Storm over Vallia [Dray Prescot #35]

by Alan Burt Akers

  The golden glitter of the pakzhan at his throat on its silken cords told everyone that he was a zhanpaktun. That lofty eminence within the mercenary fraternity was to Logan Lakelmi of far greater importance than his present position as Kapt to Kov Vodun.

  Now he pushed the rolled lists back under his left arm. Later, the kov said. Well, that suited Lakelmi.

  “Jen,” he said. “There is a matter of the runaway slaves who have been recaptured—"

  “That is a matter for the judiciary, Logan."

  “Assuredly. But I would like to offer them the chance to enroll in the ranks. We do need men."

  Alloran scowled.

  “Men! They cost gold, you pay them, and sometimes they fight and sometimes they run away. And they get killed and where is the gold then?"

  Lakelmi remained silent. Opnar held a roll of watered green silk in his hands, unmoving.

  “Slaves who show how ungrateful they are by running away must be punished. I hew to the old traditions of Vallia. Slavery is an institution hallowed by age. I could not live in the new Vallia created by the emperor where he has abolished slavery. The man is a fool, there is no denying that."

  “Yes, my lord kov."

  “After they have been punished, after they have been striped jikaider, you may attempt to recruit them."

  “Thank you, my lord kov."

  Already schemes jumped into his head. He'd have a private word or three with the Whip-Deldars. They would not stripe the slaves badly, and certainly he'd avoid jikaidering them, a savage punishment in which a left-handed and a right-handed lash crisscrossed their backs with a checkerboard of blood. He'd get himself some prime flint-fodder, by Hlo-Hli!

  Then Alloran said with a smile of great craftiness: “But, good Logan, who is to pay the rightful owners of the slaves? Always assuming they do not wish the return of their rightful property."

  This emphasis on the rightfulness of it disturbed Lakelmi.

  “I will speak to them, my lord kov, and see what may be done."

  “Do that, Logan, do that."

  “The fact remains, we still need more numbers to fill the ranks of the armies."

  “Yes, and I suppose those lists you hold so tightly under your arm tell me of more gold lost with the men of Strom[4] Rosil's army?"

  [4 Strom: a rank of nobility equating with count. A.B.A.]

  “Casualties were light—"

  “Thank Takar for that!"

  “A fresh recruitment should land this afternoon, the argenters have been sighted sailing in without trouble and if each ship carries three hundred men there should be at least six thousand or so."

  Lakelmi had deliberately changed the subject of conversation from Strom Rosil. Lakelmi knew that the Kataki Strom had provided most of the gold for the army fighting on the mainland. No one knew where the gold came from; they knew where it went, though, by Lohako the Bold!

  “I hope,” grunted Alloran in his offensive way, “there are good fighting men amongst them. We have enough of these mewling weaklings you call flint-fodder."

  “That is so, my lord kov."

  “And I need first-class cavalry. And air!” He glared at the Kapt. “What I would give for some aerial cavalry, and squadrons of fliers, airboats, to give me mastery aloft. As it is, every battle is touch and go in the air."

  “This is true of all armies, jen. We shall manage."

  After a few more words the audience was finished and Kapt Logan Lakelmi went off about his duties. Alloran threw a bolt of cloth at Opnar and his helpers, swore at them, told them they must find finer stuffs than this shoddy, and went off to eat his customary huge midday meal. After that he went down in panoply to see about the new arrivals whose ships, having anchored or moored up, were discharging their freight, both human and material.

  He was joined on the battlemented walls above the harbor by his nephew, Jen Cedro. The twin suns streamed their magnificence, the air crisped with the tang of openness and the sea and of bracing good health, gulls wheeled and screeched, the breeze blew amicably, and the crowds of folk gathered to watch the new arrivals and speculate upon the treasure brought with them.

  The argenters, ships of broad beam and comfortable lines, of plain sail configuration, could hold immense quantities of cargo. Already lines of slaves were shuffling to and fro along the narrow gangplanks, empty-handed outwards and massively burdened on the inward journey. The scent of the sea and the breeze did much to subdue their odors.

  The mercenaries came ashore, pretending to lurch about on dry land after their weeks at sea, skylarking, pleased to have arrived safely. Alloran eyed them meanly. Cedro provided the kov with his own telescope, and this Alloran employed to give himself a better idea of the quality of these warriors. He let fall an oath.

  “There any many women there—Jikai Vuvushis!"

  At the back of the two men, keeping out of the way yet ready instantly to step forward if his advice was sought, Kapt Lakelmi reflected that the Battle Maidens had served the kov well in the past. That view was shared by the entire group of women standing a few paces along the ramparts watching the bright scene spread out below.

  All the women's faces turned to the kov, as though a flower-field came alive under the suns.

  Standing perfectly still, Lakelmi put his tongue into his cheek so that a bulge jutted above the line of his beard. His lips remained closed. He fancied he was about to enjoy himself.

  Chuktar Gilda Failsham, brusque, hard-bitten, her handsome face seasoned by experience, battle, and manipulating men and women, was clearly about to speak her mind. She was a member of the Order of Sisters of the Sword. As a chuktar, Gilda Failsham was in overall command of all the kov's Warrior Maidens and was a well-trained and competent commander. She did not suffer fools gladly, and suffered men even less, although at times acknowledging that they had their uses.

  “My lord kov,” she called across the small intervening space along the rampart walk. “There are indeed a goodly number of Jikai Vuvushis. For that we should give thanks to the Invisible Twins—do you not agree?"

  Intemperate, hot-headed, consumed with self-pride and arrogant he might be: Kov Vodun was not a fool. He had lost much of that gravitas which had once clothed him in the aura of superiority and integrity so comforting to those he commanded. But he was still a man of substance. He could not manage the fulsome smile the situation might call for; he did say: “You are right, Gilda. Completely so. I am sure you are aware of the esteem in which I hold your girls."

  Lakelmi sighed inwardly and took his tongue out of his cheek; he felt disappointed, cheated, even, of a spot of amusement.

  Among the small group of women, Lyss the Lone also sensed disappointment. How satisfying it would be if only Gilda Failsham—who was a splendid if misguided woman—should fall out with this rascally Kov Vodun! Among any collection of people forming a circle or a court around a great noble there were bound to be jealousies, rivalries, secret hatreds and plots hatching thicker than snow on the Mountains of the North. In her experience, which she would be the first to admit was hardly extensive, she had known precious few courts where intrigue did not flourish.

  Around the Emperor of Vallia had assembled people who made up what to her represented all that was best in the new Vallia. Even around the Prince Majister intrigue carried on in whispers and furtive glances. This saddened her. Here she was, risking her life with these Opaz-forsaken blots with Alloran, and for all she knew some loose-lipped bastard could blow away her cover and reveal her to the merciless interrogations of Kov Vodun Alloran and his damned sorcerer and their thrice-damned torturers.

  Despite the brilliance of the day, the streaming fires of Zim and Genodras, the cooling breeze, she felt choked up, suffocated.

  She favored the lord Cedro with a look that should have melted him where he stood.

  Neither he nor his uncle the kov had spoken a single word about what had passed in the room where the dead chavonth and their two dead comrades spoke eloquently of great deeds.
Not that she worried over that. It merely pointed out what these people were like.

  She'd sent little bandy-legged Lon the Knees off very smartly, swearing him to absolute silence about what he had seen. He had been only too tremblingly anxious to agree. She had a meeting with him later. She didn't want the good Lon running off at the mouth. No, by Vox!

  The news of that unhanged villain the Kataki Strom beating Drak in a battle was grim and unpleasant. She knew Drak was safe because had he been killed or captured the news would have gone around like wildfire. That was the obvious common-sense reason she knew Drak was unharmed; the real reason she knew was that had Drak chanced on ill fortune, she would know at once and with the utmost certainty, know it in her heart.

  Standing here with these unpleasant people watching more reinforcements for their benighted army streaming ashore, she sighed. She thought of home. Her life had not so far turned out the way she would have wished. She had hoped that Drak's sister, Lela the Princess Majister, known as Jaezila, would have married her brother, Drayseg, named for the emperor. But that had not happened. Lela was off somewhere in Hamal, enamored of a Prince of Hamal called Tyfar, and the pair of them circling around each other without the least clue how to come to grips with what fate had ordained for them.

  As for Drayseg, the last she'd heard of him he was a zhanpaktun somewhere in Balintol. All very distressing. And to cap it all this fat luxurious Queen Lush was openly going after Drak! It was unbearable!

  Silda Segutoria, known in these unhealthy parts as Lyss the Lone, returned her attention to where it belonged, as a dutiful little Jikai Vuvushi dancing attendance upon a damned traitorous kov—the bastard.

  * * *

  Chapter four

  In which Lyss the Lone keeps a straight face

  The complex series of ceremonies, rituals and religious observances that would transform Vodun Alloran, Kov of Kaldi, into King Vodun of Southwest Vallia, were planned to run for a whole six days. This, said the know-alls, was pitching it just about right. Any less amount of time would indicate faint-heartedness upon the part of the kov, a lack of certainty, even more probably, a lack of the wherewithal. To run longer than a Kregen week would smack of inflated ambition and ego beyond control, which would—inevitably said the wiseacres—bring down the just vengeance of the gods.

  A number of dissatisfactions gnawed at Alloran, among which he felt most resentment that he was not able to crown a queen. Mercenaries seldom marry in the nature of their employment, unless they settle down to a long-term bodyguard occupation. His plans to marry the Kovneva of Rahartdrin, and thus lend color to his claims upon the island, had failed to materialize.

  He slid his rapier up and down in its scabbard with his left fist wrapped into the fancy hilt. He scowled. The old biddy! Katrin Rashumin, Kovneva of Rahartdrin, had fought his armies from the hedges, from the ditches, had battled from the mountains, and had at the end escaped somewhere across the sea.

  All pursuit had failed to discover her.

  Well, one day she'd be found, dead or alive. When that day dawned, Alloran would think afresh how best to act. Possession—that was the key! He held Rahartdrin fast in his grip. Soon his armada would sail north for Tezpor.

  The other dissatisfaction lay all around him.

  He sat slumped back in a huge winged armchair, his feet in gleaming boots stuck arrogantly upon the polished table. Each time he rammed his rapier down, the chape hit the floor. Well, golden chapes would be no problem now, for the island was potentially enormously rich and he'd sweat everyone here, make ‘em work. He'd buy or capture more than enough slaves so as to make every kool of the island give forth its wealth.

  But—this was Rahartdrin, this town was Rashumsmot. They were not home. They were not Kaldi and Kalden.

  And this town wasn't even the proper capital of the island. That was Rahartium, and that place was in a mess. He'd tried to prevent the fires, and then to extinguish them; the task was beyond the powers even of the fabled Nath of legend and song.

  He took the conqueror's grain of comfort in the knowledge that to be seen donning the crown in a foreign and defeated country aggrandized him. He could always arrange further coronations to be held in his own provincial capital of Kalden.

  When he was emperor, of course, he'd have to be crowned and enthroned in Vondium.

  That was all ordained.

  He had no doubts about that outcome whatsoever.

  Well—he swung his boots off the table and stood up ready to march out to the waiting crowds—well, so far all had gone as prophesied. Arachna[5] had always been right. In the future his confidence could only increase.

  [5 Arachna. Prescot says he has translated this name as Arachna because the original in Kregish was of extraordinary length and complexity and inappropriate for normal terrestrial use. A.B.A.]

  The bedlam of noise of the crowds hit him like a surge of intoxication as he stepped out onto the balcony alone. He waved to the mob. The declining suns showered faces and heads with slanting glories of emerald and ruby, brought blood-red winks of light from the weapons of guards and soldiers, sheened rivulets of viridian down their armor.

  Among the crowds and posted at vantage points around the square, somberly clad men and women watched all that went forward. At the first sight of anyone lifting a bow to take a shot at the kov, a far faster trigger finger would contract, loosing a crossbow bolt to snuff out the impious idiot's life without compunction.

  Waving, managing a grimace that would pass for a smile at the distance of the balcony from the ground, Alloran showed himself to his people. To his new people. Most of the civilian crowds were native to Rahartdrin. His functionaries worked on transferring their allegiance wholeheartedly to him. That was a skill. He used men and women with skills, and used them skillfully after his own fashion.

  Nath the Goader had managed to convince his questioners that he had known nothing of the loosened bars of the cages. He was completely innocent. When this was reported to Alloran, the kov had merely said: “The rast's duty was to know all concerning the wild beasts. He failed. He is of no further use."

  Then, he'd paused, and a real smile passed over his face. “Yet he can still be of use—in place of handling the beasts he can feed them—with his own body."

  His retainers and functionaries showed they appreciated the jest.

  Now he waved one last time, and stepped back from the balcony feeling the solid sound from the mobs as being, if not totally, then convincingly genuine.

  Using people as he did, Alloran had no use for a failed tool, no compunction in its disposal.

  The folk who served him knew this.

  When he went to the newly decorated robing room to change his clothes from the ornate and easily distinguished applause clothes to equally magnificent but far more elegant evening wear, his servants made no mistakes.

  Clad in gorgeous silks and dripping with jewelry, Kov Vodun strode into the chamber he already called the banqueting hall.

  The late owner of this villa still dangled over the town's battlemented walls, and some portions of his anatomy remained intact.

  Food and drink in gargantuan quantities was served. The banquet catered for a hundred diners, and of them all only Naghan the Obese and Glenda the Slender ate more than the kov.

  Quite a few among that hundred flushed and gluttonous crowd drank more than the kov...

  Afterwards, replete, Alloran was escorted to his private withdrawing room. He waved away a pearl-draped Sylvie who would have waited upon him, and went in alone. The door was closed on his order: “In one bur!"[6]

  [6 bur: the Kregan hour, 48 to a day, each of 50 murs. A bur is 40 Earth minutes long. A.B.A.]

  He sat on the divan, kicked off his light slippers, hoisted his legs up and so, putting his head upon a silken pillow, nodded off to sleep. If he dreamed, he had no memory of it when the door opened and a flunkey, nervously, said: “One bur, my lord kov."

  He roused himself; servants provided golden bowls
filled with warm scented water, and softly fluffy towels. Refreshed, he allowed his slippers to be placed upon his feet. He stood up, adjusted his rapier and dagger belts, golden-linked and gem-encrusted, automatically clicked his rapier up and down, and, satisfied, left the withdrawing room.

  Along the corridors guards stood at measured intervals. They wore gaudy costume for fighting men; but they were all well-tested by now and Alloran trusted them as far as any prudent ruler trusts his bodyguards.

  Full-fleshed, confident, Alloran strode along and the subservient lackeys followed after, as was proper.

  He did not have far to walk before he reached the double doors covered in dark green velvet, studded with golden nails and decorated with a border of engraved golden panels. He'd had that door installed. When he built his own palace he would still arrange a series of chambers beyond a door just such as this that would still not be a long walk away.

  Farther along in a cross corridor walled in blue marble stood Battle Maidens on sentry duty. Alloran merely flicked a quick glance at them, before lifting his heavily ringed right hand and knocking three deliberate times upon the golden lockplate. A girl appeared in the blue-marbled corridor looking with a fixity of purpose upon each Jikai Vuvushi. She could smell the distant odors of stale cooking, yet Lyss the Lone did not wrinkle up her nostrils in disgust. In this place and at this time that could be misconstrued, could prove a most expensive mistake.

  She moved smartly from one girl to the next, and as she did so she looked down the corridor. Sideways on to her, Kov Vodun was knocking upon that mysterious green door.

  Lyss the Lone very much wanted to know what could be beyond that ornate door.

  Very much indeed.

  If Alloran continued his routine tomorrow, as he had for the past few days, then at this precise time he should be knocking on the door. That was the reason Lyss had taken it upon herself to inspect the girls of the guard at this precise time.

  Alloran's current light of love, Chemsi the Fair, lived in a plush apartment in the top floor of the west wing of the villa. Lyss felt confident Alloran did not have a woman behind the green door he visited every evening.