Secret Scorpio

by Alan Burt Akers

  I was stopped by two Pachaks at an inner door. You know about Pachaks. There was no talking my way past these two fine fellows and I would not slay them, for Pachaks are dear to me, so I had to feint with one, knock the second down and deal instantly with his comrade. This I did. Then I pushed through, taking the ivory wand one of the Pachaks had gripped in his upper left hand as his sign of office and tour of duty at the kovneva’s private apartments.

  I was allowed past a number of girl slaves and somewhat effeminate man slaves until, at the last, I reached places that, by the perfume, the sounds of running water and the warmth and languorous feel in the air, told me plainly enough that no man, and certainly not some hired mercenary, not even a paktun, more likely a thieving masichier, would ever be allowed.

  So, saying simply, “If you do not let me in to see the kovneva she will have you girls flogged jikaider,” I walked past the befuddled maids. They shrieked out as I dragged the purple curtains apart. Scents of steam and soap and unguents arose. Katrin was taking a small and private bath, not one of the Baths of the Nine, and a gorgeous black girl from Xuntal dropped the sponge in her terror as I barged in.

  I knew I had perhaps ten or so murs before the guards came arunning, and they would seek to kill. I made no mistake about that, no mistake at all.

  Katrin turned lazily, the soapy water running over one gleaming shoulder, and she looked at my legs and the bottom half of the uniform and the war harness and she said in her caressing voice: “You realize you are a dead man?”

  And I answered, “Only if you give the word, Katrin.”

  And she looked up, shocked, the blood rushing into her face, the water swirling in soapy whirls about her body.

  “Dray!”

  “Aye! And don’t shout all over the villa or—”

  “Yes, I know!” She stood up, completely uncaring of her shining soapy nakedness and said in her sharp woman-managing voice to the Xuntalese maiden, “Xiri! My wrap!”

  With the lotus-flowered wrap about her she walked swiftly to the door and said to someone outside, “No one enters on pain of death! Tell the Pachak Jiktar! Hurry! No one, mind!”

  Then she kicked Xiri out and slammed the door herself, drawing the heavy purple drapes.

  She turned to me, and the lotus-flowered wrap half dropped from a shoulder. It was not coquetry. I know she had tried once, and she knew what Delia meant.

  “Thank you, Katrin. I have no time. The emperor—”

  “I do not know if he will kill you if he finds you in Vondium, my silly woflo. But I would not take bets on it”

  “I must know where Delia is.”

  “Ah!”

  I wasn’t sure. Did she know?

  Her dark hair, gathered into a protecting net, broke in a cascade as she ripped the cap off. Her face had softened over the years, but still she could act as haughtily as any fabled Queen of Pain. Her lips, a trifle thin, smiled up as she tossed her hair loose and began to rub her body with a yellow and green towel. The two slashed stripes of scarlet looked like threads of blood.

  “I have an appointment with Master Hork in two glasses. He is a master Jikaidast and I hope to learn much of the game.”

  “I’m playing no game.”

  “You cannot see Delia, has she not told you?”

  “Only that she has gone away, and an onker knows that.” I eyed this Katrin Rashumin evenly, knowing what I knew about her. “I am in a desperate hurry. I must speak with the chief lady of the Sisters of the Rose. She will help me, I am sure she will.”

  “The chief lady,” Katrin said, laughing, and there was a deal of mockery in that laughter. “I do not think there is a single man who knows her name or title.”

  “Well? Blindfold me, then, a darkened room. Katrin!”

  “You remind me, my dear Dray, of Tyr Korgan and the mermaid. You Valkans are famous for your songs.”

  “In the end you know what the song says occurred between Tyr Korgan and the mermaid. I must meet the Lady Superior — I do not know her rank or name or title. Katrin! Listen, my daughter Dayra, there is some trouble and—”

  “Trouble!” About to go on with a quick and passionate outburst, Katrin held her tongue. The effort brought a flush again to stain her cheeks, made her grip the green and yellow towel. When she had recovered, she said, “Let me do what I can, Dray, out of our friendship. But I will promise nothing.”

  “A message for Kadar the Hammer at the Iron Anvil will reach me. But for the sweet sake of Zair, hurry!”

  “It would be more appropriate to swear by a goddess, do you not think?”

  Katrin had probably never left Vallia. Certainly she had never visited the inner sea where the power of Zair was very real. So I said, “In the blessed name of the Invisible Twins made manifest in Opaz, neither man nor woman. Katrin, hurry!”

  “And my Jikaida?”

  So I knew she had learned from Delia. Her Jikaida, I knew, along with the Jikaidast, this Master Hork who was famous in Vondium for his command of the Chuktar’s right-flank attack, could be forgotten. We had been old allies, against her will; now I thought with sincerity she would do what she could.

  “I will have you smuggled out of the villa. Talk does no one any good, these days in Vondium. The queen. . .” And here Katrin revealed the differences between herself and Thelda. “The queen is a dear creature and has her damned spies everywhere.”

  My own calmness amazed me. This calm was like those brazen flat calms which often precede a violent rashoon of the Eye of the World. But I managed to say, “This Queen Lushfymi. Is the alliance progressing? Does the emperor find her congenial?”

  “Oh, most, most congenial. Queen Lush is all woman, and I know.” She lifted and redraped the wrap. “I will see you safely out. Xiri can be trusted, as can the Jiktar of my guard.”

  “I can only thank you, Katrin, and ask you to make all haste.”

  “The SoR are not inexperienced in intrigues!” She spoke as sharply as she had during the entire interview. Then: “Xiri!”

  So I was seen out. Just how I was going to make myself wait for Katrin’s message eluded me. I have waited for happenings in my life. On every occasion the wait has been unpleasant, it seems to me. Secret are the ways of Kregen under the Suns of Scorpio, secret and deadly. Plots and intrigues flourished in Vondium. So much of the world is open and bright, filled with the clamor of sword and spear, the bright blaring of the war trumpets, the quick onward rush of mailed chivalry and the high conflict of flyers in the air, and so much is dark and hidden in sorcerous ways, phantasms conjured from the hideous vaults of time, wizardly powers breathing a miasma of fear across the bright suns-light: there are also the darkly secret machinations of ambitious men and women to topple thrones and seize powers and take all unto themselves. Well may Kregen be called Secret Kregen.

  Outside I walked almost blindly. I had just passed over a cut on a little brick bridge with pretty little caryatids entwined with loomins enhancing the loveliness of the setting — in my stupor I noticed this by reason of the abrupt chaos that broke beyond. One of the long chanting processions passed down the parallel Boulevard of Gregarians. They were clad in bright clothes, garlanded with flowers, carrying the images and the flags, with flowers and music everywhere and the chant, the omnipresent chant, going on and on and on. “Oolie Opaz, Oolie Opaz, Oolie Opaz.” Over and over again.

  The people near the center of the procession abruptly scattered. People were falling and struggling on the road. The chanting wavered and died and then picked up again only to falter and fade away. I saw clubs upraised. I saw the distorted faces of men and women who, bare-armed, brandishing bamboo sticks and balass rods, were smiting the worshipers of Opaz, driving the procession into a shrieking, formless mob.

  And more I saw. I saw the black-feathered hats. I saw the lifted staffs entwined with black feathers. I saw the hateful symbols of an evil creed flaunted openly, chastising the worshipers of Opaz, the manifestation of the Invisible Twins.

  All r
oiled into a screaming confusion. The bamboo stick in my hand might be put to some use here. So I ran off the little brick bridge and across the Boulevard of Gregarians and plunged into the shouting ranks of the Black Feathers.

  Most of the worshipers of Opaz were fleeing, or scrabbling about on the ground with bleeding heads and broken limbs. I delivered a few tasty thwacks with the bamboo, letting all my frustrations boil over, dealing out buffets that stretched the followers of the Great Chyyan senseless alongside their victims.

  Someone set up a yelling about the guards, and the mobiles galloped up on their totrixes. Everyone was running, and the long official staves were beating down on heads and shoulders. People scattered. Screams shattered the bright air. I ran. I had no wish to be hauled up before a supercilious magistrate or some petty noble and my identity revealed. I ran and as I ran so I struck three shrew blows that crunched in on black-feathered hats.

  The blue coolness of an alley served to conceal me, but I ran on and took no notice of any who sought to stop me. At last I reached the Tunnel of Delight and passed through onto the brilliant Kyro of Jaidur Omnipotent with the hard-edged double shadows of the Forlaini Hills Aqueduct lying across the broad smooth paving stones. I slowed down and walked. People paid me no heed. Everyone was about private business. Riots were more common now than anyone could remember since the third party sought to topple the emperor. I forced myself not to tremble. What could the emperor be about? What was the old fool doing? Didn’t he know how this evil creed of Chyyanism had taken so strong a grip upon his citizens of Vondium that a religious procession, one of the most sacred rites of Opaz, could be set upon, attacked, beaten and scattered? Were the racters all blind or fools?

  Why was the canker of Chyyanism being allowed to eat out the heart of Vondium the Proud?

  Eighteen

  The Sisters of the Rose are kind to me

  The chief lady of the Sisters of the Rose, whose rank and title and name would never be revealed to me if the Sisters had their way, condescended to see me. The message reached the Iron Anvil as I sat, not drinking, sharpening up my old knife, sitting alone in a dark corner of the inn. The smiths talked about their trade and of bad times for business and of the latest consignment of copper to arrive down the Great River and of the price of tin. The serving girl, a little Fristle fifi, whispered that strangers wished to speak with me, so I rose and went outside, the bamboo held ready. Cloaked figures riding zorcas awaited me. I mounted the animal they provided and with only the single word “Rose!” uttered between us, followed where they led.

  While it would not be proper for me to reveal all the circumstances of the meeting, I can say that through it all I had no sense of being ridiculous, of acting the fool. Here was I, a fearsome fighting warrior, renowned swordsman, savage clansman, told to strip off, to wrap a piece of white cloth about my loins, to stand meekly in a room with two samphron-oil lamps shining up, leaving the end of the room partitioned by a pierced ivory screen in absolute darkness.

  From the screen the soft rustle of feminine garments told me that the chief lady did not wear hunting leathers or the grim panoply of war, as many of the Sisters did. And this was fit and proper. The Sisters of the Rose, after all, is a female order, and girls do not have to ape the ways of men. Although when they do, by Zair, they often are very good indeed.

  “You wished to speak with me, Kadar the Hammer. Your request was put most forcefully; a very strong case was made out for you. Why do you plead to see me?”

  I said, “I think, lady, you know my name.”

  “Kadar the Hammer.” A light tinkle of laughter. “Is that your question? You had forgotten your name?”

  “I can never forget. I do not know yours. In that, you have the advantage, lady.”

  The laughter stilled. Then: “I know you. I can tell you nothing.”

  I flared up. “This is not good enough! I must know where my Delia is. Is she safe? Is Dayra safe? Just that, just that to put my heart at rest.”

  If this powerful and secret woman decided to obey the emperor’s orders and handed me over to him, there would be a few broken skulls. That I knew. But that was a trifle.

  “A man’s heart, aye! Now there is a wonderfully elastic object.”

  “I did not come to bandy words. Tell me, for the sweet sake of Opaz.”

  “Your Dayra has been . . . is causing. . .” A hesitation and then, in a sharper tone: “Your Dayra is proving a true daughter of a wayward father.”

  “And if I am wayward that I do not quarrel with. But you have educated Dayra! I have been away and I own my fault in that. But Dayra—”

  “Do not blame the SoR for all! We teach chastity and humility and pride. We teach a girl that she is a girl, and in this world a girl must be as good as a man. Not better. As good. We are all people in the sight of Opaz, the manifestation of the Invisible Twins. Dayra could not exist without a man and a woman.”

  “And I am that man!” I bellowed, despite my promise to myself to behave. “And I ask about the woman!”

  An indrawn breath. Would I be hurled out? Would a steel-tipped shaft drive through? Would — exotic thought — a bevy of half-naked damsels seek to destroy me by women’s wiles?

  Then: “I shall tell you, Kadar the Hammer, that the woman of whom you speak is alive and well and reasonably happy. She goes with her eldest daughter in search of her wayward daughter. When they are successful they will return.”

  So that explained why Lela, as well as Dayra, had not visited their father in Vondium. “Suppose they are not successful?”

  “That may well be. The task is difficult. But Opaz is all wise. If that should be her will then so be it.” Naturally Opaz, being the twinned life-force, could be either male or female. “If so, your lady and her elder daughter will return.”

  “And is that all you will tell me?”

  “There is nothing more to tell. You are supremely fortunate even to have spoken with me, Kadar the Hammer. The emperor is looking for a smith to sharpen up the edge of his headsman’s ax.”

  That was as clear a warning as you could desire, or not, considering.

  The rustle of clothes told me she was leaving. There were a thousand questions buzzing in my stupid head, but I could speak none of them. I was led out by competent girls who carried their bows nocked and their rapiers naked in their hands. Of what use or value my knowledge that I could have fought and beaten them all? Would that bring my Delia any closer? Of course not.

  Only half reconciled to what I considered a fobbing off I dressed and, once more clad in the old brown blanket cloak and with my bamboo stick in my horny fist, I was seen off into the moons-shot darkness.

  I have said nothing of the rites surrounding this interview or of the room itself. Or of what I observed. Quite so.

  One thing I believed with all my heart: my Delia was safe. And Lela and Dayra — whatever that little minx had been up to — were safe, also.

  So, and not as easily as I may make it sound, I could go back to the more congenial task of mayhem and murder and smashing up these Opaz-forsaken rasts of the Great Chyyan.

  The last thought I allowed myself about the Sisters of the Rose was the reflection that a fellow had to brace himself up and keep a brave face on it when these scheming women put on that kind of show. Many a man would have been half dead with fright at all the mumbo jumbo, and his knees would have knocked together when he stood in the dread presence of the chief lady of the SoR.

  Before I went back to see Natyzha Famphreon and try to shake some sense out of the dealings — or apparent lack of them — of the racters, I’d have to nip back to the Iron Anvil. I had no real desire to investigate her warren of a villa with only a bamboo stick, despite the concealed sword, although if it came to the fluttrell’s vane I would do so.

  “By Odifor!” spat a Fristle who balanced an enormous load on his head. He staggered against the doorway of a house whose overhanging balcony dripped vines and moonblooms. I was scarcely aware of bumping him. �
�Look where you’re going, you apim rast!”

  I turned my head away and walked on. There were far more important demands at work this night in Vondium than a stupid affray with a Fristle. His cat-face looked fierce and his whiskers shone in the light of torches. I supposed then that I might some day learn to rub along with Fristles.

  Walking thus in a heightened frame of mind, to put my frame of mind in a certain light, I realized that all Vallia could go hang to the Black Feathers just as long as Delia and the girls were safe. But then I reconsidered. That was only a half-truth. It is often easy for the outcast — and I had been chucked out of Vondium — to look at himself in the role of poor Pakkad. No one of Kregen could say with certainty if Pakkad had been a real person of if he was a figure from myth. He had been cruelly treated by the arch devil, Mitronoton, the Destroyer of Cities, the Leveler of Ways, and nowadays, although seldom referred to, Pakkad stood for the image of the pariah and the unwanted. As for Mitronoton, the Bane of the ib, the Reducer of Towers, he was a devil of horror that no sane man would approach.

  The Fristle snarled some obscenity or other and hitched his bundle straight; a string snapped and the bundle burst, and a glittering shower of trinkets and trashy bangles and rings cascaded to the cobbles. An uproar began at once as, from nowhere and at this time of night with the moons shining above, a torrent of children burst out and fell upon the gewgaws.

  Young girls and boys were scrabbling along the cobbles, snatching up the rolling bangles and rings, stuffing little ornamental figures into their breechclouts. I realized in my half-blind wanderings I had blundered into a net of poor alleys off one of the jewelry souks. The hullabaloo was rather splendid. The Fristle was frantically attempting to preserve his wares, yelling threats and trying to bash kids away and being tripped up and — it was all over in a twinkling — standing up and shrieking his anger and casting about upon the empty cobbles.