by Laurence Yep
Urmi was standing in the doorway looking out into the hallway. “I know where you can find your own guard, Your Highness.”
Both the prince and Bibil gave her puzzled looks. “What do you mean, girl?” Bibil asked his niece. “Who can we count on?”
“They once made the entire world tremble,” she boasted. “The Hounds.”
Bibil frowned. “I thought they would all have drunk themselves to death by now.”
“Well, it wasn’t for want of trying.” Urmi laughed confidently. “But there are still some of them who have survived. And there’s still a bite left in those old dogs yet.”
The prince considered the possibilities. “It may be a fool’s errand; but have I ever been anything else in my life?”
Diwan’s voice, though thin, took on a new urgency. “In the chapel, there is a statue of the goddess of mercy. Touch her foot and the door will open.”
“Yes.” The prince nodded. “That would appeal to my ancestors’ sense of humor.”
Diwan stared at the prince desperately. “You must get to Kotah.” Kotah was the name of the province which the prince’s clan controlled, but, as Sulu recalled him mentioning, he had rarely gone there. Diwan stiffened for a moment as if he were trying to fight off [59] the pain. “Kotah. Safe ...” His voice suddenly faded away and his head rolled to the side.
Bibil closed the old man’s eyes and lowered him to the floor. “He was a tough one in his own way.”
“Well,” the prince promised solemnly, “I’ll see that it’s put on his tomb—assuming we survive.”
With Urmi leading the way, they trotted down the corridor. The cries seemed to grow louder and shriller. “The massacre seems to be spreading from the assembly room,” the prince said grimly.
“Let’s hope we can keep ahead of it.” Sulu glanced behind them.
It was a quarter of a kilometer to the kitchens; and though they saw none of Rahu’s men, they found the corpses of elegantly dressed Angirans—evidence that Rahu’s men were nearby.
The palace kitchen was a cavernous place some hundred meters on each side. Dishes for the feast, waiting to be cooked, cluttered row after row of tables. But there was neither a cook nor a cook’s helper in sight—as if they had scurried off to hide during the massacre.
The Hounds were heard before they were seen; their voices, used to cutting through the noise of countless taverns and battlefields, boomed merrily through the huge kitchen. Bibil grimaced as if embarrassed. “Old habits certainly die hard.”
“Having a good time?” the prince asked curiously.
“Looting,” Bibil explained.
When they entered the kitchen, they could see a half dozen small figures at the opposite end by the huge fireplaces. Fires were burning in over a dozen of them while whole sides of meat turned on spits, sending [60] juices crackling and spattering into the flames beneath. The Hounds were sitting or, in some cases, lying before one with dozens of golden pitchers around them. One man turned a spit in between large swigs from the pitcher in his hand. Age had changed the fur of the half dozen Hounds from gold to a silver white.
“They’re drunk already,” Mr. Spock said to Bibil.
“An old Hound drunk is worth two sinha sober,” Urmi said to him, and then, setting her hands around her mouth like a megaphone, she shouted, “We need your help.” However, the men at the fireplace were too busy laughing and joking among themselves to hear her so she took a deep breath for an even louder shout. But Bibil put his hand on her shoulder.
“You have to know how to talk to old sword bait like these. ‘Pretty please’ just doesn’t work.” And he took a step out, spread his legs and took a deep breath, swelling out that huge chest of his. “At-TEN-SHUN.”
Five of the men sprang instinctively to their feet. Only the man at the spit remained sitting, but he turned his head toward Bibil.
“Is it the Boy Wonder?” the man called.
“The same,” Bibil announced in his loud parade-ground voice. He marched toward them in even, rhythmic strides. “And stand to attention when I order you to, Chit.”
Urmi waited until there were some twenty paces between her and her uncle and then followed him, motioning the others to come after her.
“We’re not in the service anymore,” Chit said sullenly. “And you’re not the youngest sergeant-major in the Hounds. The Hounds don’t even exist. We were disbanded, remember? So don’t try to give us orders.” [61] And the other former Hounds glanced at one another sheepishly and then sat back down, one by one.
“You’re still in the service of the emperor.” Bibil stopped about ten meters away from them. As Sulu neared them, he could see that the fur of each man was silver with age and their gray soropas and aprons were spattered with grease and soot—as if they performed the most menial and dirtiest of kitchen chores.
Chit picked up some kind of roasted game bird from the floor and took a huge bite with studied casualness. “A proper emperor would know how to treat his old soldiers.”
Bibil planted a fist on either hip. “You once were soldiers. Now you’re nothing but thieving old scum.”
Chit took another huge bite from the breast of the bird. “I’m surprised they ever let you back on this world. I thought they were going to keep you in exile.” He rested a foot on top of a footstool and shoved it toward Bibil. “Still, you always could smell out a party.” He pitched the bird to Bibil. “Help yourself.” And he broke into such a broad welcoming smile that Sulu realized he had only been pretending to be sullen before.
Bibil caught the bird neatly in one hand and took a bite since it seemed to be expected. “Chit, I thought you were going to retire to your farm.” He looked toward a man with one eye. “And I thought you were going to run a tavern, Bacha?”
Bacha slapped his leg in embarrassment. “Oh, well, you know how things are.”
Chit prodded Bacha with his toes. “He drank up all his own stock.”
Bacha twisted around and gave a tired, bitter smile. [62] “Well, at least I got to enjoy it and that’s more than you can say.” He turned back to Bibil. “He gambled his farm away.”
“It was the inflation, I tell you,” Chit insisted indignantly. “Ever since this emperor started modernizing things, he’s been printing money on paper.” He turned and spat into the fire. “It isn’t even worth using in the shithouse.”
A third man with a scar across half his face took a drink sourly from the pitcher. “Gold coins are scarcer than kind hearts now. And the paper money’s worthless and so are pensions.”
Chit jabbed a finger at Bibil. “But that crazy man on the throne wants his taxes to be paid in hard currency, so you wind up having to sell double the crops just to get enough coins.” He gave the spit a quick, savage turn so that the juices went flying into the flames with a loud crackling sound. “Now what’s a person to do?”
“I would have been better off dying in battle.” Bacha shook his head. “I’d rather be part of a funeral monument than be a live old relic.”
And, looking at them by the fire, Sulu couldn’t help feeling a kind of sadness—as if they were whales left stranded on a beach by a sea that had vanished all too quickly.
Bibil contemptuously threw the bird onto the lap of Chit. “When Urmi told me there were some of the old Hounds still alive in the palace, I thought my problems were solved. But what do I find? Six drunken old wrecks feeling sorry for themselves.” He started to pivot. “Come, Your Highness.”
“His Highness?” The scarred man squinted his eyes as if he had trouble seeing beyond Bibil. “Is that the young prince you’ve been nursemaiding?”
[63] “Who else? And with Lord Rahu hot after his blood.”
Chit dumped the bird on the floor and hastily wiped his hands on his apron. “Tell the lad to come forward.”
“Go on,” murmured Bibil.
They walked toward the fireplace while the small group of men set down their wine bottles and meals. Chit squinted at the prince. “Well, he’s got
the look of his grandfather.”
“Who doesn’t?” snickered the scarred man. “The old he-goat—”
Bibil cut him short. “Jata, we don’t have the time to reminisce now. We have to escape.”
Chit pointed at Sulu and Mr. Spock. “And what are those?”
“Offworlders,” Bibil said. “They came to help us.”
“More like make this world into a worse mess,” grumbled Jata. “This is the first time in ages that we’ve had enough to eat and drink. Why should we leave?”
“Not since Agra”—Bibil nodded toward Jata’s scar—“where you picked up that little decoration.”
“That was something then.” Jata shook his head at the prince. “Now your grandfather knew how to treat his troops right.”
Bibil concentrated on Jata. “He gave you a medallion himself, didn’t he?”
“For being the first man on the wall.” Jata took on a distant look as if he were remembering better, more glorious times.
“And now,” Bibil said quietly, “his grandson’s come to you.”
Jata suddenly seemed to remember where he was. “A lot of good his children and his children’s children have done us.”
[64] “And what happened to that medallion?” Bibil demanded sternly. “Did you put it over the hearth so your children and grandchildren could see it? Or did you pawn it?”
Jata wiped at his nose uncomfortably. “Times were hard.”
“You mean you needed a drink,” Bibil snorted. “Even if the old emperor had been alive today, you’d still be where you are.” He sighed., “And here I’ve been telling His Highness how you chased every army you ever faced off the battlefield, and now look at you. Nothing but a bunch of dirty old thieves who couldn’t chase away a pack of children.”
“Here now.” Chit raised a warning finger. “Watch that kind of talk.”
“The old emperor provided for you.” Bibil’s voice took on a frustrated edge. “It’s not his fault you squandered it all like so many bandits.”
The prince touched Bibil’s arm. “Come along, Bibil. I think we’re going to have to look for help elsewhere.”
“Now hold on,” Chit said. “We didn’t say we wouldn’t help. We just wanted to think about it.”
“We have very little time,” the prince observed to them, “and it is not in me to beg.”
Bacha rose from the bench and pointed at the prince. “Now that is spoken just like his grandfather. He’s one of the bloodline all right.”
Chit ripped off a drumstick from the bird and waved it at Vikram. “So you’re the one they call the Shadow Lord?”
Jata nudged Chit. “Look at that sword of his. Can’t you see he’s armed for the part?”
Chit irritably rubbed the spot that Jata had just hit. “What part?”
[65] “Why, the Lord of the Underworld where all the shadows of the dead go.” Jata looked at the prince as if he expected him to laugh. “Now how’s that for a play on your name?”
The prince, however, could only manage a feeble smile. “I’ve never been important enough for anyone to bother with a joke like that.”
Impulsively, Chit tore off his apron. “But you are now. I don’t know about you, lads, but I’m sick of the sight of dishwater and garbage.” He wiped his hand across one of the blackened stones above the cooking fire. “We’ll be shadow hounds for a shadow lord.”
Laughing, Bacha became caught up in the same fancy. “If we had any sense, we would have gone underground long ago.”
“Let’s get ready,” Jata called to the others. They threw down whatever they had in their hands and reached for the blackened stones.
His face clumsily blackened, Chit rose with sooty palms and started for the prince. “You’ll want to be prepared too, Lord.”
But the prince stepped back. “It isn’t time for me to go into mourning yet.”
“Humor them,” Bibil whispered.
Chit held out his black palms. “So what will it be, Lord?”
The prince leaned forward. “This should give the Many quite a start when They see me.”
“And if They don’t treat you right, we’ll kick Them off Their thrones and put you in Their place.” He wiped the soot carefully over the prince’s face.
Then, their faces blackened like masks, the Hounds snatched up kitchen knives and full jars of wine. “Fall in now,” Chit ordered the others. With all the [66] excitement and eagerness of small boys, they formed into a single column and marched smartly toward the door.
Sulu, Urmi and Mr. Spock had been gathering food into sacks and putting water into bags made from the bladders of some large animals.
As they followed the Hounds, Sulu murmured to Mr. Spock, “They must have fought their last battle twenty years ago.”
The science officer arched an eyebrow. “More like thirty, I should think.”
“What can those old fossils do against Rahu’s men?” Sulu wondered.
“Probably very little,” Mr. Spock sniffed. “I suspect it will come down to our own skill with these outmoded weapons. Are you ready?”
Sulu adjusted his sweaty palm’s grip on his sword hilt. “Not really. But I don’t think I have much choice in the matter.”
They had gone only some fifty meters from the kitchen before a half-dozen of Rahu’s men found them. They were not sinha but seemed to be from Rahu’s own household since they wore metal cuirasses engraved with the rayed sun that was the emblem of Rahu’s clan. They were armed with sharp-edged halberds.
Sulu tensed and raised his sword in both hands so that it was parallel to his torso. Though Sulu had had plenty of practice and theory with a sword, he had never actually used it against an opponent who wanted to kill him.
But before Sulu could even engage, wine jars flew at Rahu’s men. Most of them shattered against the floor, but a few found their mark. And then the Hounds rushed past him. “Angira, Angira.”
Chit ran straight toward the points of the spears and [67] the halberd blades, but just before Rahu’s soldiers could lunge, he dropped to the floor, sliding in under the shafts and slipping his blade up under the armor of the first man.
With a shout, he tumbled backward off of Chit’s knife and Chit was slashing at the legs of a soldier to his right. The other Hounds were almost as wild and reckless. What the Hounds lacked in youth and energy, they made up for in cunning. In a matter of minutes, four of the halberdiers were down, and the other two were running off.
Sulu lowered his sword to stare as the Hounds began to loot the corpses. “They’re crazy.”
“Suicidal is a better word,” Mr. Spock corrected him.
“Well, they don’t quite recite a rhymed couplet with every thrust and parry”—the prince leaned against the wall—“but they do get things done. Do you suppose d’Artagnan was more like this than the dandy in Dumas?”
“Well, I don’t know how many copies he would have sold with this version.” Sulu watched as Chit leapt to his feet. Then, throwing back his head, Chit let out a howl that echoed down the hallways.
“The world hasn’t heard that cry in a long time.” Bibil massaged the fingers of his right hand as if his arthritis were bothering him slightly. “They’re the likeliest sweepings for the prison, and yet give them a proper cause and they’ll rise above themselves every time.” Bibil paused proudly and nodded to the prince. “And the cause is you, lad.”
The prince held up his sword wearily as if this were an old argument between them. “Oh, no, you don’t. All my life, I’ve tried to put as much distance between [68] myself and the throne. If I had been born the son of a farmer, you would never have kept after me the way you did. I can’t help who my parents were. The throne is a burden that I do not want.”
“Neither beasts of burden nor princes have any say in what weights they carry.” Bibil fixed him with a stern eye. “Whether you like it or not, this is the brighter side of your heritage and more valuable than gold or palaces.”
“That is simply an irrational ill
usion that should have nothing to do with me.” The prince looked to Mr. Spock for support.
Mr. Spock had been watching the Hounds strip the armor and weapons from the dead. He faced the prince now. “That isn’t strictly true, Your Highness. Certain illusions have been necessary in the growth of a group identity. ‘One king, one nation’ has proved a useful phrase in forging many little feudal states into a nation with one identity. The same has been true of certain worlds.”
The prince frowned. “But what is logical about that?”
Mr. Spock slid his sword back into his belt. “Societies do not always develop along logical lines.”
Bibil used the back of his hand to slap the prince’s arm. “There, you see. You can’t avoid the throne now.”
“But I can certainly give it a good try,” the prince snapped.
Armed with halberds and swords now, the Hounds fought several more skirmishes with Rahu’s household troops; and though the elderly veterans had less and less energy with each fight, they still managed to send [69] Rahu’s men running. By that time they had traveled two levels down.
Bibil gave a disbelieving laugh. “We’ve made it. I can see the chapel.” He pointed his sword at an ornate door of patinaed bronze.
Suddenly a woman screamed; and though it was difficult to tell distances in the winding corridors, she seemed to be nearby. The prince halted abruptly. With a pained, anxious expression on his face, he listened to the woman. “We just can’t run off and leave that poor woman to Rahu’s men.”
Bibil’s nostrils widened as he inhaled. “I don’t like it any better than you do, but we have to think with our heads, not our hearts. We can’t save everyone in the palace.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Spock said. “Our primary objective is to get you to safety.”
The prince twisted sideways as if the screams were a magnet drawing him toward it. “That’s easy for you to say, gentlemen, but I couldn’t live with myself if I turned my back on that.”
“You may not live at all if you don’t come with us right now.” Bibil looked the prince up and down critically. “Don’t let all our little victories go to your head. So far we’ve only met and scattered sword bait. Sinha are made of sterner stuff.”