Delia of Vallia

by Alan Burt Akers

  The ornate coach which had led her coffle of slaves ground to a halt a scant dozen paces from her. Totrix riders reined in and zorcamen jangled to a halt. Lances slanted, their pennons whipping. The sound of armed men and women surrounded her. She lay as quiet as a woflo from a chavnik.

  “They have begun the dance already, blast your eyes, Nath! We are late!”

  The coachman turned his head. “Yes, master.”

  “You will be given ten strokes, Nath. Ten.”

  “Yes, master.”

  The coach disgorged a man wrapped in a cloak, a helmet upon his head, an air of force and bluster about him. He stamped booted feet. A totrix rider dismounted, flung the reins to a waiting Jikai Vuvushi, and approached this blustery blowhard of a man.

  “Chica! Go and tell my sister I am here. Bid her send her tame slaves to attend me before I dance!”

  “At once, jen,” said that same Chica who had been so severe to the slaves in Delia’s coffle on the way here. She strode off, long-legged, virile and potent, a fighting maid from sole to crown. A nasty customer, that one, judged Delia.

  Looking from the shadows, listening, cursing these fools for interfering with her meticulously planned escape, Delia waited as the man Nath the Muncible approached this stamping blowhard who was Kovneva Nyleen’s brother. A right pair, then. She eyed the zorcas. One of those, now, under her, and they’d never catch her... Few animals on Kregen were as fleet as a zorca over ground.

  “Your orders, jen?” Nath the Muncible spoke in his even voice.

  “See to the men. Keep them well away. You know how my sister detests all men.”

  “Aye, jen. All save you, thanks be.”

  “She cannot do without me.” The words came out big and puffed. Delia felt it time to begin to creep away in the shadows and see about a zorca. The big man went on talking, spitting his words out with venom. “She married that fool Vomanus and so we are one step nearer the throne. The moment the empress arrives and can be killed the quicker we can take the second step.”

  Chapter twelve

  Just Delia, Playing the Harp

  The empress stopped moving.

  Breathing evenly, alert, motionless, still as a reptile waiting to strike, the empress crouched in the shadows and the words she had just heard reverberated in her brain.

  “The moment the empress arrives and can be killed...”

  Escape this night, then, was out of the question.

  Delia fancied she wanted to know a little more of the plot to kill her. If she ran off now...? Well, she could always return with the armies, as she had planned. That way something might be decided. But she was Delia. She was Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains. She was Delia of Valka, and Empress of Vallia, and also queen and princess of this and that, and kovneva and Stromni of other fair places on Kregen. She was honest enough to admit to herself that, while all these fancy titles might mean more to her than perhaps they ought, they weighed evenly in the scales beside her sisterhood in the Order of the Rose.

  She could remember her father the emperor continually complaining because his advisers and pallans and counselors would protect him and not allow him to go running headlong off into danger. She had had a fair share of danger. But she was Delia. Of course, she was well aware that she had been influenced by her husband. He, the great hairy clansman, had been powerfully influenced by her, to their mutual joy, and he was adjusting nicely to being emperor. In this situation neither of them would be likely to run off.

  The blood in their veins might boil hotly at injustice and they would do what they could to set things right. But they were no plaster saints. If they scented adventure, they were after it like a leem after a ponsho.

  So, now, Delia waited quietly in the shadows, her decision taken and her mind firmly made up.

  She’d dance attendance on this woman and her brother, these two Gillois, and not only would she find out what they were up to — the pair of scoundrels! — she’d see to it that their precious schemes came to nothing. And if the pair of them ended up dead, that would be their misfortune.

  Nath the Muncible moved quickly to the steps of the coach. Watching, Delia saw how he moved in a fussy and yet hesitant way. He assisted a cloaked figure to alight. Delia watched avidly. Another member of the cutthroat gang, clearly, come to join in the plot. Well, he’d lose his head as easily as the others.

  The face in the hood of the cloak lay in shadow. Torchlights struck twin gleams from the person’s eyes. The Lord Gillois na Sagaie stamped and turned, his sword swinging.

  “Everything will be prepared for you, Sana, immediately.”

  The woman in the cloak acknowledged the information. The hood twisted around. For a moment, a matter of a half dozen heartbeats, she looked directly at the spot where Delia hunkered down in the darkness. Delia held her breath. The world fined down to that hooded face and those twin gleams of light from hidden eyes.

  The hood turned away.

  “Very well, Cranchar. I am in need of a bath and clean clothes. I do not think I shall attend your sister’s dance. Convey my regrets.”

  “Yes, Sana, of course.”

  Movement followed as the Sana was escorted away by two serving girls from the coach and by Nath the Muncible. If the Sana was a wise woman or a witch, Delia could not tell, the ancient title of sana being used indiscriminatingly for any woman whose powers were beyond those of normal folk.

  Time to be moving.

  Nyleen would be calling for Sissy and Alyss to go off and assist the new arrivals. Delia moved like a hunting cat of the jungle, smooth and feral, soundless in the shadows.

  The flagstone made a faint chiming gong note as the last corner dropped. Motionless, clad once more in her silver tissue and beads, she glared around. A hard shadow moved against a distant torchlight.

  “Who’s there?”

  Armor clanked. A broad form blotted out the light.

  “A Chail Sheom? What are you—?”

  Delia leaped.

  She was not fussy. She was quick and professional.

  The guard’s armor and helmet and sword and shield did not save him. He had marched in with his lord, and now he lay on the ground with a broken neck for all the good his zeal in guarding had done him. Delia flexed the muscles in her arms and shoulders. The fellow had needed a shave. She ran fleetly away, skillfully taking the shortest and darkest route, fled up the backstairs.

  She made it back to the refectory with a second to spare.

  “Sissy! Alyss! There you are, you ungrateful girl. Attend the lord my brother. Mind you are punctilious.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Well, then — grak!”

  They grakked.

  Luckily for Lord Cranchar Gillois na Sagaie, he wanted nothing more from the girls than attention to his well-being. Hot water, towels, wine — these they provided. Anything further would have distressed Delia, for she wanted to find out about the plot against her before she slew him.

  She had to allow Sissy to deal with the mysterious cloaked figure addressed as a sana, and when the two girls could talk afterward, she asked the obvious question.

  “Oh,” said Sissy, tossing her head, for all her uncertainty determined not to allow this new girl Alyss to oust her from her position as the number one handmaid, “Oh, she’s a witch. No doubt about it.”

  “Ugly?”

  “She had nice hair.”

  “Beautiful?”

  “Her body was too thin.”

  Delia did not really care what the witch looked like; what counted was her power.

  This gave credence to what she had heard at Lancival about sorcery being employed by the Sisters of the Whip, for Delia believed she had stumbled on a hotbed of that order here.

  “She complained there was only one handmaid to wait on her. She was horrible.” Truth to tell, Sissy did look upset. “You were lucky with the Lord Cranchar. Now he is here we shall see a few things!”

  When they returned to the refectory the
dance was the Pandamon Jut Gallop, a dance brought over from the island of Pandahem. Delia did not dance. She wondered just what those few things might be that Lord Cranchar would show them in a household of women. The music grated on her, despite her shutting her ears. Presently she stood up and went across to Sissy. Nyleen was prancing with her brother.

  “Sissy. Don’t you want to dance? I’ll play the harp.”

  “You can?”

  “A little.”

  “If you make a mess of it, my lady will have us—”

  “Don’t worry. Look, here is a chord—” Delia swept her hand over the strings, and then pressing the round of her palm against two strings finished up with that thrilling vibrato with all its mysterious over and undertones that only a harp can fetch forth from the soul of music.

  “We-ell,” said Sissy. “All right.”

  So Delia played the harp.

  The Strom of Valka had once told her in genuine and abashed amazement that he’d no idea at all that she could play the harp. Well, by Vox, and hadn’t she sweated blood for season after season learning the mystery? She played divinely.

  Presently the other musicians stopped scraping and blowing and banging.

  Presently the dancers stopped dancing and crowded around.

  Delia played on. Her repertoire was vast, culled from many races and cultures of Kregen, and she played now with a release of her feelings, letting herself, for the moment, forget her problems in the spiritual uplift and the earthy chuckle of the music. She forgot she was slave, she forgot she was empress; she was just Delia, playing the harp.

  When she finished and the strings thrummed into an echoing silence, she sat back, at once filled and exhausted.

  No one said anything until the Lord Cranchar, slapping his thigh, exclaimed: “Sister! You have a slave there worth a sack of gold!”

  “Yes,” said Nyleen comfortably approving of this new source of wealth dropped upon her. “When I decide to sell her.”

  In his decorated evening robes, flushed from the dance, high of color, Cranchar might consider that he looked splendid in the eyes of many a woman. The women here, except one or two including his sister, kept away from him. He always had ample body space. They did not look squarely upon him, and if by chance their glances happened to meet his, they would look away with a furtive sliding motion to which he could only respond with a bear-like roll of his shoulders.

  In looks he superficially resembled his twin; but his hair was of the darker Vallian brown, and his face, far from being of an icy complexion was fiery, choleric, and with the veins sprouting blue. He stamped his feet a lot. Delia rose from the harp and, demurely, made her way to where she had been bidden to sit in attendance upon the kovneva.

  From then on Delia was commanded to play the harp as a regular part of her duties. She still had to run with the fur-rimmed silver bowl and the towels. But more and more as the days passed, the harp-playing overtook all her other work.

  Fresh batches of slaves arrived, and a certain amount of readjustment took place in slaving duties. The fortress was being turned into a luxurious palace, and remaining a fortress despite all. She was unmolested, and as she played she listened to the conversations between brother and sister, between the kovneva and her cronies — and she learned no more of the plot against the empress.

  The witch, who was called Fiacola the Gaze, remained closeted in the chambers reserved for her use. She was regularly attended by Sissy and some of the newer slave girls whom Sissy attempted to train. Delia was content to remain with Nyleen, play the harp, and listen. But, she promised herself, she would not wait forever. If nothing more transpired of this famous plot, she’d escape and bring the army down on this decadent place. If they were all swept away down to the Ice Floes of Sicce, there’d be no more plot. Yes, by Dee Sheon!

  Chapter thirteen

  Nyleen Enjoys Herself

  When Delia was thrashed she told herself that she had had enough and that as soon as her back stopped hurting she would escape.

  The afternoon before had not appeared any different from any afternoon. The twin suns shone. Food was eaten and wine drunk. The harp was played. Toward evening the woman in the green gown, girded with keys, Paline Pontora, the chatelaine, told her mistress that a batch of male slaves had been brought in. Nyleen nodded. Her teeth caught up her lower lip. A slumberous look about her eyes and a marked flush of her cheeks denoted a greater significance to this information than was at once apparent.

  This time the refectory was cleared of tables and benches, not for dancing but for games of a more sinister nature. The Lord Cranchar did not attend. He bore the cognomen of Cranchu, and this, alone, was enough to mark him as a man of savage temperament and cruel ways. Yet he did not attend.

  The bewildered men slaves, stark naked, were herded in by Jikai Vuvushis, armed and armored. Spear points prodded narrow buttocks, whips licked expertly around shanks and backs and ears. The men yelled in pain and shuffled on in their chains. They were an unremarkable collection of men, some tall, some short, some fat, some thin. They stood in a bemused huddle as first two and then another two of their number were selected. The ladies sprawled in fascinated attention on divans and chairs about the cleared central space. Guards stood at alert, waiting for any rebellion. No doubt some of them relished the chance to lick a whip around a fellow’s bottom. The sports were varied and ingenious.

  All of them meant pain, humiliation and indignity for the men, and death at the end. That death was not quick in coming. The screams bouncing from the ceiling of the refectory would have chilled a listener’s heart. The men were not gagged. That, it transpired, would have blunted the women’s pleasure.

  Delia watched not so much in horror and pity, as in a dull and futile rage.

  Whatever of inhumanity woman could show to man was performed there, in iron and lash and blood, in sporting events that led through agony to fresh agony, until death could be the only winning post.

  The races of the iron spikes, the hurdles of the sawed blades, the fights between men who believed that the winner might be allowed to live — only to discover their mistake when they screeched their triumph — the whiplash contests between girls who prided themselves on the skill and cunning of their whip arms — all these passed in a miasma of distant horror to Delia. She had to believe what she was witnessing. After all, many a girl had said in a passion that this was what she’d like to do to a man, to any man, to all men. It was understandable.

  Nyleen craned forward on her chair, anxious to catch the moment when a man with a shock of fiery hair decided he had had enough and would beg for his death.

  She snapped her fingers at Delia.

  Dutifully, Delia brought forward the silver bowl.

  She did not care to look at suffering and death. Also, she did not much care to watch Nyleen. The kovneva moved. Just how it happened, Delia was not sure. Nyleen was sure.

  “You stupid bitch! I’m wet! Look—” Nyleen lifted herself. She shouted: “Ilka! Drag her off. Stripe her! Thrash her!”

  “Yes, mistress. How many?”

  “How many? There cannot be too many...”

  Ilka lifted her silver rod. “The harp, my lady?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sissy, bring a fresh towel. Give the bitch twenty, then. Mind they are good and strong — no, wait. In the morning. Yes. I will watch myself in the morning.”

  So, in the morning, they stretched Delia’s naked body out and chained her down and so thrashed her with a thin and whippy rod. A Jikai Vuvushi hit her. Ilka counted on her slate. And the Kovneva Nyleen watched.

  Because she was acting the part of a slave, Delia shouted.

  Truth to tell, she was not sure that she possessed the fortitude and willpower not to scream her head off.

  She felt terrible. She did not faint, but the world went away from her for some time. The fire traced scorching fingers down her back. Liquid agony poured into her. Each narrow stripe shocked through her, as though some devouring monster c
losed his fangs on her head and chewed her right down to the soles of her feet and then back again — each time.

  They let her rest all that afternoon. In the evening she was expected to play the harp.

  The harp badly needed tuning, which was a difficult task. She did not consider herself to be particularly adept at tuning, although, of course, this she could do. Nyleen came in and watched her for a space, and then said: “And are you sorry, slave?”

  Delia was sorry, all right. But not for what Nyleen imagined caused her that sorrow.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “You will not be so clumsy in future.”

  “No, mistress.”

  The girl wearing the black and white skins hauled on her couple of werstings, and the hunting dogs snuffled and followed obediently after the kovneva. There were other hounds in the other ward, opposite the yard holding the kitchens, but just how many couples Nyleen owned Delia had no way of knowing.

  The kovneva walked toward Delia. Her icy face showed no emotions of compassion as she said: “They have treated your back?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “That is good. You are valuable.”

  Nyleen put her hand on Delia’s shoulder where the pearl beads clustered. She ran her hand down, over Delia’s bare and scorching back. Delia gasped. The kovneva turned her hand, moved it down around the ribs and onto Delia’s stomach. She rubbed, reflectively.

  “When your back is mended I will have other tasks for you. More enjoyable tasks. If you have learned your lesson.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Nyleen fondled for a moment more and then walked off trailed by her retinue. Seething with emotions that in this situation were ludicrous, Delia returned to the harp. Sissy had said Nyleen was gentle. Given the opportune moment, Delia did not believe that the empress would be gentle.

  To make an effective escape she would have to have a riding animal. Those werstings, tame and blunt-fanged though those she had seen might be, could still run down a poor half-naked girl escaping through the forest. Run her down and hold her for the hunters to ride up with their whips and chains and nets.