Bladesman of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  Clapping me on the shoulder Rees bellowed himself back into a good humor. I often wondered why he was not puzzled that these affectionate back-slappings of his did not tumble me over onto my nose, as they so often did people like Chido and Nath Tolfeyr. “Come, Hamun! Let’s go to the salle! I’ll make a Bladesman of you yet, by Krun!”

  Always, during this time of my masquerade in Hamal, I had to keep my wits about me. A slip would reveal more than the interesting fact that the Amak of Paline Valley was not a spineless clumsy ninny. I made some proper answer, and so went through more torture in the salle. Truly, it was torture. For a man who knows he has a certain skill, to perform deliberately with less than that skill may sometimes afford him amusement, but I was in no mood for much more of this charade. Truth to tell, being no nearer the secrets of the vollers and with time running out drove me half crazy with evil frustration.

  A bunch of prisoners taken in Pandahem was paraded through the streets. I saw these men and diffs, halflings, man-beasts, beast-men, and recognized the blue-and-green insignia half ripped from their tattered clothing. I stood with the crowd, but even with my willingness to play a part I could not yell with the rest. I just stood there, numb. These poor devils were herded down the long straight boulevard called the Arrow of Hork, jeered and spat at on both sides, whipped on in a raggle-tailed bunch to the Arena. Once inside the Jikhorkdun of Ruathytu, they would make sport for the populace. The doom of each one was sealed.

  Not Rees, not Chido, none of them in that raffish band of young bloods could get me to the Jikhorkdun to see the sport. Casmas licked his shining lips and vowed he would plunge his hands and arms elbow deep into golden deldys. Tothord, the Elten of the Ruby Hills, shouted eager wagers with Nath Tolfeyr. This Tothord, a dark-visaged man of about Rees’s age, much dissipated, had recently lost a younger brother in battle on the southern front. He was anxious to see vengeance taken out on any of his country’s enemies.

  In our dissolute group we were continually being joined by men from the wars, home on some kind of furlough, and we listened to their talk, before they set off again for fresh dangers and battles. Mostly it was the younger sons who joined the army and the air service in Hamal; those who took the titles and the land remained at home. But, even so, I found out that Trylon Rees was personally raising a regiment of cavalry, equipping and paying them at his own expense. He spent a considerable time in deep conversation with hard, tanned men, Hikdars and Deldars mostly, as they reported the progress of training on his estates of the Golden Wind.

  “You’ll ride with me, Hamun?”

  This presented a quandary.

  “I would be honored, Rees. When—?”

  “As soon as my officers have licked the regiment into shape, I shall report myself to the Queen. No doubt some stuffy Pallans will give me my orders. But then, Hamun! Then I shall be off to strike a blow for Hamal!”

  I hated the sound of all this.

  “Which front—?”

  “Who knows! Who cares! I detest wars and I love a fight. I shall not live long, I think, once we are engaged.”

  And I admit I felt a twinge of regret at his words, these words of an enemy of my own land, and a friend, for I perceived them to be true.

  From then on Rees took it for granted that I would be going with him and his fine new regiment off to war.

  Most of the raffish gang with whom we passed our time refused to join. They had the security of rank and position and privilege, and they were of that character of men to whom watching other men going off to do a job — or to go to war — came always as more sweet than going themselves. Chido ham Thafey, screwing up his face so that for once its chinlessness became unnoticeable, stoutly declared that, by Krun, he would go with Rees. He’d be a staffer, a galloper, and go haring on his zorca all over the battlefield with vitally important messages, and by his own prowess sway the course of the fight.

  Rees nodded, and smiled his lion smile, and said, yes, and did not disabuse young Chido.

  Other factions running in the sacred quarter also were being drawn more and more into the war. News from the southern front merely confirmed that the armies of Hamal were still slowly pushing south into the ancient kingdoms and Kovnates there. From the Mountains of the West came grotesque stories of horror. But from Pandahem came the most thrilling news. Thrilling, that is, to any loyal Hamalian.

  I knew that Queen Thyllis had not been officially enthroned and crowned and had not taken up the symbols of her power. She was waiting for the psychological moment. A great victory, with its attendant triumphant parade and review and celebrations in the Jikhorkdun, this would be the time she would choose to be crowned Empress of Hamal.

  So while these friendly enemies, or inimical friends, of mine shouted and raved in the Jikhorkdun and the prisoners from Pandahem met their various unpleasant ends, I set about worming my way into the confidence of a Hamalian Air Service officer. He was Hikdar Nath ti Hainlad, a jovial, wide-girthed man with reddish hair and veins breaking on his nose and cheeks. For a bottle and a wad of cham, which he chewed even as he drank, a fascinating contortion of his scarlet cheeks, he was willing to talk about the sky ships. I listened. I learned a great deal, facts and figures I had hitherto never dreamed existed, as we sat on a cool terrace facing south overlooking the Black River. We were in the Horters’ section of the city, where I had once lived with Nulty, west of the old walls that secluded the sacred quarter, to the east, on its V of land between the two rivers.

  Going back to The Thraxter and Voller had proved fruitless, for the landlord of the inn had no knowledge of the whereabouts of Nulty, and all my possessions had gone, Havil the Green knew where. Even though I now wore a dandy’s ineffable outfit of gray trousers and green over-frilled and ruffled shirt, with a blue coat slung carelessly from golden cords over one shoulder, I drew quizzical glances. The story of how I, the Amak of Paline Valley, had fled from the duel with the Strom of Hyr Rothy had grown in the retelling. I answered all with a haughty look down my nose. Strom Lart was off to the wars. The landlord did say, heavily: “When he returns, Notor, he will seek you out.” To which I replied: “Let him, by Havil the Green!”

  So I sat and sipped good Kregan tea while this Air Service Hikdar Nath swilled the wine I paid for, and we talked.

  It was mostly technical information, and aerial tactics, for I posed as a man anxious to join the air service, and I will tell you of these technicalities when the time is ripe. I felt I had not wasted my day as I returned to the sacred quarter and a roistering night with Rees and the others. It was essential that I spend some nights out on the town gambling and drinking, as well as out on the town spying, so as to preserve my cover.

  The city of Ruathytu, the capital of Hamal, the most powerful empire on the continent of Havilfar, is undeniably an impressive monument to power and glory and easy living. Aqueducts span the sky bringing sweet water from the hills. Broad avenues slice cleanly through the mass of buildings. There are colonnades, and arcades, small hills festooned with villas. There is much riotous vegetation, flowers, and the tinkle of fountains is never silent. Zorca chariots and sleeth riders throng the ways. The inhabitants sport jewels, and fans, and bright shawls and scarves. There are awnings of a bewildering variety of colors, ornate domes and terraces — a whole kaleidoscope of color and movement in the declining rays of the twin suns Zim and Genodras.

  And yet, to me (who have seen on Kregen Sanurkazz and Zenicce and Vondium, as well as many another bright city), Ruathytu possessed no joy of living, no zest for life, no overriding sense of freedom and pride. Oh, the Hamalians boasted of their fine walls and towers, their domes and aqueducts, but I felt the place as a deadening weight upon me. I changed this, as you shall hear; but then — ah, then how I longed for Valkanium and the cool terraces on Esser Rarioch!

  The main Arena in Ruathytu is situated midway between the old walls secluding the sacred quarter to the east and the Walls of Kazlili to the west, and about the same distance south of the River
Havilthytus to the north. The island whereon sits the palace of the emperors in its artificial lake scooped from the river lies to the northeast, northwest of the sacred quarter. Great processions pass down the broad Boulevard of Victory from the water gate opposite the palace island to the Jikhorkdun. This is the Arena reserved for the nobility and the gentry. There are other Arenas in Ruathytu, of course, so that the guls and the clums, even, shall be sated with blood . . .

  The Maiden with the Many Smiles shone clear above me as I turned into the Street of Sweetmeats and headed for the tavern of Tempting Forgetfulness, moonlight pink and golden all about me, and the shadows plum and purple beneath the balconies. I could hear the sounds of roistering from the inns and taverns by the way, and drunken parties staggered past, shouting and singing. I kept my hand close to the hilt of my rapier. The sacred quarter was beset with sudden affrays, steel twinkling in an alley, a corpse stretched upon the stones for the Hamalian watch to find, blood congealed and black in the moonlight.

  The alley by the tavern lay half black, half gold.

  I saw Rees step from the shadows into the moonlight, holding up his hand in greeting to me.

  I lengthened my stride.

  Rees swung about with an oath.

  “By Krun! I am beset!”

  In the next instant he was ferociously at work swirling his rapier at the dark forms of six men who leaped upon him, silently, their cloaks flaring, the steel bright in their fists.

  Without a thought, I drew my blade and hurled myself forward into the affray.

  Chapter Eleven

  I sweep the floor in Ruathytu

  This sudden deadly affray was what living in the sacred quarter of Ruathytu was all about at this time of war.

  Even as I ripped my rapier from the scabbard and plunged forward, my thoughts were cynically that this kind of murderous set-to must be going on in a score of other alleyways and moonlit courtyards about the city. So it was that I contrived to spit the nearest attacker through his side ribs, and withdraw and so swirl to the next, at the same time as Rees dealt similarly with one of the remainder, without so much as a thought to my role in Hamal.

  Rees’s blade clanged against the thraxter of his man, and I felt my own rapier automatically slide up to deflect a savage downward chop from the fellow who leaped at me, all hairy whiskers and glittering eyes and gleaming teeth.

  “No, Hamun, no!” yelled Rees, whirling his blade in a masterful over-and-under. “Keep clear! You will be cleft in two!”

  Well, this Trylon of the Golden Wind had courage. No one could deny him that. And so began a fight typical of a number that I was forced to engage in during this time of disguise in Ruathytu. I pranced about, swirling my blade, getting in the way of men determined to hack down the Trylon. As though by accident my rapier whistled across to take a thraxter from the open side of Rees, as though by chance my main-gauche caught a blade descending upon his neck. He fought! Oh, yes, he fought magnificently; but I knew he would have been done for had I not clowned and stumbled and shouted and flummoxed about and so, to Rees’s surprised and joyful shout, thrust my brand through the guts of the next man. Rees had disposed of another.

  “Keep out of my way, Hamun!”

  I tripped over my own feet and so was able to sprawl forward, yelling “By Krun” and thereby letting my rapier skewer up as though by pure chance and sink its length in the guts of the man roaring at Rees as he dealt with the last on the other side.

  This last one hesitated. These would-be stikitches (assassins) were no true stikitches at all; I could see the outline on their cloaks and shirts where their insignia had been cut away. It seemed clear enough that Vad Garnath had sent six of his men to waylay and murder the Trylon Rees. They had set on him as he stepped out of the tavern to greet me. They wore cloths bundled about their left arms (for no honest man might walk the streets at night carrying a shield — that would be too obvious an admission of evil intent — unless he were a soldier or had lawful permission to carry a shield, duly issued by the local Under-Pallan of the district).

  “The rasts run!” bellowed Rees, although there was only one left. He still hadn’t realized I’d downed those I had. He went roaring after the luckless fellow who took to his heels and hared off down the alley. I did not laugh. But, in truth, it was an occasion for a laugh. Rees trailed back after a moment, swearing, having lost his man.

  We bent to examine the corpses.

  One was still alive, but even as Rees seized him by the throat to haul him up to be questioned, he choked black blood and died.

  “Scum!” bellowed Rees. He was furiously enraged.

  “Vad Garnath?”

  “Probably. Although there are others who would wish for my death.” Rees began to clean his weapon on the clothes of the dead man, and I fell to doing the same, companionably, at his side.

  “You must take greater care, Hamun, my friend. You could have got yourself killed, skipping about like that in the way of the swords.”

  “Yes, Rees.”

  If ever I wanted to laugh . . .!

  So that was some relief to me in that hateful business of subterfuge and disguise in Hamal; there were other fights to follow in which I lumbered about, tripping over, sticking foemen before they realized it, to the roaring accompaniment of Rees bellowing at me to take care, and look out, and mind my fool hide out of the way. I enjoyed that part of it, for I was able to do Rees a good turn, and relieve some of the black bile in me. Also, I have little compunction where a stikitche is concerned. Assassination is developed to different levels in the various parts of Kregen, for the world is a world, diverse and strange and nowhere uniform. And, too, there is such a thing as a Stikitche Khand, as I afterward discovered. A khand is not quite the same as a guild; it is an association of experts, and that will perhaps do to sum up what a Kregan khand is. At the time I had suspicions that a Stikitche Khand, an Assassins Guild, did exist in Hamal. Of course, no assassin worth the name is going to parade around in a uniform and proclaim himself a member of his guild. Assassins do not work like that on Kregen, or here on Earth, for that matter.

  One result of that night’s work came a sennight later when on a pretext Rees managed to issue a challenge to Vad Garnath. The answer could only be made in blood. I will not go through the preparations, the procedures, in which Chido and I made the arrangements to hire the hall, and see about the tickets, and arrange the concessions for the bookmakers. All that side of the business was mere rote.

  Rees said to me: “I will not ask you to stand as my second, Hamun. You know why. I have asked Nath Tolfeyr.”

  There was no answer to that. So, instead, I said: “Will this miserable cramph Vad Garnath fight, Rees?”

  “By Krun! If he will not I’ll cut up his second and then belt him in the mouth and challenge him again!”

  The chronology of my stay as a spy in Ruathytu is, even to me, a little jumbled after all these years, but it must have been around this time that I first heard the rumor that Casmas the Deldy had contracted with due bokkertu to be married, and that I found Nulty.

  There had been a stiff little fight and a swift retreat from the wall around Zhyan’s Pinions, I recall. The white stucco buildings leered in the moonlight, flushing pink at me, most hurtfully, as I beat off a maddened guard patrol and went flying up onto a balcony, swinging to the next, and escaping over the rooftops beneath the moons. Zhyan’s Pinions were not to be broken into so easily. And the guards were maddened because as I knew they had been given orders to capture this nighthawk at all costs, or else . . . At this time I felt it wise to wear a mask, for despite the beard my face might be recognized. I was taking more chances, too, as the time slipped by, in daytime foolery and nighttime espionage, and still the secrets of the vollers eluded me.

  The city seemed to mock me as I sped back, a leaping figure in the moon-glimmer, my cloak flaring out from my shoulders, hurtling from purple shadow to purple shadow. Yet I had made some progress, in talking, in listening, and knew for
a certainty that a mix of minerals was essential. I had heard it claimed that there were five minerals in a silver box; and others knowledgeably told me there were nine. What these minerals were, they did not know. Hurdling over the rooftops of Ruathytu, I came to the conclusion that I must give up my raffish circle in the sacred quarter and become a gul and try to work my way into Zhyan’s Pinions, or any of the other manufactories where they mixed the minerals.

  That would not be easy, for obvious reasons, but unless I did something more positive I felt the whole scheme would come to nothing and my bowing and scraping would have been wasted.

  The manufactory of Zhyan’s Pinions lies north of the River Havilthytus, in a gul suburb. To return to the sacred quarter due south I had to cross the Bridge of Swords. This bridge is so called because it affords ingress for the soldiers quartered all along the north bank of the river opposite the palace island to the sacred quarter in the V of the rivers. Ahead of me as I raced south I could see the three lofting green domes of the Great Temple of Havil the Green. They shone with a sickly patina of mingled light beneath the moons. This great temple stands on the very tip of the V, connected downstream by a bridge to the dominating castle on a spear-point island extending downstream. The interesting phenomenon I have mentioned, that the waters of the Black River do not at once mingle with the more ocher waters of the Havilthytus, is well shown here, for south of the castle the waters are inky black, to the north they are rolling ocher. This sharp division extends downstream for a good long way before, at last, the waters of the two rivers commingle into a muddy brown.