are an unpleasant lot; but I am growing to understand them better, and with understanding comes—”

  “Liking?”

  He chewed a paline, thinking. “Hardly that. But tolerance. I know I speak perhaps out of turn. But the habits of a lifetime, to turn a phrase, are not easily changed.”

  “That is true.”

  We talked for a time on the problems of Vallia, how the island empire must fulfill its obligations to all the peoples not only of its own fair lands but also of the new allies we had made overseas. There were many men now in Vallia like this Strom Ortyg who had come to the fore in recent days when a great deal of the old corruption had thankfully been banished. He served Vallia to the best of his ability, and within the framework of his labors and understanding shared the visions of the future dominating
the best minds. He had outfitted me in proper evening style, a comfortable robe of dark material, and also I took the opportunity of writing some of the letters that were once more overdue.

  My anxiety — and that was too mild a word — over Dayra had to be put into perspective.

  She was a big girl now.

  The imperatives, as I saw them, were to regain contact with Pompino and our comrades, to continue the struggle against the Lemmites, to sort out Pando’s problems with Strom Murgon, and to scupper the damned army they recruited against Vallia.

  “Against Vallia, majister?”

  Strom Ortyg paused with a paline halfway to his mouth. He stared at me. Then, heavily, he said: “This Kov Colun Mogper of Mursham is — is not a pleasant person. But I am assured he raises this army to march against Tomboram, their hereditary foes.”

  Picking up the point that interested me more out of curiosity, I asked Ortyg: “You have met this Mogper?”

  “Aye — well, briefly, only. He is an elusive personage.”

  “Most.”

  The word came out dry and harsh.

  As I waited, Strom Ortyg realized what was required and went on: “He is a brilliant man; merciless, resolute, dominated by a sense of his own importance and the bending to his will of all with whom he comes in contact.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “His appearance, majister? Tall, strong, with features regular yet marked by his character. Fair of hair, I believe, and yet most unfair in all other things. He affects armor gilded so that he presents the semblance of a golden statue, an idol to be worshiped.”

  That was as good a description as I could expect of the man I had once seen riding amid his armed cronies.

  I said: “If ever a lady called Jilian Sweet Tooth should seek your aid, Strom Ortyg, in the matter of this Kov Colun Mogper, you would earn my gratitude if you would afford her every assistance of which you are capable.”

  He looked at me a trifle oddly. Then he nodded.

  “If ever the lady seeks my assistance, I will do all in my power to aid her. And with pleasure.”

  “Good. And now—” A knock at the door heralded a young lad, Tyr Stofin Vingham, with news that a Courier airboat had just arrived from Vallia. Moments afterward the Courier himself, Hikdar Naghan Veerling, walked in smartly. Clad in flying leathers, wearing the neat pin on his tunic fashioned into the likeness of a silver zorca that was the badge of the Vallian Courier Service, he bore a thick wallet of messages. Not quite in the same class as the merkers, these couriers, but close. He saluted, saw me, smiled, and said: “Lahal, majister, lahal, Strom Ortyg.”

  So, the next three hours or so were spent in dealing with the information brought by Naghan Veerling.

  Vallia prospered, I kept up with the news, and I could send back my own letters and messages by a rapid route.

  Of course, I did not fail to recognize this odd phenomenon I had encountered plenty of times before this.

  My people of Vallia did not seem the slightest bit surprised to see their emperor popping up in the most unlikely places. Wherever they went, well, if the emperor happened to be there too, wasn’t that perfectly natural?

  After all, by this time they knew that Jak the Drang, Dray Prescot, was not like your ordinary emperor.

  So it was that, knowing young Hikdar Naghan Veerling was one of your high-powered tearaways, I said to him as we took a breather: “Naghan. Before you fly back to Vallia, are you game for a little excitement?”

  “Of course, majister.”

  I grumped inwardly at that, this calm acceptance of whatever deviltry I might have in store for him. Still, that was your Vallian, oh so respectable to all when it pleased, and your right villain when pushed.

  “Strom Ortyg,” I went on. “If I might borrow a few of your lusty lads of the guard detail. And anyone else in the embassy who would like to join...?”

  “Naturally, majister.”

  I stood up and looked down on them, at the desks with the papers and pens and inks, at the packets ready to be sealed. “Well. And aren’t you interested in what you’ll be doing?”

  “We’ll be off on an adventure with you, majister.”

  By Zair!

  Naghan the Courier added: “Anyone fortunate enough to go on an adventure with Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia, is more than fortunate.”

  “Aye. He might get his fool self killed.”

  Naghan laughed.

  “When I flew the old vollers, that was an occupational hazard.”

  As a Courier, a fellow spending his time flying airboats, he called them by their Havilfarese name, as was proper.

  He rubbed his chin. “Nowadays, with these fine new vollers you have secured for us, majister, life is more than a little tame.”

  “Give me a few burs sleep. Then gather the lads together, armed and ready, and we’ll set off.”

  “Quidang!”

  I looked at them.

  “And still you do not ask where?”

  “When the time is right you will tell us.”

  “I’ll tell you now. We’re off to burn a stinking temple to Lem the Silver Leem. That’s where!”

  So it was that, before the last of the seven Moons of Kregen was paled into a luminous echo in the sky by the glory of the twin suns, Zim and Genodras, we went up to that place of evil in the hill, entered through the door that had been hastily repaired, leaving four Chuliks set to guard the stable when the horse had bolted, stretched upon the grass, and so burned the vile place.

  We found no worshipers, no interior guards, no acolytes or priests. We found no unnatural women preparing children for torture and sacrifice. We found no little girl children penned and waiting.

  What we did find we burned.

  Then, as the Suns of Scorpio flooded down in shimmering veils of color, we marched down the hill and so by devious ways regained the Vallian Embassy.

  No one saw us.

  Which was as well for them.

  The men who had done the work had previously been informed by me of the nature of the beast they burned.

  As a consequence they decided to celebrate, to hold a small thanksgiving service dedicated to Opaz the Just, and then in continuation that evening to hold a right roaring shindig. At this they drank and sang and told stories and the ladies present danced turn and turn and joined in the celebrations and, in short, everyone had a rousing good time. Which is the Kregan way.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Strom Ortyg Olavhan of Felheim-Foivan ran an efficient, brisk and as far as the circumstances of being stationed in an unfriendly country allowed, a happy embassy.

  Despite having only one arm, Llando the Ob-handed still had two legs and a voice. He joined in the dancing and singing with gusto. So did young Tyr Stofin Vingham, who was by way of being an apprentice in the Foreign Office trade, so to speak. And the Vallian Courier, Hikdar Naghan Veerling, proved to possess a truly fine voice.

  He gave us the Canticles of the Rose City, and we sang the old songs of Kregen, and especially of Vallia, and Llando regaled us with “The Brumbyte’s Love Potion.” Then a calculated and diabolical plot was hatched and I heard the good folk gathered there audibly wondering just what song the emperor would choose to delight them with.

  Well, now!

  I can rumble out a hoarse chorus on the march, and I’ll willingly join in when the swods sing — but to perform a solo under the admiring gazes of these people? I’d done it before, of course, and no doubt would again, but, all the same...

  In the end I chomped and chewed and spat my way through a fine rousing swordsman’s song: “Kurin and the Risslaca of Fire-Cavern.”

  After that we sang for some long time and after that again a few of us were gathered in a comfortable nook and I showed them the golden zhantil mask I kept still in the sack in which it had been catapulted along with me by the Scorpion. We’d not had time to make golden zhantil masks for ourselves when we’d gone up and burned the temple. I felt confident that these men, knowing of th
e evil, might themselves fashion golden zhantil masks.

  Then Strom Ortyg said: “I have no doubt from intelligence gathered by my agents that the army recruiting here is bound for Tomboram. I have sent notice of that to Strazab Larghos ti Therminsax, our ambassador in Tomboram. Such information could prove useful to him.”

  “The people of Port Marsilus burned our embassy there, and Strazab Larghos had to escape to safety, which I am assured he did—”

  “Majister!”

  “Aye, Ortyg, an unpleasant business. The truth is, both armies forming here in North Pandahem are aimed at Vallia—”

  The people in that group reacted in their various ways, from surprise and indignation, to fury and determination to hit back.

  “—and they would interfere with communications. There’s a Strom Murgon along there in Tomboram who is in league with this Kov Colun Mogper. They are receiving their pay from some agency that, as yet, we have failed to uncover. We will. We will. This Murgon aims to kill his cousin, the Kov Pando, and, I guess, seize the throne from under the flat slug of a King Nemo. Then he and Kov Colun will be left ruling the roost. And Vallia will once again be in flames.”

  “No! No!” They bristled now, alarmed and ugly with resentment that after all we had done the stupid damned Pandaheem insisted on fighting us.

  Ortyg, as I judged, was too tough a character to look shaken. He might be shattered within the turmoil of his thoughts; but a diplomat he was, and with a diplomat’s habitual smile and bland words. He did allow himself to voice the thought that would now torment him every day.

  “When will they get around to burning my embassy?”

  I said, and not with much courtesy: “Find some agents you can trust and who can worm out a little more than the fellows you have so far managed. Call them spies. It often gees them up.”

  Here in this building on its grounds we were sitting in a tiny enclave that was Vallia surrounded by land that was not. It is not a particularly enviable position to be in when that surrounding land and its people turn nasty.