Gangs of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  “The little fool must be getting desperate,” said Nandisha, her children clinging to her skirts. “I do not like this turn of events one little bit.” She was badly shaken.

  Ranaj stroked his golden whiskers. “We shall double the guard on a permanent basis, princess.”

  As for me, I brooded on the miserable quality of Tolindrin steel. As you know, during all my hectic career on Kregen I had never depended on one single favorite — and named — weapon to the exclusion of all others. A veteran fighting man will use any weapons that come to hand. As an example, young Tiri’s handbag had dealt a doughty blow in combat. No. I’d have to get Ambassador Larghos Invordun to send to Vallia for a proper fighting man’s sword. A great Krozair longsword in my fist — aye, by Zair! That would make a few eyes water!

  Of course, really and truly, if I was honest, I’d have to admit that the fault lay with me. I just hit too damned hard.

  During the course of the day Ranaj hired on a wersting pack. Their controller was Hikdar Nalan C’Cardieth, whose last employer had embarked upon a hazardous overseas holy pilgrimage to the birthplace of Benga Prodacta, one of the patron saints of sandal makers. He gave the Hikdar a glowing reference. We were very quickly left in no doubt that C’Cardieth was enormously proud of his double-initialed name, as a cadet branch of a famous family. Fweygo and I did not tease him on that score.

  Anyway, his pack of werstings were a most ferocious bunch. The four-legged black and white striped hunting dogs, vicious, always in turmoil, should prove a most efficacious deterrent to further assassination attempts. These animals were dogs, yet I knew that, like the hyenas of Earth, they were born with fangs, and the moment their caul was licked clean by their mother they’d fight savagely amongst themselves for subsequent supremacy among their fellows. I was glad Hikdar Nalan and his assistants kept the animals on strong leashes.

  The very next morning as ever was another murder was reported. Tansi the Lily had had her throat cut and been disemboweled on the steps of the somber Temple to the red god of blood — Dokerty.

  Chapter seventeen

  That day Naghan Raerdu sent word that the body of an ordinary man had been stumbled upon in the gutter perhaps half a hundred paces from the house where the ibmanzy had caused such confusion. The fellow was thin to the point of emaciation, as though the life had been drained out of him. He wore a red robe. Pieces of skin were dislodged from his fingernails, and he was smeared in blood.

  Down in the warrens where life in the favelas was cheap no one took much notice of another dead body in the gutter. The Watch had him taken up. He’d probably end in the crematorium where the ovens disposed of corpses properly, under strict supervision. There was little room for burial grounds down in the canyons and the poor folk could not afford to avail themselves of the cemeteries outside the city.

  No one claimed him before the funeral service. It was certain sure no one would claim his ashes.

  He was, I felt convinced, the poor devil who’d been turned into the ibmanzy.

  Also on that day the familiar blue radiance formed as I practiced alone in the salle d’armes. A face looked out from the blueness. This was not the face of Deb-Lu nor yet of Khe-Hi. It was not, and for this I was profoundly grateful, it was not the face of the fumbling sorcerer recently imported by Khon the Mak.

  There was little color in the features, save for the scarlet mouth. The hair was red, as any self-respecting wizard from Loh should have. Blue were the eyes in that sculptured face, formed as though by the hand of a master craftsman from the ivory of Chem, firm of rounded chin, with not a single trace of sagging skin anywhere. The scarlet mouth widened and now that was not a mere movement of the lips but a genuine smile, warm and affectionate.

  “Ling-Li!” I said. “Lahal!”

  “Lahal, Dray. Everyone is so busy these days; but we are anxious to do all we can whilst you — ah — potter about here in Balintol.”

  I felt my lips start to rick into a grimace, and so stopped that betrayal to what I had to do here.

  “There’s a new damned Wizard of Loh poking and prying about in Oxonium.” I went on to tell her what had happened and she promised to make immediate enquiries. The Wizards and Witches of Loh like to keep track on what their associates are up to.

  I asked after her husband, Khe-Hi, and the children and she gave me the latest news on the folk at Esser Rarioch that I so hungered to learn. Delia was off somewhere, and I knew she was, as was I, about the business of the Star Lords.

  Just before we parted, I mentioned casually: “Oh, and, Ling-Li, you might let Deb-Lu know I found an object of antiquity that should interest him. It’s a trident engraved with the old signs and language of Loh. I—”

  She interrupted. “You have it?”

  “Nope. It was left lying about when we had trouble with that blasted ibmanzy.”

  She pursed those red lips. “Deb-Lu will be interested, yes, and cross because you lost it, Dray.”

  “It was very old and I was busy and I didn’t give another thought to it.”

  Among the information she gave was the satisfying fact that Dimpy’s mother Velda and his sisters were safely in Valkanium. A letter would follow. Among many of the cultures of Kregen where there are people who cannot read or write a somewhat more subtle system of making one’s mark at the foot of the paper against your name written by the scribe is in being. Signet rings which, instead of being impressed in a wax seal, are smeared with ink and then stamped alongside the written name. There are millions of different identification rings, called queyfors, and whilst forgery is a fine art on Kregen, the system does give some guarantees.

  Dimpy would recognize the mark made by his mother’s queyfor.

  The various knocks and cuts I’d been taking recently all cleared up with the miraculous speed conferred by my dips in the Sacred Pool of far Aphrasöe. Mother Firben, clicking that needle-sharp tongue of hers, had rubbed garlic into the wounds, a sure preventative of gangrene. Mind you, if I’d had decent weapons in my fists I might not have been so easily cut up, by Krun.

  As Princess Nandisha told me, briskly, she was pleased I was healing. She wanted Fweygo and me near her with Ranaj, and she was not too enamored of plug-uglies with unhealed wounds in her vicinity.

  This was as we set off for the palace of the Kings of Tolindrin. Apparently there was some argument among the priests connected with the earthquake of unhappy memory. Just about everyone went. Ranaj did not intend to leave any of his charges as hostages to fortune. Hikdar Nalan C’Cardieth and his pack of snarling werstings preceded us through the streets. I, for one, was glad they were there and on our side. Too right, by Krun!

  When I discovered the reason for this conclave I lost a great deal of interest in the proceedings. Instead, I took note of the people gathered here, in a sizeable chamber of Tom’s palace. The debate, hotly contested with much rhetoric and waving of arms, consisted of the chief priests of Tolaar and Dokerty claiming the right to crown Tom king. It was generally conceded that the earthquake was a direct reproof, a sure sign that the priests of Cymbaro were unfit to place the crown on Tom’s head. Some went so far as to suggest that no one of Cymbaro should be anywhere near the coronation.

  On the way we passed two mobs, all shrieking and waving cudgels and throwing brickbats. One gang shrilled abuse outside the Temple of Dokerty, accusing the red-robed priests of committing the series of horrific murders. The other gang was yelling outside the Temple of Tolaar. Among them, I suspected, were very many agitators paid by the Dokerty hierarchy to draw attention away from themselves.

  Now, in the meeting, San Volar, with some pretensions to authority as the chief priest of the largest religion, suggested in his languid way that perhaps Dokerty, too, was not fit to conduct the ceremony. The chief priest of Dokerty — a large, almost bloated man, with the flushed face and breaking veins of one who indulges too freely in the good things of life — violently objected. He was clad in a red robe from neck to feet. His shoes were red. His ha
t was red. He was all red.

  “I categorically deny that these murders are anything to do with Dokerty!” He was passionate, wrought up, seeming ready to burst into flames.

  “Everything, San Cronal, points to the opposite.” San Volar spoke in his quiet, lisping way, vastly enjoying making this huge red-bloated fellow squirm.

  There were a few other priests there, representing some of the minor cults. They appeared a timid bunch, seeking only to secure a small place for themselves in the rituals.

  A single look at Khon the Mak’s entourage told me that my engaging sparring-partner, Dagert of Paylen, a most rascally gentleman, was not in attendance. Khon the Mak and Prince Ortyg spent the time glaring daggers one at the other.

  With red jowls all aquiver: “My name, San Volar, as you very well know, is San C’Cronal.”

  Tom, sitting tiredly in a chair overseeing this quarrelsome gathering, raised a hand for silence. He tried to calm them down and to apportion certain parts of the ceremonies to various religions. I stopped listening and took stock of these great ones of the land, with their entourages backing them, as we backed Nandisha. Our werstings, of course, had been left outside, and as others had their own packs of savage dogs the leashes would be severely strained.

  With San Paynor and the Cymbaro delegation I was surprised and pleased to see San Duven. He looked fit, slightly tanned from his travels, very upright. The way the meeting was arranged, with the principals in a circle around Tom and we supporters to the rear, meant I had only occasional glimpses of everyone. Hyr Kov Brannomar, after Tom the most powerful man in the kingdom, said very little. He knew I was Dray Prescot. He gave me a look when he spotted me among the crowd, a raised eyebrow, a half-smile, and then a turn away.

  The wrangling went on. I shifted my feet, bored to tears. In that, as on many previous occasions on Kregen, I was very wrong.

  Standing belligerently in the forefront of Prince Ortyg’s followers Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun scowled at us. A large, florid man, with the shoulders of an ox, he looked like and was — as we knew to our cost — a great deal of trouble.

  Presently the time came for the private part of the conference. All us followers trooped out and there was a lot of petty bickering as to precedence, a certain amount of shoving. Protocol and the importance of rank duly observed were vital facts in the lives of these high flown folk and their retainers.

  I didn’t give a damn where I landed up in the mob surging out. Ranaj said, curtly: “We take our proper precedence, Drajak. We owe it to the dignity of our mistress.”

  Well, by Krun, you couldn’t say fairer than that.

  The parties lounged about outside. Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun sauntered over. He eyed us and then focused his gaze on me.

  “I shall know you again, blintz.”

  Fweygo did not stir at my shoulder. Ranaj started to say something and I cut in, sharply, with: “You and your men slew our good comrades. If you want to make something of it, step out into that garden. I am at your disposal.” He wore rapier and dagger.

  Slowly he shook his head, face mottling.

  “I think not.”

  “Then,” snarled Ranaj. “Schtump! Clear off, blintz.”

  There was a much more pleasant reunion as I spoke to Duven. He looked fit, bursting with energy, his every word indicating his absolute dedication to Cymbaro. I congratulated him on his courageous actions during the earthquake in brief soldierly words, not in any sickly fashion. Everything, he declaimed, was done at the behest of Cymbaro, who gave him the strength and purpose of will.

  I said: “You went and returned from Farinsee very quickly.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I took a lifter.”

  “And Tiri?”

  “I unfortunately did not have that pleasure.”

  “A pity.”

  He excused himself and went off and the moment he’d gone a lithe slip of a girl glided up to me. She was not slave, for she wore a revealing dark green shamlak and flowers in her corn gold hair.

  As she passed she pressed a note in my hand. Then she was gone, skipping away with her long slender legs splendid in the lights.

  Being a fellow used to wearisome intrigues I waited until I was sure no one observed me before opening the note. It was from Hyr Kov Brannomar. It requested an audience. Would I meet him at The Golden Zorca, a very private and high class establishment.

  Now, having boasted of how wonderful I, Dray Prescot, was at the intrigue business, I now found myself slung by my own varter, as they say in Clishdrin. I’d stepped away from the crowd to the ornate gate to the little enclosed garden. A net descended over my head and I was brutally hauled in like a catch of fish, flung headlong to the ground beyond the gate and wall. The gate slammed shut.

  “Right, you blintz!” came the voice of Nath ti Fangenun. “You asked me to step into the garden.” I rolled about in the net thrashing helplessly. “Here I am!”

  Chapter eighteen

  He wasn’t alone.

  Well, he wouldn’t be, would he, the cramph.

  Nets are devilish things to get out of quickly, as I knew only too well. Useless to try to draw my knife and cut through. I took a strand in each fist and in the instant I savagely burst them apart a cracking great clout laid alongside my head and over I went. Instead of trying to rise, as these bully boys expected, I went on with the roll. Two of the net’s strands parted and I started on the next square. A hard-toed boot crashed into my ribs and I let out a gasp. By Krun! These plug-uglies meant business!

  More net strands parted and I fixed a most malicious eye on my attackers. A big Rapa jumped in to kick me again and I rolled away. On the other side another Rapa brought a damned great cudgel down. Going on with the roll I collided with his legs and swept them away from under him. He fell on top of me and before I could heave him aside his mate kicked him in mistake for me. That was quite pleasant.

  My head was free and the last couple of bits of net dangled as I stood up. I gave the second Rapa a good kick as I did so.

  They’d been kicking me and hitting me with bludgeons. This did not mean they did not intend to kill me. They wanted to have their perverted idea of a bit of fun first.

  By this time I was so bitter and frustrated about the whole lousy situation in Oxonium I had no such inhibitions.

  In a scrap of this kind the rapier would be the best weapon.

  Out came the Jiktar with that sliding snick of a professional fighting man and the companion hikdar followed, snugging into my left hand.

  I jumped for my attackers.

  Standing at the back waiting their turn to kick and beat me, a polsim and a Brokelsh saw my face. They turned and ran.

  The two Rapas were not so quick.

  At the very last moment I deflected my blades so that, instead of killing them stone dead outright, I pinked them where it would hurt. They yowled, feathers extremely ruffled, and ran off.

  Blades up, I faced Nath ti Fangenun.

  Give the rast his due, he hadn’t run off. He stood there, rapier and main gauche poised, watching me.

  “I see, blintz, you have some skill—” he started to prattle on.

  I just jumped in, slid his blades with the dagger, and hit him an almighty clout around the head. He toppled backwards, a glazed look sweeping over his eyes. He dropped his sword and dagger. He fell down. And I, Day Preset, drew back my foot to let him have a good one in the ribs.

  I stood there, balanced on one foot, still feeling the blood pounding in me. By the disgusting diseased nostrils and dangling eyeballs of Makki Grodno! Was this what all this nonsense was bringing me to? Nasty little brawls in quiet gardens. Kicking a man when he was down? The rast wasn’t worth soiling my boot on.

  Thrusting the unbloodied weapons back into scabbards I gave a last malignant look at the unconscious Jiktar, and took myself off.

  Mind you, a little brisk exercise gets the old blood tingling around the veins and arteries again, by Vox!

  Nobody appeared to have heard the fracas
, and in truth there had not been a great deal of noise. By the time our principals emerged from their secret conclave, Fangenun and his cronies were back on duty with their fellows. The two Rapas were wearing bandages. Ranaj gave me a long look; but said nothing. There was a great deal of hubbub which quietened down as the great ones took up their positions with their retainers.

  With the werstings snarling and growling before us we wended our way back to Nandisha’s palace.

  When Dimpy heard there was no news of Tiri he looked morose. He was most restless. So I suggested when I got off duty late that evening we went along to the Temple of Cymbaro to see if anything had been heard of our dancing lady friend.

  Dimpy brightened up at once.

  After the hour of mid the young princess Nisha decided she wanted to go shopping. Naturally the lion maid, Rofi, would accompany her. I was detailed as part of the escort whilst Fweygo remained with the others at the palace. The princess was in a most playful mood and she and Rofi chattered like parakeets. I own I sighed for them, two young scraps of humanity trying to be cheerful and grow up into the hostile environment of Kregen. As a job, protecting them was not unwelcome, save — save for the ache for Delia and Esser Rarioch.

  Thankfully, nothing untoward occurred during the shopping expedition. When I spotted a handsome red shamlak on a stall in the market I weakened. The loops and embroidery were a dull yellow, and the whole garment was in the best of taste. I could wear it off duty. So I bought it. Then we all trooped back to the palace for tea.

  Although I say nothing untoward happened there were, of course, a couple of the quarrels erupting into fights going on in the market. We guards kept our charges well clear. The sense of oppressive thunder hanging over Oxonium portended worse and worse outbreaks to come. And, through it all, we had a fellow who did not want to be king, broodingly awaiting his coronation.

  What the result of the meeting of the high ones might be was not at this stage revealed to us common folk. After trying to sort Dimpy with news of Tiri at the shrine to Cymbaro I’d have to go along to The Golden Zorca to meet Brannomar. He might vouchsafe the information. All the same, it meant little to me.