Mazes of Scorpio [Dray Prescot #27]

by Alan Burt Akers

  When it was done, two, at least, ran screaming. They did not run with all their bodily parts intact or functioning; but they were able to run away. Their companions lay scattered about the chamber. And forgive me, I mean scattered.

  By Zair! The things a man does when he is frustrated!

  The malko guards, grim with their gorilla faces and their metal-studded leather armor, had been posted to watch over a series of cages. These iron-barred receptacles held an assortment of slaves. They were well enough dressed for slaves, the girls in tissue-thin vestments and strings of cheap jewels, the men oiled and shaved, other men, of a variety of races although unarmed unmistakable mercenary guards. They all looked miserable, as slaves look downcast; but they appeared well fed.

  A voice called, “Splendid, Jikai. Now let us out of here, in the name of Hiscielo the Chuns."

  “Whoever he might be,” I said to myself, and went across to the cage from which the woman called.

  I knocked the lock off with a single blow. That is always a fine spirited—and empty—gesture. As soon as I'd committed that extravagant act of folly I checked the Krozair longsword, just in case ... The edge was unmarked from the iron. Which, given the art of the Krozair swordsmiths, was as it should be.

  The woman said, “So, Jikai, you prefer your sword to me?"

  Prepared to be gracious to a gracious lady, I contented myself with a churlish: “Perhaps."

  Well, she was beautiful. There was a kind of mesmeric force attached to her beauty. Everything about her appeared to be perfect, and that, very often—not always—adds up to a lack of perfection in the totality. Her hair was bright gold, long and rippling free over a turquoise dress girdled with gold. Her figure would take the breath away from any man who has not seen my Delia. Beside my Delia, this beautiful shining woman looked artificial. She was overwhelmingly aware of her personal attraction, for the force of her beauty, and the power that beauty conferred.

  She smiled alluringly at me. Her teeth were very white—they would have to be, seeing the list of perfections she possessed—and her lips were of that melting red that gets in under a fellow's ribs and twists about like a white-hot knife.

  I made her a small bow. I was still wrought up, with the smoking corpses of dismembered men casually tumbled about.

  “My lady—"

  “You call me majestrix."

  “So you're Queen Mab, then?"

  She smiled.

  “Release my servants. We must leave here at once."

  I used more caution in opening the first cage holding a fat fellow with three quivering chins and a pot belly, garbed in black and green and with a great golden chain around his neck. I remembered the pit where we had freed Milsi.

  “Open up the rest, dom,” I said, and ignored his affronted dignity. The queen merely smiled.

  Yet, in that smile, I thought I sensed rather than saw a puzzlement, as though she could not understand my attitude. She couldn't grasp why I hadn't been bowled over by her beauty.

  Well, people like her no doubt bathed in blood every day. A few poor fellows butchered meant nothing to her...

  As though carrying on that thought, she said, “You fight exceeding well."

  “When I have to."

  She frowned and the lightning flashed. “Majestrix!"

  Her own guards were crowding out now and running to pick up the malkos’ fallen weapons. I had no desire to get into another fight. “Majestrix,” I said dutifully.

  She smiled.

  Then I realized what the smile was for—it was certainly attractive, lighting up her face, as they say—it was designed to render me totally her slave, bound to her by adoration of her beauty. I did not laugh. I wasn't that far sunk in boorishness, by Vox!

  She said, “Anglar! Move everybody out. We go that way.” And she pointed to the black door at the end. So, the black door was the way we all went, fussed over by our fat friend in the black and green, and the chins, and the gold chains, Anglar the majordomo.

  The corridors through which we walked were wide and well-lit, only a little dusty, and quite free of traps.

  Feeling in no mood for conversation, I replied when spoken to and nothing else. She grew a little restive.

  “You ask me nothing of this place. Have you been here long?"

  I had to bite my lips to keep from shouting with mirth.

  I eyed the guards she employed. They were all hulking great fellows, of a variety of races, and they carried weapons, and although I could probably put up a good show, I had no desire to fight them. So, because of that, I did not reply, as I ached to do, “Do you come here often?"

  Mind you, by the disgusting diseased left eyeball of Makki-Grodno, had I done so, things might have turned out a little differently, by Zair!

  Probably because of that feeling that I was reacting in a typically boorish way to a woman too conscious of her own powers of beauty and rank, and wishing to make amends, I said, “Majestrix. I am covered in the blood of those poor malkos, and I, perhaps, offend you. I must clean up as soon as possible."

  And she said, “Jikai—you are very dear to me as you are. Do not fret."

  Unable to make anything of this, or unwilling, I managed to mumble something and we walked on. In the next chamber we found a series of magnificently spread tables laid ready for us. And, in a small room in the corner, a bath.

  I washed myself clean. I gave no thought to the oddness of finding a bath, where before we had traveled in our own muck, sweat and others’ blood...

  She had prepared a chair next to hers, on her left hand, a chair smothered in chavonth pelts and ling furs, a chair almost like a throne. It was not, I saw as I sat down, quite so bountifully supplied with the symbols of rank as the chair in which she sat. The food smelled wonderful, looked marvelous and tasted delicious. It was, without question, superior to any food I'd come across before in the Coup Blag.

  She spoke with her mouth full of basted chicken leg.

  “You called those diabolical warrior malkos ‘poor malkos’ after they tried to slay you. They are very fierce. Do you feel guilt over their deaths?"

  “Yes."

  “But why?” She sipped wine, a red superior vintage, and swallowed. “They are fit for carrion."

  “They are guards, paid to do a job."

  “And are you paid to do a job?"

  “I have been, in my time."

  She leaned back against the pelts, and poked into her mouth with a bejeweled little finger. She spat a scrap of meat. Then she remembered.

  She sat up.

  “And you call me majestrix! Do not forget."

  I said, “I will not forget, majestrix, if you do not."

  For an instant I thought I'd gone too far. Then she smiled. That smile was a marvel, truly!

  “I forgive you. I have never met a man like you before."

  By Krun! If platitudes had been invented on Kregen, which they were not, she would have been first in the line.

  It occurred to me that she would be pleased if I told her I'd never met a woman like her before. As this was almost true, I compounded the lie and told her. Her smile dazzled.

  “Yes. I know. I am something special..."

  “Oh, yes,” I said, taking up a deep rosé with just a hint of purple around the edges of the goblet. “Very special. Something quite else again."

  And, as I thus foolishly ate and drank and tried to think of what to do next, I gave no heed to what was actually taking place around me. All I could see was a queen, and with her her retainers and guards, supping well. We had a walk to go before we escaped. But we would escape, I was certain. As I say, I overlooked the most elementary of questions. I offer in my exculpation only that the horror of this place must have worked on me, that I was worried over the fate of Seg and Milsi and the others, that I was tired—well, no, being tired is a sin, and I have no truck with it.

  She said, “I had a map, a certain route through the Coup Blag. But it was lost."

  Still no alarum bells t
ingled in my stupid old vosk skull of a head. This Queen Mab quite clearly knew what she was about, was used to wielding power, and I felt a dim stirring of surprise that so powerful a party as hers had been taken up. At least, our group were still free ... At least, at the least—I hoped and prayed they were.

  “I think,” she said. “I think I shall enjoy walking with you.” Very gallantly, waving the goblet aloft, I said, “And I with you, majestrix."

  So, off we set again. There was a marked absence of traps in the corridors and rooms. I mentioned this. Two rooms later three of the guards were squashed against the roof as a stone block in the floor reared up on springs. Queen Mab just looked, tut-tutted, and we walked past on the other side.

  She talked in a fine free way, animated, a flush across her cheeks. She displayed a queenly indifference to the horrors in this place. As we walked and talked, and what I said remains mostly a mystery to me—mainly a pack of lies about the romance and thrill of being a wandering adventurer and paktun—she would say, “Just so,” and, “I see,” and look suitably wise, bending her head graciously.

  The slave girls in their silks and bangles looked bedraggled, and dragged their feet. Noticing this, I remarked that we were all tired, and that I hadn't slept in a long time. At once she lifted her hands in the air, looking toward her servants. Then she half-turned, halting, to look at me. At the time we were passing through a dim chamber suffused with a wan greenish light, and stuffed with piled coffins, from which stray wisps of cloth and desiccated limbs protruded.

  “Tired? Oh, of course they are.” She lowered her hands to her sides in a helpless gesture. “The poor things."

  “We'll all march the better for a rest, majestrix."

  “Most certainly. But let us find a more pleasing chamber than this."

  The corridor, only a little dusty, turned and we walked up an incline. The next room, which was duly prodded by guards in what I could only take as a perfunctory manner, yielded nothing save a giant stone statue of some multi-limbed beast, standing on one leg at the center and trying to reach, with his tentacular trunk, a bunch of hanging fruit. The thing was grotesque. We hurried past.

  The next room opened out into a blaze of light from crystal chandeliers.

  I looked up, gaping. I expected the things to break free and fall on our heads, trying to slash us to ribbons.

  A gigantic bed, big enough for a regiment, occupied the center of the room, masked by hanging damasks. Sweet scents cloyed on the air. Tables were laid with fruits and evening meal delicacies, and wine stood in amphorae.

  The queen clapped her hands.

  “Rest, everyone. Take your ease."

  Everyone immediately flopped down on the cushions and rugs strewn about the floor. I looked about.

  “Guards?” I said. “Majestrix."

  “Guards? Oh, of course. Anglar—set guards."

  He bowed deeply, his black and green robes flapping. He flourished his ivory wand at a hulking great Chulik, whose tusks were set with diamonds. The Chulik looked savage.

  “Nath the Kaktu! Set guards as commanded. Bratch!"

  Nath the Kaktu bratched, bellowing fiercely at his men. They went off and lolled at the entrances to the chamber. I decided that I'd sleep lightly and keep my fist wrapped around my sword hilt.

  Now some of the three or four-armed folk of Kregen, and some with tail hands, who look like apims as far as faces are concerned, have been known when down on their luck to dress as apims, with their extra arms hidden. They may then wander through bazaars and markets, looking all innocence, and use their extra hidden hands to seize food and goods from the stalls and secret them inside their capacious clothes. One has to watch for rogues like this everywhere.

  So—one of the guards, who looked like an apim with bad teeth and a ferocious haircut, standing guard by a door opposite the head of the bed, twitched his tunic around under his armor. I glanced across, caught by the movement, and Queen Mab called to me, lazily, a husky note in her voice.

  Immediately, I walked toward the enormous bed, not wishing to give gratuitous offense, and the guard was forgotten for the moment.

  A young fellow was in the act of walking away from the bed curtains, which were half-drawn. His skin was a clear smooth bronze; he had a pretty face, with crinkly hair and a rosebud mouth, and he looked sulky. His sulkiness turned to a look of hot resentment as he passed me. I ignored him.

  A group of the slave girls gathered at the foot of the bed and began playing musical instruments and singing. The slaves carried enough boxes and bales to explain the instruments as well as the sumptuous clothes the queen wore. You may judge of my condition, a condition obscured from me at the time, when I say that I found the music enjoyable.

  Now Delia can play the harp like an angel. Often of an evening in Esser Rarioch we would have musical sessions, and Jilian Sweet tooth would play her flute. Jilian is an accomplished flautist, and Delia's friends would gather and play and sing and we'd have a wonderful time. It was refined, of course, and very far from my evenings singing with the swods in taverns; but it was not ludicrous. Aimee could play a Kregen instrument not unlike a zither and the harmonies the ladies produced would have charmed birds out of trees. If I have not mentioned Aimee before it is only that she has not figured in my more hectic adventures up until a little later on.

  So, now, I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the music and enjoyed it, even though they performed that miserable song out of Hamal, “Black is the River and Black Was Her Hair.” This is so painful as to be farcical.

  The extent of that bed was truly amazing. The coverlet shone silkily, the pillows resembled the thighs of romance, the hanging tapestries and damasks glowed with amorous scenes. I watched as the music finished and the queen ordered her people to leave. Leaving that bed was like departing from a room of itself. The last hanging dropped into place and we were alone in the subdued glow of the lamps.

  Well, she looked magnificent, like a wild beast of the jungle about to leap on her prey. She wore her golden hair loose, waving down in deep folds about her naked shoulders. The robe clung narrowly to her waist, slit from throat to ankle, and the golden lace blazed against her pale skin. Her mouth formed a luscious circle as she pouted at me. She stretched out a naked arm.

  “Jikai—I am waiting."

  Well, now...

  Judge of my condition when I found myself advancing upon her across the wide expanse of the bed. Oh, yes! I, Dray Prescot, savage wild leem of a fellow, moving in on this delectable woman who lay back, pillowed in her golden hair, as the robe parted. It was all beyond belief.

  The thought of Delia sprang into my mind, and the queen said, “You have loved before, Jikai, I can tell. But they were nothings. Mere trifles. I own that I am surprised—"

  I swallowed. Her perfume dizzied me. She was really beautiful, now, I could see that, beautiful and desirable.

  The way her skin flushed delicately with rose, the way her body curved, the way her mouth pouted, red and shining with passion...

  “Surprised?” I managed to stammer out. “I am surprised—"

  “You should not be. I am irresistible! My surprise is for myself, that I have formed so violent an attachment for you."

  A roaring thundered in my head. There was only the body of the queen in the whole wide world of Kregen before my eyes. I inched closer, and now I was crawling over that silky coverlet. She lifted her naked arms, white and pink against the blaze of her hair.

  “Irresistible! No man can resist me, not even you, Dray Prescot!"

  “Majestrix,” I mumbled.

  “I am tormented with longing for you,” she went on, her face flushing now, her body rising as I neared her. “I am prepared to—no matter—you are the luckiest man alive..."

  She was very sure of herself. Well, she had every right to be. She was delectable. And she was arrogant with her power, conscious of her sway. Women have this power, it is undeniable. They use it; that, too, cannot be gainsaid. No doubt they
boast of their conquests, woman to woman, in their private moments. I cannot stand a man who talks about women, and I usually withdraw when men start their boring conquest stories. As for women who boast to men...

  The image of Delia rose before me, scalding.

  I stopped moving forward.

  She saw. Her face lengthened, her eyes brightened in the lamplight, her gaze fastening on me like the teeth of a shark, a remora, leaching away.

  Two things happened, one a memory, the other a movement. I truly believe and would stake my immortal ib on it—I saw through her and jerked back before those two events occurred.

  One—the memory—was what she had called me, without a Llahal or the pappattu between us.

  The other—the movement—an insolent brown and red scorpion waddled out from under the pillows and stood, balanced, waving his stinger at the lush and naked body of the queen.

  Saved by the bell?

  No!

  Saved because I understood all too tardily just what went forward here. And, then, many men would not call it being saved; they'd call me all kinds of benighted idiot. But I knew—and could guess—and in that moment the full horror hit me.

  She saw the scorpion.

  She screamed.

  That scorpion was real to her, if not to me, real and not a part of the mumbo-jumbo.

  She was off the bed and scrabbling for the curtains and they parted as Anglar thrust in, and, with him, the bulky form of the Chulik, Nath the Kaktu. Anglar swept a massive green and black cloak about the woman, massive in that it concealed her body and hooded up over her head and turned her into another being. The golden hair fell away, ripped free. Dark hair, dark and shining, swooping down to a peak over her forehead lay revealed. Her face blanched with vicious temper.

  She stood and a trembling finger pointed at me.

  “I shall not slay you, Dray Prescot. You resist me now. But you will submit—you shall submit! If it takes all your life, you shall submit!"

  I said, “I do not know who you are. You are not Queen Mab. But I do not know you."

  “You will, Dray Prescot, you will!"