Intrigue of Antares [Dray Prescot #44]

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Ruined a perfectly good shirt. People here don't seem to know what a proper shirt is. All right, my dear feller, I'm with you.” And Dagert of Paylen hitched up his rapier belt and followed along the corridor.

  Palfrey the Pfiffer whispered: “I spent your gold, notor. A lesser chamberlain—squeaky little Och—good idea of the layout.”

  The relish in Dagert's reply could either amuse or repel a listener according to their sympathies. “I see, you rogue. If you contrive to extricate us from this Havil-forsaken palace safely I might think about not docking the gold from your wages.”

  I did hear Palfrey's reaction, mumbled under his breath. “When I do get paid, by Atchel the Usurer!”

  Oh, yes, by Clichol the Covetous, master and man ever at loggerheads!

  Our surroundings were those, I surmised, halfway between dungeon and the kov's quarters high above. Carpets clothed the floor, tapestries adorned the walls and the lamps burned with sufficient light for us to see all we needed. The scent of jasmine sweetened the air. We saw no guards. Palfrey hesitated occasionally at corners; but he led on with confidence.

  “Where's the confounded door, you hulu?” demanded Dagert.

  “Near, notor, near.”

  The atmosphere of this place had to be held at bay. It oppressed unpleasantly, and the knowledge that if we were recaptured we could look forward to torture of an extremely ferocious kind did nothing for our peace of mind. The rumble of voices from ahead made us jump swiftly into the shadows of a draped archway. We stood, still and silent, as people passed by.

  A small knot of guards led, clad in the black and red with the addition of purple trimmings. They looked healthy and well fed and supremely assured of themselves. There followed a group of handmaidens, all pretty and adorned in feathers and pearls in the best traditions of the old stories and legends. The woman at the center of the party took my instant intrigued attention. Her face was bright and bold and like a hawk's, yet she was as apim as I. Her clothes were sumptuous with a wide cleavage down her shamlak. Everything about her bespoke eloquently of power and authority and yet, in the downdrawn set of her painted mouth, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, I detected dissatisfaction, a resentment of something that preyed on her mind.

  When the rearguard passed out of sight and earshot Palfrey let out his breath. “The Lady Vita. Pray to Kaerlan the Merciful we do not fall under her hand for judgment.” He licked his lips. “She leads her husband, the Lord Jazpur, a merry dance.”

  I was astonished. Was I, then, so outrageously wrong in my summation of the animosity between Brannomar and Khonstanton?

  Dagert of Paylen, clearly, shared my own bewilderment. “Now what does she want here in Khon the Mak's palace? She was not a prisoner?”

  “Didn't look like it,” I agreed.

  “Let us hurry, notor.” Palfrey led off again. He did not exactly run; but we scuttled along to keep up.

  Moving on side by side we followed Palfrey through a hall hung with brocades of the Hunt of the Nine Veiled Witches and into a narrow corridor where Dagert moved ahead. As he passed he turned his head to stare at me. “One thing puzzles me, Drajak. If the sword Khon the Mak took to pieces was not Strom Korden's sword—and you had it, everyone knows that—where is the real sword now?”

  I said: “As Havil is my witness, I have not the slightest idea.”

  “Fonnell had it. We know that. And the Fristle is dead. So what did he do with the sword?” Now Dagert was ahead and he looked away, padding after his manservant. “D'you think those thieving Katakis of the City Watch filched it, the evil Whiptails that they are?”

  “If they have, they will sell it to the highest bidder.”

  His low amused laugh sounded odd in these circumstances. “Yes, there are plenty of them, by Krun.”

  We reached a crossway and Palfrey hesitated. “Well, fambly?”

  “Let me think, notor—”

  “Ha! Think! As well let a calsany into a boudoir!”

  “This way.” Palfrey padded off.

  “I've had him since he was a stable lad with straw as yellow as his hair stuck to him all over. I took him into my personal service and trained him and mollycoddled him and cared for him.” Dagert breathed in and out. His nostrils pinched. “And this is the way he repays me.”

  “By Krun, Dagert!” I said, stung. “He rescued us and now he's leading us out of this infernal place. What more d'you want? Blood?”

  “If necessary.”

  As I made no reply but forged on silently, Dagert went on: “And I notice you apostrophize the name of Krun.”

  “I've lived in Hamal for a time.”

  “Ah! D'you know Ruathytu?”

  “The capital? I was there once.” I did not elaborate.

  Palfrey stopped and motioned us to join him. We peered over his shoulders. I was telling myself to keep my black-fanged winespout shut. I didn't particularly want Dagert of Paylen to know I'd roistered with the Bladesmen in the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu. Information of that kind would do me no good here. We saw before us a wide stone-flagged hall lit by tall windows. A double-door stood at the far end. The place was deserted.

  “That's it, notor.” Palfrey sounded self-satisfied.

  “The devil take it!” exclaimed Dagert. “There's no cover.”

  “The quicker the better then,” I said, and started off at a run.

  Their footsteps padded after me. I outdistanced them and reaching the doors flung them open. Oh, yes, it was reckless. But I was tired of this palace reeking of evil. Mingled sunslight streamed in and I stepped through. There was time to glimpse a courtyard with baltrixes being led along by hostlers past stables at the far end. The blueness swooped in.

  One moment I was ready to leap forward; the next I felt as though I'd been upended and was flying through the air, coldness chilling me through to the bone. All about me the gigantic form of the phantom blue Scorpion enveloped reason. Up I went, up and up to my confrontation with the Star Lords.

  A final glimpse of the twin Suns of Scorpio dripping blood and verdigris down the sky flashed past my vision and I was hurtling headlong into that macabre mingling of ruby and sapphire, red and blue twining all about me. A soft springiness cushioned my body. I was sitting in a comfortable armchair, the scent of lavender sweetened the air and the world turned red in whorls of patterned color, falling away like the last leaves of autumn in whispering clouds of gold. I was sitting in a fashionable room with pictures of flowers and birds adorning the walls, with long purple-red drapes framing elegant windows, chandeliers shedding mellow radiance upon exquisite furniture, chairs and tables and chaise-longues of impeccable taste, and the last blue dregs of the phantom Scorpion's wings faded away and were gone. I drew a breath. Now my audience with the Star Lords would begin.

  There was no delay.

  “You have been brought here, Dray Prescot, to answer certain questions.”

  “Willingly.” I spoke with measured deliberation. My relationship with the Everoinye had so far changed recently that I could speak to them normally—well, almost normally. They had once been human and I knew they still possessed a sense of humor. In truth, only a sense of humor could save their sanity, given their awesome powers that without the leaven of a good laugh must inevitably have driven them into the final darkness of ultimate madness. “And there is a question I would ask you.”

  “She is well and thrives.” The hoarse remote voice brightened. “As a kregoinya, the Empress Delia is proving one of our finest. What she sets out to do, that she accomplishes in style.”

  “Of course,” I said. “She is Delia.”

  “We had hopes that her husband might share that aptitude and mend his ways. Sadly, you remain a rebellious miscreant.”

  The voice from thin air did not threaten or bully; but there was no mistaking the old sharpness of condemnation so familiar from seasons of arguing with the Everoinye and of cautiously slanging them. I sat up.

  “What have I done wrong now?”
r />   “Once again, Dray Prescot, you presume.”

  “Oh, come on!” I said, baffled. “Princess Nandisha is safe. Fweygo and I have—”

  “You have abandoned your charges to go about other pursuits.”

  I breathed in and then out. I did not want to get back to the old familiar relationship with the Star Lords, of the soul-shaking fear of being hurled back four hundred light years to Earth. I said: “All I did was honor a promise to a dying man. Anyway, it looks as though this confounded sword has a great deal to do with Nandisha's kids and their aspirations to be next in line for the throne. Is that right?”

  If they'd gone on in the old hateful way of: “That is not for you to comprehend,” I would not have been surprised. As it was, there followed a silence, and silences between us I was very used to, then the hoarse whispering voice said: “You misread the situation, Dray Prescot. We had thought your onkerish days over. It does seem you remain an onker of onkers, a get-onker and—” Here another voice took over the chant of condemnation. “Not a prince of onkers any longer. A veritable Emperor of Emperors of Onkers!”

  “You dumped me down in Amintin and the princess is safe.” I had wanted to chew another complaint over with them, so I went on forcefully: “You gave me a Krasny-work sword for the useless thing broke almost the first time I hit anybody. I do appreciate not being hurled naked and unarmed these days—”

  “Perhaps you would prefer to return to that state of affairs?”

  Before I answered I reflected that, indeed, over the seasons I had developed a technique for handling an argument with the Star Lords. I changed the subject of conversation and—more often than not—they followed up the new train of thought and left off avenues of enquiry I did not wish to pursue. So now with all the business of the onkers out—as I fondly hoped—of the way, I said: “No. On Kregen a weapon is vital, as well you know. I've had to skip and jump over the seasons to fend for myself—as again well you know.”

  “Yes. And because you have the yrium which gives you power over others you have always managed.”

  “That's as may be,” I grumped. “But I don't like swords breaking in my fist when I hit a villain over the head.”

  “Dray Prescot, you are being tiresome. You know very well that Tolindrin has difficulty in forging steel of quality.”

  “They have money, do they not? Gold and silver? Let them buy swords from Zenicce where they know how to make them.”

  “You were sent to Tolindrin equipped as an ordinary fighting man. If you require superior weapons not easily come by you must provide them yourself. As you have always done.”

  “I will, I will. Fweygo and I will see Nandisha is safe so that her kids can have the inheritance of the crown—”

  Was there a tinge of irritated tartness in the disembodied voice? Impatience at stupidity? “We told you you misread the situation.” So they had; but I'd changed the subject of conversation.

  “You do want Nandisha—?”

  “Who succeeds to the throne of Tolindrin now is of no concern to us. You have been told that you, Dray Prescot, are to be the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of all Paz. That includes Tolindrin, does it not?”

  Not for the first time talking to the Star Lords if I'd been wearing a hat I'd have torn it off and flung it down and jumped on it.

  I managed to control myself enough to burst out: “And I've told you that the task is well-nigh impossible! By Zair! A whole parcel of continents and islands and all to be ruled over by one mortal man? It's insane!”

  “Not so. You say only it is ‘well-nigh’ impossible. You have the yrium. It will be done.”

  There was no profit going on with this argument. My own views of maniacs who crave power and wish to rule over vast territories they'll never visit are well known. Still and all, I'd have to do what I could. Otherwise—I checked my thoughts. No, I would not think of that horror.

  I growled out most ungraciously: “I'll try.”

  “Good.”

  Then what they had said sparked in my brain. “Not Nandisha? You do not care who? Then, who are Fweygo and I caring for?”

  “The numim twins, Rofi and Rolan, of course. Who else?”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter sixteen

  “Where have you been?” said Fweygo. “You look in a hell of a mess.”

  “I'll tell you.” I slumped myself down in a chair in the room in Nandisha's palace given over to our use. The phantom blue Scorpion of the Star Lords, this time, had dumped me down in a quiet corner of a street on the same hill as the palace and I'd had only to walk along the Avenue of Musk and so cross the Kyro of Perfumers to reach here. “First of all, by Beng Dikkane, I need a wet.”

  Fweygo put down the sword he had been fiddling with and handed the jug across and I poured a healthy dose and took a huge swig. I wiped my hand across my mouth. “By Mother Zinzu the Blessed! I needed that!”

  Fweygo didn't smile. He saw enough of my mood to allow me to explain in my own time. He took up the sword again and extended it. “Your opinion, Drajak?”

  The blade was a drexer, that particular pattern of sword developed by Naghan the Gnat and myself. It had been made in Vallia. The hilt bore more ornamentation than I cared for. Weapons are made for a purpose. Embellishment seems to be either redundant or in bad taste. Still, the auction rooms of Earth are filled with examples fetching inflated prices. Back in the seventeenth century they'd stopped using bone for inlay and began decorating weapons with mother of pearl. This sword I knew to be a fine fighting arm; all the mother of pearl in the world would not make it better. I gave the brand a few swishes and slashes. “Very fine.”

  “Picked it up in the aracloins. It cost gold; I believe it worth every last copper ob of the price.”

  The Star Lords had mentioned that in Tolindrin the forging of quality steel was difficult. Fweygo had a bargain here all right. He went on: “I see you are wearing a rapier and dagger for the left hand. I assume you know how to use them—they're called the Jiktar and the Hikdar.”

  “I've used them before.” As I spoke I heard the ungraciousness of my tone. I had to rouse myself, get to grips with this new situation.

  Fweygo eyed me and took a sip from his goblet. He put that down and said: “My father always took a walk through the forest, swishing at dead flowers with the cane he always carried. I felt that cane, too, from time to time. He was a good man, stern and upright. He never decapitated a flower in bloom. Never.”

  “I've been up to see the Everoinye. D'you know why we're here?”

  The Kildoi whistled soundlessly through his teeth.

  “I expect, my Sudden friend, you will inform me.”

  “Oh, aye.” I handed him back the Vallian drexer. “It's not Nandisha. The numim twins, Rofi and Rolan.”

  He sucked breath through his teeth, did not whistle, and said: “The Everoinye charged me with the whole party. They have their ways of doing the great affairs on which they are engaged. I understand.”

  I glowered. As a good kregoinye he'd work for the Star Lords and never remotely think of questioning their motives. There was in him an undercurrent of feeling that differentiated his attitude from that of Pompino or Mevancy. They stood in awe of the Star Lords—and, by Krun, wasn't that a sensible thing to do!—and so did Fweygo; but he showed far less of the almost adulatory worship in other kregoinyes. I wondered how they'd recruited him. No doubt he'd tell me in his own good time.

  “That being the case,” he said, sliding the drexer away in its scabbard strapped among his arsenal, “protection of the princess makes very great sense. She extends her power over her retainers.”

  “I agree. It's just nice to know where we stand.”

  “All the same, I often ponder, as I am sure you must do also, on the ultimate reasons for the Everoinye's choices. Will the future be changed because of these numim twins? Will they affect the destiny of nations?”

  As you will have realized I was in an odd mood.
So I let my black-fanged winespout blabber on. “I once saved a young man and girl, at the command of the Everoinye, and they married and had a son. Seasons later that son, who was then a mighty king, murdered my own daughter.”

  His eyes widened and then his face remained expressionless. Kildois are not emotional folk as a rule. He said: “I am truly sorry.”

  I took another drink. My hand did not shake. Fweygo went on: “I trust you sent the blintz down to the Ice Floes of Sicce?”

  “He went there all right. But not by my hand. My daughter's husband saw to that necessity.”

  “So be it. You, I think, my friend Drajak, are somewhat in need of different air.”

  “Somewhat.” I suppose, truth to tell, the mention by the Star Lords of Delia was affecting me. She was headstrong, resourceful, utterly determined. If the Star Lords hurled her into situations similar to those they had so callously tossed me into then I had to believe she would be Delia, and would handle herself and the problems with her own vital spirit. She'd come out smiling and glorious and wonderful and—I felt my fingers gripping the goblet so that the knuckles gleamed like white skulls.

  “As to your other activities, well, you'll tell me or not according to their relevance to our task here.” His tail hand waved gracefully. “I own I am not too enamored of Oxonium.”

  There was no reason not to tell my comrade of Korden's sword and the misadventures attendant upon its loss. He pulled a whisker. “And you believe the sword to be important enough to neglect—”

  “Oh, come on, Fweygo. You're here and you're worth a regiment.”

  He had the grace to smile at this. “Depends on the regiment.”

  So I smiled, too, and felt the better for it and one of Nandisha's servitors walked silently into the room to say: “Horters, your pardon. There is a man asking to see Horter Drajak the Sudden.”

  The use of the Havilfarese word for lord—notor—here in Tolindrin was paralleled by the use of the Havilfarese name for gentleman—horter. I nodded. “If he looks safe, Tafnu, send him in by all means.”