Secret Scorpio dp-15

by Alan Burt Akers

  Once again I was entering Vondium at breakneck speed and with a single definite goal in mind. I flashed over the broad expanse of pastureland and agricultural activity surrounding the city. The waters of She of the Fecundity, the Great River of Vallia, sparkled ahead. There were the Hills, spread out and bowered in greenery, with the flash and gleam of white villas and red roofs. There were the sky-spanning aqueducts. There the grim gray walls and the higher battlements in gleaming yellow and sapphire, the flagstaffs, the conical tower roofs, the long, incredibly thin extensions of archways beneath the suns. Other fliers circled in landing and ascending patterns. The broad swaths of the major canals and ornate boulevards crisscrossed the city, creating islands of stone or brick, the timber and stucco island given over to parks and preserves, islands covered with barracks and factories, islands for sport, islands for all the devoted pursuits that obsessed the citizens of Vondium.

  Of it all I fastened my eager gaze on the enormous Palace of the Emperors. Over wide colonnaded streets parallel to the canals we flew, this speedy little voller and I, seeing below the broad wharfside avenues thronged with busy people. Over a cluster of temples, built to foreign tolerated gods, over an arm of a canal leading directly to the Great River where shipbuilders worked on the skeletons of galleons of Vallia, bare and ribby in the light. On, and now I slanted down, aiming for the palace. The majestically architectured kyro before the main facade showed its usual hectic activity and few people bothered to look up at a single small air-boat.

  Chafferings in the marketplaces would not be interrupted for so small an event. But what events were taking place within the glowing walls of the Palace of the Emperors?

  The instant I touched down on the landing platform above the small garden of the palace wing reserved for the Prince Majister, I leaped out. Delia’s old apartments had been enlarged and improved and when we stayed in the capital we stayed in our own private wing of the palace. I raced inside, seeing servitors running. Delia and I kept no slaves; there were many thousands of slaves in Vondium, aye, and many in the great palace of the Emperors.

  Normally we kept only a skeleton staff in our wing of the palace for, to be honest, we spent little time there. Now the place hummed with activity and very soon I had made my way, followed by various flunkies who conceived it their duty to run with me, just in case I might drop something, or require a service — Zair knows why servants will fuss so — through to our inner and truly private apartments. The Jiktar of the guard detail, a Pachak called Laka Pa-Re, bellowed his men to attention.

  “The princess?” I asked, not stopping.

  “In her apartments and all well, my prince, may Opaz shine the light of his countenance upon her.” Then he added, quite outside the usual military formula: “By Papachak the All Powerful, my Prince, it is good to see you!”

  “And to see you also, Laka Pa-Re.”

  His men bashed open the balass door smothered with the gold zhantils with diamond eyes, and I went hurrying through. Laka stood back, still remaining at attention, his tailhand upthrust with that wicked steel blade glistening. He had retained his Pachak name for he was a mercenary, a paktun — the silver mortil-head on its silken cord looped over the shoulder of his armor proved that — and perhaps a greater contrast could not be imagined than between his loyal service as a paktun and the thieving deviltry of those masichieri I had been stumbling over lately.

  The tall balass doors closed and I looked down the carpeted corridor with the golden lamps and the ivory ornaments, the great Pandahem jars filled with flowers, the silver mirrors, and the doors at the far end opened and a trim figure clad in hunting leathers stepped through. At her heels a prowling, incredibly ferocious Manhound trotted, tail lashing, fanged jaws opened, saying in that growly, spitting, menacing way of jiklos: “. .Deserves to be spanked, the hussy.”

  They saw me.

  Delia simply flew at me, wrapping her arms about me, kissing me, laughing and sobbing, saying breathlessly, “I know, my heart! I know what you will say! But this cannot wait!”

  I held her close, feeling her heart beating against mine, holding her, the dizzying scent of her in my nostrils, twining around me, making me wonder why I ever was fool enough to leave her. I forced myself to regain my senses. I took her by the shoulders and held her off, looking at her, at her face, her eyes, her mouth, her hair. “Delia! What cannot wait?”

  “I am forbidden to tell you.”

  I felt outrage.

  “Who can forbid the Princess Majestrix of Vallia? Your father-?”

  “No.” She looked gorgeously lovely, yet filled with a distress I could not hope to understand then.

  “All I can say is that I love you, that I must go, that — by Vox!” she cried, which made me realize how serious a matter this really was. “By all that I hold dear I will tell you as much as I may — and more, I dare say, if you hold me so and look at me like that.”

  My ugly old face must have been a sight, by Zair!

  “Well?”

  She spoke more calmly. “I must hurry. You know I am of the Sisters of the Rose. .”

  “Yes.” I began to have an inkling now.

  “I dare not tell you, even though you mean all there is in the world to me. But, but, dear heart, you are a man.”

  “And you are a woman and, to pile the cliche upon the banal, I give thanks every day to Zair that it is so.”

  “Do not laugh at me, my darling! This is women’s business. The Sisters of the Rose, we hold our secrets

  . . well!” She flared up as her thoughts sought utterance. “Do I question you too closely about your precious Krozairs of Zy?”

  I felt only a small shock.

  “No, my love, you do not. For you know I am under vows.”

  “And may not a woman, even if she is your wife, also be under vows?”

  Instantly I felt the biggest boor in two worlds. I felt an onker, a calsany. What right had I to pry into exactly those areas of my Delia’s life that were, through other forces, denied her enquiry in mine?

  I drew her to me and kissed her. The kiss was long and passionate and if she was in a hurry to be about this mysterious business of the Sisters of the Rose she was in no hurry to end the kiss. At last I stepped back and released her.

  “You have everything for the journey? Melow will go with you? Weapons, clothes, money, food, the fastest voller?”

  “Yes, yes, my heart!” She laughed. “Do not take on so!”

  “When you go venturing out into Kregen, my love, you must take all the protection you may.”

  “That is true. But the Sisters of the Rose take care of their own. We do a great deal of good, in a quiet way. We have opened two new hospitals for sick slaves in the past year. And when there is a war. . well, you know.”

  Yes. I did know. The Sisters were invaluable. There were other feminine orders, of course, notably the Sisters of Samphron and the Order of Little Mothers and the like. Delia often abbreviated in the Kregen way, calling the Sisters of the Rose the SoR, as I abbreviated the Krozairs of Zy to Krzy. This was important, truly important.

  So I contented myself with making sure she had everything I could think of — save myself — upon her journey. Melow would go, and a female Manhound, a jiklo, can rip up a wersting or a neemu and the chances of a strigicaw are not all that bright.

  Melow the Supple jagged her fangs and said in her hissing voice, “Do not fret, Dray Prescot. The princess is a canny girl and knows her way about. I can but wish you had eased two more sets of twins into the world for me.”

  “Hush, Melow!” said Delia.

  The Manhounds of Kregen are indeed a fearsome sight. Artificially bred to run on all four like hunting cats, ferocious of aspect, deadly in killing skills, superbly muscled, they can strike terror into the stoutest heart. Yet this Melow the Supple, for whom I have a great fondness, savage and vicious as she was, was a kindhearted mother of twins. She was dressed in bright clothes, for she loved brilliance in dress, with neatly groomed hair
and wearing sandals over those gut-ripping claws. I put out my hand and touched her cheek.

  “Take care of her, Melow.”

  She grimaced and hissed, as much as to say what an onker I was and I ought to know better than even to mention so obvious a thing.

  Then I said another stupid thing.

  “Thelda?” I said to Delia.

  Well Thelda, Seg’s wife, had been companion to Delia in some fraught moments in our lives, and she always meant well, and she always said that she was Delia’s best friend. I knew Thelda belonged to the Order of Sisters of Patience — I invariably found a high amusement at that particular trifle of appositeness — so I couldn’t be surprised when Delia very calmly said, “This is a matter for the SoR, my love. Now you have delayed me long enough. Come on, Melow.”

  She kissed me again and I let her go reluctantly, saying, “But you haven’t said when you’ll be back.”

  “When you see me.” Then she relented, and said, “I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.”

  I saw her to the voller. And it was no joke; she’d selected our fastest four-place craft. I saw the way she solemnly observed the fantamyrrh as she stepped aboard.

  I stood back. The guards and the retainers stood in a ring, all looking up. The voller sprang away, with Melow looking over the side like some frightful gargoyle, and rose up into the limpid air with the streaming mingled lights from the Suns of Scorpio lighting up her side and blazing like a beacon.

  “Remberee, my love!”

  “Remberee, my heart!”

  And the flier spun up and away and soared over the glittering rooftops of Vondium. Damned independent in their ways are the girls of Kregen.

  But, then, that is just as it ought to be.

  Eleven

  We sing the songs of Kregen

  “All praise to Papachak of the Tail!” said Laka Pa-Re, and he thumped his empty flagon back onto the stained sturmwood table with a crash. All around the low-ceiled room of the tavern men were drinking and shouting, a few were brawling, some were trying to play Jikalla and being continually interrupted. The clatter of dice sounded from the corner and on the opposite side a Pachak was tail-wrestling a comrade amid spilling wine bottles and toppling ale flagons.

  This was the famous tavern The Savage Woflo, an example of the warped Kregan humor that either amuses or infuriates, for the woflo is a wee creature of extremely timid nature, overfond of cheese. Among the tables ran remarkably pretty girls of various races carrying wide wooden trays stacked with foaming jugs or exotically shaped bottles. These serving wenches were, unfortunately, slaves. They were clad in transparent draperies, with tawdry bangles and beads, with colored feathers, all designed to enhance their natural beauties. Well, I suppose that in some cases they did. But generally cunning old Urnu the Flagon, landlord of The Savage Woflo, had an eye for female beauty and his wenches — I dislike the commonly used word shif for these serving girls for it indicates a contempt I do not feel -

  were every one carefully chosen at the auctions and paid for above the standard price. Normally I avoided places like this and when in Vondium and in need of a quiet drink I would go down to Bargom’s Rose of Valka by the Great Northern Cut. Bargom, a Valkan, did not employ slaves and aroused some bemused envy that he managed so well without their unwilling aid. Now the Pachak paktun, Laka Pa-Re, yelling for more ale, handled these slaves girls with a courtesy I fancied was not assumed for my benefit. This tavern, the famous Savage Woflo, was much patronized by the guardsmen. No female customers were allowed. Such a thing was still possible in Vondium. This was a male preserve and, I suppose, on Earth would have been choking with smoke as well as the fumes of alcohol.

  “By Mother Zinzu the Blessed!” I said, lowering my flagon. “I needed that!”

  Saying that little aphorism cheered me up, although Laka had never heard of Mother Zinzu the Blessed, the patron saint of the drinking classes of Sanurkazz.

  “You do me great honor, my Prince, in drinking with-” he said, until I shushed him. I wore simple buff tunic and breeches and swung a rapier, as we all did here, where brawls and good-humored swishings of blades were common occurrences. I wished to look inconspicuous. Laka also wore plain buff, out of uniform.

  “If you must call me anything, let it not be prince,” I said. “Rather, merely call me Nath and have done.”

  “Aye, my Pri- Nath!” he bellowed, and used that cunning tailhand to whip a fresh flagon from a passing girl’s tray. She squeaked and laughed — all simulated, for that was how the customers liked to think these girls behaved — and ran on with slender flashing legs to fetch more ale. There were Fristle fifis, and sylvies, and shishis here, as well as other races of beautiful girls. There were no Rapa girls or Och maidens, but then there were few of their menfolk in the tavern either. A parcel of Chuliks sat glowering at a table, steadily drinking. When the singing began the Chuliks would depart to find a place where a fighting man might drink without having to sing. That is the way of Chuliks. I had come here because — and then to admit the true reason would be to betray more, perhaps, than I cared to. I knew that I would hear gossip here that might be overlooked in the echoing corridors of the palace. Also, I felt sure that one of the emperor’s agents would be here listening. What he would report might not tally with what he heard.

  For the emperor’s position had been steadily eroded.

  Covell of the Golden Tongue had said the tavern plots were all moonshine. Maybe they were. But I felt the need for a drink and a song in masculine company.

  Most great nobles of Vallia kept up their villas in Vondium even if they only visited them once or twice a year, and their guards patronized establishments like this, so there were many varieties of uniform and colors among the civilian dress. The Vallian Air Service was notable by its absence. Also, Laka was one of the few high-ranking officers present. I noticed three other Jiktars and quite a few hikdars, but the majority of the drinking, gambling, shouting men were deldars and swods. When I had quizzed the Pachak paktun as to why he had said he was pleased to see me, he had answered evasively, even defensively, but now he was thawing out and eventually he said: “It’s like this, my Pri- Nath. I drew guard duty on the Prince Majister’s wing of the palace. I do not grumble at that. But I see things. I hear things. There are men among the guards — aye! Men I have known! Men who speak behind their hands. They have been bought by gold.”

  “Who is doing the buying? And to what end?”

  He took a swig and wiped his mouth. “For one, the Racter Party. Oh, yes, they have a hand in everything in Vallia. But why should Naghan Nadler, who has been a paktun for twenty seasons and will make ob-deldar soon, take gold?”

  “Why?”

  “Why, because they want to buy his sword! And others like him. There are plots against the emperor. Everyone knows that. A little gold spread around now will buy loyalty when the plots hatch. That is my opinion.”

  “And you have reported this?”

  He opened and shut his lower left hand, and his right hand gripped and tugged at the pakmort around his neck on its silken cord. “I wanted to speak to you.”

  I was not sure if he had done right. But this was no time to suggest he might better have taken another course. What struck me, forcibly and with a chill of foreboding, was the frightening thought that whichever of the parties — or perhaps all of them — that were bribing guards to fight for them had reached the swods. A simple swod may well be a terrible fighting man, but it is the captains and generals who carry the say when bribery is in the wind. I felt pretty confident that Laka had not been approached because all men knew once a Pachak had given his nikobi to serve an employer his loyalty remained steadfast. But a swod in the ranks, being given gold, told to obey orders that would not come from his employer, this typified the destruction of values, the end of one way of life and, if a new began, a system barely nameable as life.

  So, as you can see, I was in a highly wrought state.

  Hadn’t I suborned guardsme
n before, to fight for me against their employer, and, by Vox, wouldn’t I do so again? But at the least, no mere petty ambition had driven me, to topple a throne for the sake of the power.

  So we drank and talked and I watched the clientele, seeing the many different patterns of banded sleeves, each set of colors denoting a man belonging to a noble house. Even among these soldiers and guardsmen the white and black favors were flaunted openly, along with the white and green of the panvals and other color combinations. A Pachak hikdar, squat, leather-faced, roaring his good humor and slopping ale, plunked himself down on the bench opposite Laka and bellowed a greeting. When the confusion died down Laka introduced him as Nidar De-Fra, an old mercenary comrade newly arrived in Vondium with his master. This Nidar wore banded sleeves, for he was in uniform, the banded colors of unequal widths of blue and green and yellow, with two thin vertical stripes of white. It must not be taken that these color-banded sleeves of Vallia are like the tartans of the Scottish clans; but with their color-coding, once a man saw a combination of shapes and colors he would know it again and know the owner. This Pachak, Nidar De-Fra, had given his nikobi and his sword to Kwasim Barkwa, the Vad of Urn Stackwamor. He was in the capital because his master wished it. Anyway, as all men knew, the emperor was due to return from his journey around the far southwest. Here the Pachak laughed and said that the southwest was a joke and all men knew the future of Vallia lay with the northeast.

  There is good comradeship among the Pachak mercenaries, and their intricate system of nikobi can sort out the rights and wrongs of employment and the puzzles of when a man may in honor fight a comrade under employment. Now these two talked of old days. I looked for a moment at Nidar. He did not wear the pakmort, but he was wholly convinced that northeast Vallia must demand self-determination and break away from the empire. This astounded me. I clamped my ugly old mouth shut and listened. When Nadar’s term of service with Kwasim Barkwa ended he might take employment with a noble of the south, and then he would be as vociferous that the empire should stay in one piece. A mercenary may not have to believe in his master’s cause to fight for him, but the Pachaks are deadly serious when they hire out as paktuns, and give their loyalty.