Armada of Antares [Dray Prescot #11]

by Alan Burt Akers

  The knife pricked my skin, slid, cut, and withdrew with a sparkle of my blood on the tip. This would take a long time.

  I watched Naghan Furtway.

  The knife cut again, cunningly, painfully.

  Naghan Furtway stood up, drawing that chavonth-patterned cape back, resting his hand on the hilt of his rapier. The knife licked out and the pain stung. Soon that pain would coalesce from many tiny pains into an insupportable agony.

  Kov Ornol looked up, frowning.

  “Sit down, Horter Furtway. There is much to come."

  So they knew, here in Hamal, who Furtway was.

  “I think not, Kov."

  “What in Havil's name do you mean! As Malahak is my witness, Horter Furtway, this cramph of a Chaadur suffers torment to my orders before he dies."

  “I think not, Kov. This man's name is not Chaadur."

  Kov Ornol spluttered. “That is what he says, the lying rast! You believe his story?"

  “No. For I know him, aye, I know him well."

  “That is nothing to me. He murdered my wife and has been adjudged guilty. I will have what the law allows—"

  “I have the ear of the Queen. I think she will not be pleased if you persist, Kov Ornol."

  That was threat enough to make any man think twice.

  Between these two, the Kov and the ex-Kov, there was a great gulf. For all his bluster, cruelty, and evil, Kov Ornol ham Feoste was a mere blunderer, an oaf, compared with the refinement of cunning and calculation of purpose of Naghan Furtway. The sheer hardness of the man in the chavonth-patterned clothes blunted all Kov Ornol's bluster.

  “The Queen must be informed at once.” Furtway was looking at me much as a leem stares at a ponsho. “If you persist, Kov Ornol, the Queen will order done to you what you do to this man."

  “You cannot speak to me like that! I am a Kov of Hamal! I know—"

  “You know nothing, Kov. The situation between Hamal and Vallia is what concerns us here."

  “You are a Vallian disgraced and thrown out of your own country!” Ornol blustered on, very plum-colored of face, struggling to rise and confront Naghan Furtway.

  “So I know what I am saying."

  The tormentor and his little knife withdrew, thankfully. He wasn't going to commit himself until the argument was settled.

  Ornol ham Feoste gestured with irritated anger at the torturer. “Get on with it! Take no notice of this fool of a man who thinks he is a Kov still! Cut him!"

  “I will tell you, Kov Ornol, since you are bent on running headfirst into mortal danger. The Queen will want to deal with this man herself, personally. She will excuse no one who balks her of that. I tell you, you foolish man, and you will not listen."

  Kov Ornol puffed himself up and half drew his thraxter.

  If he set to with Furtway the latter's rapier would spit him before he could call on Malahak as a witness.

  “Guards!” bawled the Kov of Apulad, this foolish, incensed, half-demented Ornol ham Feoste.

  “Then you will have to know and see the truth, and the error you fall into Kov Ornol. And once I tell you, the guards must seal this yard and the Queen must be told. At once! There is great danger here for us all."

  “What in a Herrelldrin Hell are you talking about?"

  “This man, this murderer you call Chaadur, is a man the Queen will give great riches for. And I am the man—remember that, Kov Ornol, and you who sit here—remember, I am the man who brought this rast to justice.” He swung around, the chavonth cape flaring. He pointed at me, evil triumph lending him a spurious but frightening dignity.

  “That man is Dray Prescot, the Prince Majister of Vallia!"

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  Empress Thyllis takes me for a stroll through Ruathytu

  King Doghamrei slashed me across the face and screeched: “You lie, cramph, you lie!"

  Queen Thyllis sat forward on her crystal throne, with the golden steps, the zhantil pelts, the Chail Sheom chained in their golden chains, and the manhounds lolling fearsomely below her. She propped her chin on one white hand and regarded me with those slanting emerald eyes.

  “Bagor ti Hemlad!” she said. “What you say cannot be believed, for you could not have survived."

  I'd felt pretty rough, I can tell you. This cramph Doghamrei had drugged me and had me thrown burning from a skyship, as I have told you, and I suppose it was natural that Queen Thyllis should not believe that. She was far too wily a bird to believe what King Doghamrei said. She had that onker's card marked. He was the King of Hirrume, a moderately sized kingdom within the Empire of Hamal, and he hankered after getting rid of the Queen's husband, the King who was a mere cipher and a friend of Rees, and then King Doghamrei planned to marry the Queen and settle himself in comfortably as Emperor. I fancied that Thyllis, with her intuitive grasp of affairs, kept her husband under strict control as a counter to this idiot Doghamrei, who still had adherents and men who would cry for him.

  So, feeling weak, I lolled against the guards and used them to prop me upright. The torturer and his knives had done no real damage; my weariness came from many sources of punishment over the past sennights. I'd bellowed to the Queen what Doghamrei had done when I was being played with by the Queen, and she, not really finding it possible to believe what I said, while certainly not believing what Doghamrei said, chose a middle course and beckoned to Naghan Furtway.

  Furtway approached the golden steps. The slanting emerald eyes regarded him, and before she spoke the white pointed teeth bit onto a full moist lip.

  “So you claim Bagor ti Hemlad is the Prince Majister of Vallia?"

  “I know nothing of this Bagor, Majestrix.” Furtway spoke up. “But this is Dray Prescot. I know."

  “Majestrix!” brayed Ornol ham Feoste, struggling forward. “The cramph is Chaadur, the murderer of my wife!"

  The Queen regarded the two of them in turn, and then looked at me. “So the man who is Bagor ti Hemlad, and with whom I have an account still open, is Chaadur and also the Prince Rast of Vallia, hey?"

  The situation would have brought that marvelously delightful tinkle of laughter to my Delia's lips. Even I could see the humor of it, and I was pig in the middle. They were debating here in the great hall of the palace, debating on a man who had three names, and all wishing to claim him as theirs. The Hammabi el Lamma contained many a dark secret and many a hideous story; I doubted if the stinking place had witnessed such a farce before. I had acted like a great onker here once, dressed in ridiculous and humiliating clothes. I had been hairy them. My beard now, although nowhere near as long, presented the Queen with strong memories of Bagor ti Hemlad, that was sure.

  Across the shining marble lay the slab covering the hole beneath which grew the leprous-white syatra. Men and women who made mistakes and displeased the Queen were popped down there...

  All these people knew they plotted on the knife-edge of disaster.

  So, as I glared up at the Queen and pondered if I slew her now would that materially assist Vallia, I was aware that my Delia would laugh in amusement at the situation, but would feel absolute horror at the plight of her husband. Thank Zair, she was safe in Valka, in Esser Rarioch, and her women would be readying the layette. Doctor Nath the Needle and Thelda would be there, and Aunt Katri, also...

  “Bagor! Do you wish to feed the syatra?"

  “No, Queen."

  “Are you Chaadur?"

  One lie was as good as another.

  “No."

  “Are you Dray Prescot?"

  I stared up at her. Could I deny it? I saw the green glitter of her eyes, the corner of her lip caught between her teeth, the way she leaned to look at me, the betraying movement of the golden bodice. And I saw that she already knew the answer. Other men besides Naghan Furtway must have come to Hamal, fugitives from Vallia. There was his nephew Jenbar for a start. Possibly Nath Larghos, who had been Trylon of the Black Mountains, was here. I'd knocked his eye out and maybe he was dead. Anyway, Inch was now Kov
of the Black Mountains. There must be others of the third party who had escaped. They were hatching a plot here, that was certain; but more immediately they could identify me. I was sure they already had. That would be Queen Thyllis’ way.

  So I stared up at her and pushed myself upright from the guards, plunking my chained fists on my hips. She saw my face. She did not flinch back, but—and I admit now I enjoyed it—her eyebrows drew down as though in sudden pain, and her teeth bit so hard she drew blood from that ripe lip.

  “You stupid onker,” I said. “Queen Thyllis. Vallia has thrown out these rasts, and now you plot with them. They are failures, and so are you. Your evil Empire of Hamal is doomed. Vallia will crush you like a fly."

  I was not too happy with the fustian this time. It had not boomed and rolled out. It did not convince me.

  Thyllis was offended, but she was not convinced either.

  “So you are the Prince Majister of Vallia!"

  “Aye!"

  “And you think I shall ransom you? Demand a huge sum from that evil Emperor, so you can sail home to plot against me?"

  “You can try to extract ransom from the Emperor, if you wish. You'll waste your time. If you want ransom—"

  “Ah, but, Dray Prescot! I shall not ransom you!"

  In my heart I knew she would never let me out of her clutches for ransom. I wondered what the Emperor, that dread ruler who was Delia's father, would do if he had this woman, this Queen Thyllis, penned in his dungeons in his capital city of Vondium.

  She threw a sweetmeat to one of her jiklos; it lifted its maw and caught the fragment out of the air, chomped once, and the piece was gone. It wore gold necklaces, I noticed, but the bands around the creature's neck and the attached chains were of solid steel.

  “Shall I feed you to my jiklos?"

  I didn't bother to reply.

  At my back the great hall was packed with courtiers, soldiers, guards, and the petty clients from the lands owing allegiance to the Empire of Hamal. They made a gorgeous picture of barbaric magnificence. The Queen would not be hurried. She wanted to make the most of her bur of triumph.

  “Would you fight in the Jikhorkdun?"

  I was tempted to say “Put a sword in my fist and see!” But I ignored her.

  Her personal bodyguard, stalwart apims clad in the beautiful mesh link mail manufactured in some of the old countries bordering the Shrouded Sea, stood lined out on either side of the throne. Feathers and golden ornaments made them popinjays, but they could fight well enough, I knew. The Chail Sheom, lovely and yet pathetic in their scraps of sensil, glowed with beauty in chains along the steps. The zhantil-skin pelts reminded me of the magnificent wild animals slain to provide a touch of grandeur to the surroundings of this evil woman.

  “Answer me, nulsh! Is it the Jikhorkdun?"

  “I do not care,” I said at last. “Hamal is finished, whatever you do to me."

  “Liar!” she screamed suddenly, and painful blood flooded into her white face. The green eyes blazed. She beat her fist on the arm of her crystal throne. “Liar!"

  “You're a fool,” I said, and leaned back on the guards to rest my legs.

  “We have smashed the armies of Pandahem—aye, and your raggle-taggle bobtail of an army from Vallia! Now we go forward into Jholaix and all Pandahem will be mine! Mine!” She was panting. “As for Vallia! We'll attack Vallia and smash that Lem-forsaken blot from the face of the world!"

  “If you trust in Lem,” I said, “you're more of a fool than I thought."

  She almost lost control. But she was a Queen. She had suborned good men to put her on the throne. Rees had fought for her. She forced herself to lean back, to let her hands uncurl from fists to claws. She smiled. “I know what I shall do with you, Dray Prescot, Prince of Cramphs! But first you shall taste the cup of bitter humiliation while I drink from the cup of victory!"

  I did not know what she meant then, but two days later—days spent in a hole in the wall below the palace—I found out.

  It is in the nature of a man to be himself, despite himself, and it was in the nature of this woman Queen Thyllis to be a bitch. Also, and this seems unarguable, it is in the nature of a victor to be seen to be victorious.

  I was dragged out. They did not remove the chains. They cleaned me up and fed me so I felt better. The stone walls of the dungeons dripped with moisture, niter-gleaming. The guards contained many more diffs than there had been before in the Hammabi el Lamma. A little Och came forward with a strip of red cloth. My blue breechclout was taken away and the red cloth was wrapped around me. It was not the old brave scarlet, but it was red. In the circumstances I took no great heart from that. I suspected the reasons for the red, and I did not like them at all.

  They gave me a huge breakfast of slursh and red honey, then a Brokelsh, cracking off jokes typical of the witticisms of his race, sawed off a quantity of my hair and beard. They handed me a skin bag of wine—a foul red rubbish from the lees of all the barracks, I suppose—but I drank it off. They gave me a handful of palines. They wanted me sober and able to appreciate what was going on. Then they led me aloft with the iron chains, up the narrow stairs, slimed and gloomy.

  By this time I had fathomed out what was going on.

  It was, given the circumstances, both obvious and simple.

  I will not go into all the doings of that day. It was a day of Hamal's greatness. Queen Thyllis celebrated a huge triumph. She gave public thanks to Havil the Green for the victory of her armies before she finally took the crown and the scepter. At last she sat on the throne, the Empress of Hamal.

  Her husband the King went through all the procedures as a pale shadow hovering near, deferred to by those of lesser ranks, but a cipher, a puppet, a pawn, there only for the legality of the whole proceedings. Thyllis had adapted with great cunning all the high thrones, daises, and platforms on which they rode as well as the boloth palanquins, so that she always sat higher than her husband the King.

  The procession was vast, glittering, magnificent, superb. It wound slowly through all the chief thoroughfares and boulevards of Ruathytu. I knew many of them well as we went along. All the vantage points were loaded with sightseers. Every foot of the way was crowded with people shouting and cheering.

  “Hamal! Hamal! Thyllis! Thyllis!” And how triumphantly she must have heard their new yell: “Empress! Empress! Havil keep the Empress Thyllis!"

  Dust puffed despite the slaves and their swinging watering cans. The suns shone down. The flags flew. The trumpets shrilled. Bands played all the famous marches of Hamal, swinging down boulevard after boulevard, circling the kyros and the Jikhorkdun and the merezos. On and on went the procession, animals caught for the display, chained slaves, the trophies of battle, loot taken from the despoiled palaces of Pandahem. Regiment after regiment marched, and even in my state I could observe that many of the regiments were brand-new, composed of young men from the guls. Probably there were clums there, also, for Hamal had formidable population resources if she admitted the despised clums to the ranks of her army.

  Cavalry trotted. I wondered if Rees was there, so I asked my guards, to be told no one had heard of him. They were all new men...

  Above us in the sky flew the vollers and the flyers, creating patterns against the opaz glare, a proud symbol of Hamal's might. The noise of cheering buffeted every step of the way.

  As for Thyllis, true to form, she had bedecked herself in gorgeous simplicity. A long green gown, loaded with gems, fitted the needs of the occasion with a singular appropriateness. She looked regal—no, rather, she looked imperial!

  How superbly she aped those notorious Queens of Pain of Ancient Loh, aped them and surpassed them!

  Her howdah aboard a massive boloth which swayed along on its sixteen legs had been so lavishly decorated I wondered how many families of guls might live for how many years on the value of the jewels and gold alone. She sat high. She sat with only a feathered fan behind her head so she might be seen by everyone. The sight of that barbaric mag
nificence must have thrilled everyone who watched. For the cruel empress of a cruel empire, the Empress Thyllis was supreme and superb.

  After all that long procession of booty, slaves, and soldiers had wended for bur after bur through the streets of Ruathytu, Empress Thyllis in her fantastically decorated howdah aboard the equally fantastically decorated boloth followed. Apart from an honor guard of zorca cavalrymen who brought up the rear, she let everything precede her and so lead on in a mounting frenzy of expectation to her own glittering arrival.

  A space had been left between the last marching body of men before the boloth. These last were her personal bodyguards in their link mesh, and others marched on either side of the boloth, with zorca-mounted officials. In that space a single calsany trotted along. People guffawed when they saw that beast of burden, the lowliest of the low, trotting along with down-bent head, always ready to accept the beatings with sticks which were the lot of the calsany.

  Chained to the tail of the beast, dragged along, went the man who was known to the crowds as the Prince Majister of their hated enemy Vallia.

  How they booed as I was dragged past, trying to keep on my feet, being dragged by the chains and the tail of the calsany. Every time the calsany became frightened by the noise and the close-pressing throngs he did what all calsanys do when they are startled.

  The cramphs of Hamal had not forgotten a thing.

  Lashed to the harness of the animal in an upright position a flagstaff nodded along. Someone had told them, Furtway, probably, and they had stitched up a red flag with a yellow cross. This fluttered from the staff atop the calsany's back as I stumbled along at the rear.

  So, I, Dray Prescot, Prince Majister of Vallia, took a proud part in the coronation procession of the Empress of Hamal, and I stumbled along with Old Superb flying over me.

  I do not believe I wish to dwell more on that day.

  It was absolutely certain that if Rees, Chido, Nath Tolfeyr, Casmas the Deldy, or anyone of that circle of friends and acquaintances I had made in Ruathytu, saw me as I staggered along, the chains clanging and hampering me so that often I fell and was dragged before I could claw up to my feet again, then they would never recognize this man at all. It makes sense. If you see a man you know to be the Prince Majister of Vallia, all filthy and grimed, chained and humiliated, dragged through the streets at the tail end of a calsany, how could you possibly for a moment imagine he was Hamun ham Farthytu, the Amak of Paline Valley? No, there was no risk that I would be mistaken for the Amak.