“Schtump!” came the whispering eerie voice of the wizard. “Schtump, Vad Quarnach.”
Now schtump means hurry up, but it means it in a way that can be as offensive as one cares to make it, as I have indicated. One seldom hears just that cutting malevolent tone addressed to a noble — except, as here, when that noble is being told to get a move on by someone of a higher rank.
What factual rank Yantong possessed I did not know. As a Wizard of Loh he very naturally considered himself superior to any other creature of Kregen apart from another wizard, and it was now clear to me that Yantong would acknowledge no peers. I remembered the feeling of apprehension I had received from Que-si-Rening when he had gone into lupu and had, only briefly, contacted the aura of this Phu-si-Yantong.
None of the others expressed surprise or shock at the wizard’s tone. The Kov of Faol, indeed, added his own urgent demand that I make speed. Kov Numrais, fingering his beard, looked across at my palanquin with not a little uncertainty at what he had conjured up by his suggestion.
As my Fristles bore me away to a small toilet chamber with the little slave girl trotting alongside, I reflected that insults should roll from me as water rolls from a duck’s back. One thing now remained important. The hunt would have to begin without me.
Filled with the light from the Suns of Scorpio, the high room broke into a babblement of sound as fresh wine was brought and the mighty crippled hunters and their retainers prepared to wait the few murs I had been granted. I left them and the bronze doors clashed shut, the guards in the forest-green of the Kov of Faol slamming their spear-butts against the ground and resuming their static poses of alertness.
If I say there now seemed to me one thing only I could do, you will understand that all my plans had tumbled into ruin.
In the small toilet chamber I bade the Fristles set me down. I sent them away and told them to keep out of my sight until I sent the slave girl for them. As for this young lady, I said to her in a voice that made her flinch back: “Go outside, shif.” She looked terrified. I leaned forward and pointed at the door through which we had come. “Shif! Outside!”[8]
“Yes, master.” She bowed herself in half and then scuttled out.
I sat back, took three deep breaths, and set to work.
By the diseased, odoriferous, and dripping tripes of Makki-Grodno! I had to break the chains of mischance snarling me up.
The fancy clothes of Vad Quarnach came off in the palanquin so that I might leave clad only in the old scarlet breechclout. If secret eyes watched they would not see a cripple jump out and strip off his clothes; they would see a broad-shouldered desperado abruptly appear from the palanquin, and that should confuse them, by Zair!
The noise of my movements almost betrayed me.
Only in the last second, as I reached for the scabbarded thraxter, did I hear the slither of naked feet on stone.
I jerked around on the seat.
An oiled, naked man reared between the curtains, a long curved dagger in his fist striking down with savage force to plunge into my body and finish me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saffi the golden lion-maid
The dagger bit into my left shoulder, high. I thumped the fellow on the nose, but the blow lost most of its force, for I was entangled with the clothes around my legs and had not the space to lean into the punch. He snarled at me and slashed again and I managed to get my left hand around his right wrist. I could get no real grip, for the dagger-cut stung. We wrestled for a moment, he trying to tear free and sink his blade into my belly, I trying to untangle myself and sprawl out and so get at him. I recognized him, for he had come in the retinue with Vad Garnath, and I guessed he was one of the Kataki, the Chuktar Strom’s men. My remarks about a rotting tail falling off had occasioned this clumsy attempt at reprisal. As a stikitche, this fellow left much to be desired.
With something of an effort I thrust him back, so that he staggered and half fell upon the stones. The damned fancy clothes would not come free, despite my frenzied kicks. The thraxter scabbard jammed itself up in some infuriating way against the window and the seat, and I couldn’t get the sword free. The assassin leaped in again, silently. I, too, had not cried out, for this fellow might yet do me a service if I could only get myself untangled and to rights.
The dagger hissed past my face and I slogged a fist into his jaw, and he staggered back again. Clumsy he might be, true; but courage and determination he had, for he gathered himself for another attempt.
His oiled body glistened in the crude oil-lamp’s flame. He came in with more caution this time, but with a very deadly intent. He feinted the dagger left, than artfully sliced it down right. He would have had me, too, but I slapped his wrist away, gave up trying to free my feet and legs from the entangling clothes, and concentrated on the thraxter. The pommel suddenly leaped free from its wedging and the hilt snugged into my hand. The blade hissed as it cleared the scabbard.
The assassin drove in again, dagger high, ready to plunge down and past what he must consider my enfeebled guard. I let him move in. His broad sweaty face bore down — and then the sword-blade slashed and he was falling back, unable to scream, half his face chopped off. I leaned over to prod him again; it was unnecessary. He lay there, his arms wide, the dagger with my blood upon it still clutched in his fist.
The damned clothes fell free at last and I could step out. I didn’t give a damn now for what secret eyes might spy on me. If there were observers, then the damage was done.
The work of only a moment saw the dead man lifted and draped facedown over the window. His blood now gushed into the palanquin. Working swiftly I dressed him in my abandoned clothes. I bundled him into the chair, set him up and fastened the dudinter mask with the emerald eye-sockets and scarron-chain edging above the wreck of his face. He might be mistaken for the Vad Quarnach for long enough for it to be of help.
Among Quarnach’s collection of masks was a steel domino without ornamentation, very much like the upper half of the face-masks used by kaidurs in the Arenas of the Dawn Lands. I fastened it on my face, covering my forehead, eyes, and nose, the cheek-pieces deeply curved. There was no beaver to cover the chin. I guessed it had been Quarnach’s fad to have such a mask among his collection. For weapons, two thraxters, a dagger, a knife, and a loaded crossbow would do. I took a quiver of quarrels, though I fancied there would be no time to reload and the arbalest was strictly a single-shot weapon in my schemes.
The door through which the Fristles had brought me into the toilet room was closed. Opposite it a stone of the wall, revolving upon its longitudinal axis, exposed a dark opening. From this had crept the stikitche. I stepped toward the opening and a thump on the door and a shout sounded.
“Vad Quarnach! We wait!”
“By the Black Chunkrah!” I said softly. “Wait, you rasts!”
The revolving stone closed again easily enough. I guessed the Kataki knew of it through Phu-si-Yantong (in which I was right), and a fleeting moment of interest in what schemes these three, Garnath, the Chuktar Strom, and the wizard, might have crossed my mind. Then I padded down a dark corridor toward a slit of light at the far end.
The would-be assassin had had no part in my plans until he had appeared; now I hoped he would give a little pause to the proceedings, for however long it took them to discover just who he was. Even then, Strom Rosil would scarcely wish to acknowledge the fellow as one of his men. He was a little sauce added to the dish I was concocting, here in the fortress-city of Smerdislad.
What with the Star Lords and the Savanti and my concerns over Vallia and Djanduin there had been absolutely no time for me to honor a private pledge I had made when I’d first made contact with the Manhounds of Antares. I had determined one day to return here to Faol and sort the jiklos out, once and for all. The manner of my returning had been completely unforeseen by me, envisaging something after the style of an avenging host of fliers and warriors, and my primary concern must remain the rescue of Saffi, the lion-maid. That
went without question.
The thought that these so-called mighty hunters should revel in terrifying and shooting young girls, beautiful or not, revolted me. The wanton slaying of anyone is anathema to me, as you know. I do not think I am alone in this feeling.
The slit of light turned out to be the gap between door and jamb of the exit from the secret passageway. The blood from my wounded left shoulder was leaving a betraying trail. The wound would have to be bound up as soon as I could contrive it. Apart from a diabolically infuriating weakness of that left arm, I felt as yet no ill effects. Once outside that door and into the first of the maze of corridors and chambers and alleyways tunneled beneath the city’s upper levels, above the huge empty space at the center, I could set about the first of the tasks confronting me.
The guard went to sleep quite peacefully.
I put on his forest-green tunic and wrapped his gaiters about my legs. He wore a white undertunic and with this I contrived to make a pad for my shoulder, to try to staunch the flow of blood. I put the steel domino into the pouch at my waist where it was a confoundedly awkward shaped bundle, to be sure. The guard had no shield, and I’d not brought the one I’d taken from Quarnach’s Tryfant guard, for I did not fancy the weight on my injured left arm, and considered I would be quicker as a fighter without that encumbrance. I kept the crossbow at the ready and set off down the nearest corridor leading below, curving gently around the massive inner bubble within the city of Smerdislad.
No one paid me any attention, for there were numerous slaves and retainers and guards moving about their business. It is often thus in a large household where slaves are employed, and guards to keep them in order.
Lack of insignia of rank on the tunic proclaimed me a swod. When I spoke to the ob-Deldar I addressed him as “Deldar,” which pleased him, for the swods love to put heavy emphasis on that “ob” before the officer’s rank, thus letting him know how far beneath contempt is an ob-Deldar.
“The jiklos’ quarters, dom?” said this Deldar, very friendly. “You’ve drawn a right leem’s nest there.”
“I have been ordered, Deldar,” I said, sounding as meekly humble as ever Hamun ham Farthytu had sounded in far Ruathytu. “They are somewhere near the quarters used by the girls for the hunt, I believe.”
He looked at me. “I do not know you, I think.”
“That is true, Deldar, for I am newly arrived in Smerdislad and reported for duty this morning. That is why I ask.”
Foreign mercenaries were no new thing on Kregen.
He gave me the necessary directions, adding that the girls’ quarters were nowhere near the jiklos’, being directly opposite on the other side of the interior city.
After I had walked on through the curving passageways I went past the entrances to the jiklos’ quarters. I kept to the great outer circle around the inner areas, moving on always with a steady pacing as though about my master’s business, until I came to the quarters of the quarries.
Here guards would no doubt seek to stop me.
The oppressive, unhealthy atmosphere of the place sickened me. I had passed the animals’ quarters, and the variegated smells had told me that many ferocious beasts were kept penned within. Now the musky scents and delicate perfumes of women told me I had arrived.
There was no particular ill feeling in my shoulder and the swod’s short uniform cape, artfully draped, concealed the lump of wadding. I just hoped I’d still be able to use the arm when the time came.
“What do you want, dom?”
The guard who spoke was a swod like myself, a heavyset, thickly muscled fellow, an apim. His companion on the other side of the entrance door glanced across and then went back to leaning on his spear. These were real spears, not stuxes.
“Is Jiktar Nath inside, dom?” I spoke offhandedly.
“Jiktar Nath who? I know no Jiktar Nath.”
Well, Zair knows, you can’t guess right every time.
“Jiktar Nath ti Coyton,” I said, using a name that brought back memories. “You must know him. A real right Jik, he is.”
“Aren’t they all? No, dom. And you may not enter here where the maidens are kept.”
I glanced casually along the broad corridor, both left and right, and saw only an old slave in a tattered gray breechclout staggering along under a load of firewood.
“I agree with you,” I said. “But I think I shall enter.”
I struck him most cleanly along the jaw, where his helmet strap curved away from my fist, and whirled back to catch his companion’s spear on my left arm and so strike him, too. I felt my left arm, then, a jolt of pain tearing down from the injured shoulder. “By Vox!” I said, annoyed. I bashed the doors open, dragged the two guards inside and dumped them and peered out. The slave with the firewood had gone. No one else had seen, although two slave girls carrying baskets of eggs came into view. I popped back inside and closed the doors.
Just how much time I would have I did not know. Probably not much, if the Kov of Faol ran a properly regulated household.
This place appeared to me to be a curious mixture. Hollowed from the rock and patchily slapped over with whitewash, it was hung with a few shabby tapestries. It was at once stark and unpleasant, as befitted slave quarters. But it was also enlivened with a few touches of comfort, like ponsho-skin rugs, and upholstered divans, and the cooling tinkle of water sounded from a side room where a stream spouted into a stone basin. A few naked girls were bathing there. After a single look I passed by them and pushed on. Saffi was not of their number. They did not see me; at least, not one cried out.
A couple of outraged, fluttering Xaffers trotted up to me. A strange and remote race of diffs, the Xaffers, often used in harems and Chail Sheom quarters when slave. I showed them a grim face and bellowed: “In the name of the Kov! Jump to it, onkers!”
Their protestations could not stop me, but I would not deal harshly with them. I pushed in, going through heavy ornate drapes of embroidered linen past other rooms where girls of many different races sat or reclined listlessly. Clearly, these slave-women’s quarters held no happy lighthearted chatter; these girls were only too well aware of their fate in the Kovnate of Faol. I did not see Saffi.
There could not be much time left. I tried to think. The Xaffers had fluttered after me, declaiming indignantly at the intrusion. No man, especially a common swod in a green tunic, had any right of entry here.
In the oil-lamp’s gleam I poked about, upending divans in case Saffi had been rolled up in a carpet and hidden there, a favorite trick. Deeper and deeper I prowled. Now there was only one Xaffer shrilling outrage at me. That meant the other had gone for help.
In a wall devoid of ornamentation or covering a heavy lenken door stood fast shut, with a bar on this side. Just beyond, a door with a strange green-and-blue-curlicue design stood half open, and I heard a girl singing. I would not be surprised if that was Saffi singing, for Numim maidens are not easily frightened.
Between the two doors stood two guards. It was clear they kept this inner portal under close watch. The Xaffer at my back, stumbling along in his foofray satin slippers was shrilling something about: “If you wished to join the inner guard you should have come through the proper door!” I ignored him and halted, looking at these two guards.
If you wonder why I halted, it was for the simple reason that these two were Pachaks. As you know, Pachaks, besides being excellent fighters, are renowned for their loyalty. It makes good sense to station them where positions of trust are to be held. These two were remarkably tall for their race, their snug round bronze helmets coming fully up to my chin. They were both extremely broad across the chest, also, and they had in the clear blue light of their eyes, in the competent way they handled their weapons, and in the alert and ready fashion in which they held their bladed tails cocked over their shoulders, a very potent message. That message was, starkly: “No one unauthorized shall pass this door alive.”
I said, “I seek the Jiktar Nath ti Coyton, Deldars.”
&n
bsp; For both were waso-Deldars, and therefore important men in the lower hierarchy of Capela’s guards.
“We know no Jiktar Nath ti Coyton,” one of them said. “You had best wait quietly here and we will call the Hikdar.”
That would be standing orders.
I did not wish to slay them. Pachaks are good fighters, as you know, and men of integrity. Their straw-yellow hair, almost white, has flared over many a battlefield, for they have more than a touch of the berserker about them, and tend to strip off their helmets when in action. But, being good soldiers, they keep their armor on. (I sometimes think their berserker rages, which occur only when they are fighting, are a carefully controlled part of their image.) I eyed them with some caution. As you know, apart from the whiplike, ferociously effective tail with its glittering steel blade gripped in the hand at its tip, the other curious fact about a Pachak is his possession of two left arms. These two arms are not, I will allow, either as strong or as vicious as the two left arms of a Djang, but nonetheless they give a Pachak a most effective defense with a shield. Both these waso-Deldars carried shields.
More and more at this time I was coming to the conclusion that the ecological balances and racial distributions of Kregen had been planned aeons ago — and planned most probably by the Star Lords. Little else, I felt then, would account for the amazing variety and spread of cultures and races upon this always fresh and marvelous world.
“Wait, swod!” growled the one who had spoken. He flicked his right hand and — lo! — it held his thraxter. He gestured. “Pragan, go and ask the Hikdar of this swod. I will detain him here until you return.”
Avenger of Antares Page 18