Gangs of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  When, at last, I came off duty I put on that splendid new rose red shamlak. It fitted well. Hitching up my weaponry and with Dimpy in tow, off I sallied to see San Paynor. If Duven was there we might have a jar or two.

  Logan met us and after a little time we were admitted to San Paynor’s outer study. The temple lay quietly at this time, for the banging, slamming, shouting workmen had all gone home. It was very peaceful. Paynor looked up from architect’s plans to greet us.

  “Some of the old passageways were brought down and others blocked,” he told us. “We’re worried in case the foundations are faulty.” He went on to say that, like all the buildings, a maze of tunnels existed under the temple. Many had odd exits long forgotten. We drank a fine pale wine, Dimpy as well; but there was no news of Tiri. Dimpy sat silently, his glass clutched hard between his fingers.

  “Duven?” said Paynor. “Ah — you’ve just missed him. He’s gone out to minister to a sick parishioner, a vegetable merchant in Momolam Street.”

  I looked a question. Unexpectedly, Dimpy piped up. “I know that place. The Hill of Dancing Ghosts.”

  “We generally call it Barter Hill,” smiled Paynor.

  There was some time yet so I suggested we went across to The Hill of Dancing Ghosts. We might bump into Duven. In any event, the places would still be open and we could have our jar. Dimpy agreed and we said the remberees.

  Taking the cable cars we soared out over the lower spaces. The lights were just coming on in the city and glowed like fairy lamps from the hills. Down below spits and sparks of light glimmered up. The young bloods would be decking themselves in their best and venturing down for their dark enjoyments. The cutthroats would be sharpening their knives. The cutpurses would be making sure their cunning curved blades were ready for the lightning slash. Was there in all this busy anticipatory activity some innocent young girl somewhere walking home destined to die, to be ripped to shreds this night?

  One fact could not escape notice. Not one of the murder victims had been a devotee of Dokerty.

  Momolam Street ran at the back of an avenue leading to the Kyro of Nath the Haggler. Dimpy glanced quickly up at me in the lanternlight. He must be thinking what I was, that here was the place we first met.

  Everything was running flat out, the last of the day traders still hoping for last minute sales, the night hawks opening up. We passed a patrol of the City Guard, hard-faced, grim in armor. They could not be everywhere. They’d cut the size of the patrols down in order to increase the number. The vegetable shop stood at the corner of an alley evilly lit. Beside it lanternlight showed the facade of a temple to one of the minor cults, The Most Puissant Nethized, and as though to mock the very insignificance of Nethized, a more imposing frontage of a temple to Dokerty rose opposite.

  The worried woman who answered our knock told us that her husband was very ill, the needleman was with him, and San Duven, may Cymbaro be praised, had spoken powerful words on the sick man’s behalf. As for San Duven himself, that great man had just left.

  “He went down Cabbage Alley past the grading sheds.”

  We thanked her and then decided to follow Duven. Cabbage Alley smelled of the obvious. The lights were few and scattered. At the end where the alley joined the main avenue, lanternlight splashed a streak of brilliance into the dimness. From that direction came the muted hubbub of people about their various businesses.

  We walked along steadily. Perhaps Duven had gone this way to take the opposite cable car to a different destination. He must be kept busy doing the visiting rounds for the folk of Cymbaro.

  A thin bubbling scream scythed into the air. That shriek held all of terror and doom and death in its unearthly screech. At once it was cut off. The silence seemed to fall in after that hellish sound.

  Dimpy and I sprang forward. “Stop! Murderer!”

  Against the avenue lights the dark contorted silhouette of a man scrambled away, robes flapping. We followed — fast.

  Dimpy fell over the body.

  The silhouette vanished around the corner into the avenue and I stumbled as Dimpy crashed into me, so violent was his reaction to get away from the corpse.

  I looked down.

  There was light enough to see the gash in her throat, the dark blood, the terror branded on the pretty, innocent face. She must work at the grading sheds. Poor thing; there had been warnings enough about young girls walking alone at night.

  Straightening up, I said: “Come on. We might catch the blintz along the avenue.”

  That heart-rending scream had attracted other attentions besides ours. A patrol of the City Guard debouched into the alley from the avenue. Their lantern light flared upon the scene, upon the dead girl, on Dimpy, on me just straightening up from the dead body. The guardsmen let out a snarling growl of anger.

  Many of the great ones had detailed members of their personal guard to assist the City Guard. One of those armored figures ahead recognized me.

  “Stand still! Drajak known as the Sudden! Bloody murderer! Stay where you are!”

  “Not likely!” I ripped out. There’d be no mercy from those men. I doubted if I’d reach their headquarters in one piece. The case was open and shut.

  The guardsmen started down towards us, armor clanking.

  “Come on, sunbeam,” I said. “Run!”

  Chapter nineteen

  “I’d never have believed San Duven could’ve done these ’orrible murders,” said Dimpy.

  I felt the shock. “Dimpy! You can’t really believe Duven is guilty!”

  We crouched in a dark doorway. We’d thrown off that first pursuit and now we were getting our breaths back.

  “We saw him! Didn’t we?”

  “We saw a dark figure—”

  “And the vegetable lady told us he’d gone down Cabbage Alley.”

  “All the same—” I shook my head. “If the murders are not the work of Dokerty, then my guess was that Prince Ortyg had put some of his gang up to it. That way he’d hit directly at Khon the Mak who is a strong Dokerty supporter.”

  Dimpy didn’t reply. He had a tough and resilient young mind and he’d seen plenty of unpleasant things in his seasons on Kregen. It was easier for him to believe in Duven’s guilt.

  He spelled out the obvious when he said that now the City Guard had me down for the crimes, they’d block all the cable car exits. Any known way off the hill would be guarded. All lifters would be watched. They had me trapped.

  I didn’t tell Dimpy that if I could reach the Vallian Embassy I’d be safe. Then I’d contact Kov Brannomar and he’d straighten out this mess.

  Also, if I could get word to Naghan Raerdu the Barrel, probably through Milsi the Slinky, he would be a tower of strength.

  So, it wasn’t all gloom and doom in this desperate situation.

  Dimpy brought those daydreams down to earth with a bump.

  “They’ll never give up till they catch you. I’ll tell ’em you didn’t do it, in course. But they won’t believe me.”

  Would Brannomar believe I was innocent?

  “And you ain’t going to get off here easy, I can tell you that.”

  “No,” I half groaned. “You’re right.”

  “I gotta idea.”

  His voice hardened. I supposed it had occurred to him that if the City Guard caught us, Dimpy would be judged as guilty as was I, for he’d been there, standing over the body with me.

  “Come on, Drajak. Lessee what we can do.”

  So off we went, skulking like a pair of ghosts on the Hill of Dancing Ghosts. Dimpy knew his way about here, for, as he’d told me, this was a favorite stamping ground of the robber gangs.

  Inevitably, we were spotted.

  We’d just cautiously crossed from one alley to another. My description must have been broadcast by the patrols, for a shout lifted, high and shrill.

  “That’s him! Drajak the Sudden! Murderer!”

  By the pendulous purple jowls of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! What a stinking mess we were in! We h
ared off at once into the shadows and in no time at all a howling mob formed and roared after us like a pack of werstings on the loose.

  One of the many problems besetting me now was that if a person tried to stop me he would be an ordinary honest upright citizen helping the guard to arrest a despicable mass murderer. He’d be trying to do his civic duty. I certainly couldn’t kill him.

  We shot across the next street like two bolts from arbalests. The yells at our backs intensified. The next alley, ill lit, showed a line of dark back entrances. Dimpy spotted a broken window and hared across to it. I hesitated. Then I followed him.

  If the mob sussed out we’d ducked in here we might find ourselves completely trapped. But there was a chance they’d go storming on and out of sight.

  The window eased open under Dimpy’s professional expertise. We squeezed through and the window closed at our backs. Utter darkness stretched ahead. There was a strange smell on the air.

  Dimpy sniffed. “Kaff.” He spoke in a disgusted tone.

  We groped forward. The racketing noise of the mob swelled at our backs, crescendoed — and then, blessedly, faded.

  A wall came up and hit me on the nose. I did not swear. Feeling along, my fingers encountered a handle. I couldn’t see Dimpy; but I could hear his light breathing. Quite an athlete, young Dimpy. Taking a breath, I turned the handle and pushed the door in.

  A low pinkish radiance from a shielded lamp revealed a double row of low beds. Each bed held a man. They were not in this world. The stink of Kaff invaded my nostrils. They were all stoned to the eyeballs.

  Dimpy, like a sinuous wraith, glided ahead between the rows. At the far end a door stood ajar and we peered around the jamb.

  A hulking great Undurker, his borzoi nose in the air, was reading a book. He looked up, eyes widening. I leaped. He went to sleep and I trusted to Djan that he was not too injured.

  “’Orrible stuff, Kaff,” quoth Dimpy. “You should have hit him harder.”

  “You have to feel sorry for folk who indulge. It’s their funeral.”

  “Yes. Come on. It’s not much further.”

  We exited through the far door onto a street where the torches flared, and skulked along. On the next turning Dimpy turned down it and a few doors along stopped before a shopfront. The establishment was a carpet store.

  “This is where the Hellraisers came up that day.”

  I looked at the shop. It was nondescript, a likely place for the gang members to leave when they’d made the ascent. Dimpy tried the door. The place was in darkness and naturally the door was bolted.

  “Give us a moment.”

  He worked busily. Then the door creaked open. In we went.

  I fell over a carpet, and cursed. Dimpy produced a tinder box, and when we had a light, we explored. Dimpy spent some time prodding and prying at the floor. By his face I knew the news was not good.

  “They’ve sealed it up.” He sounded exasperated.

  “I’m not surprised. You were being chased and they must have reasoned you were arrested. You’d tell where this place was.”

  He looked murderous in the lamplight. “That Sleed!”

  “Don’t fret—”

  “I’m not! Come on. There’s still a chance.”

  He extinguished the light and we went back out into the street. My splendid new red shamlak had been partly the cause of my predicament. The red of the shamlak had been immediately equated with the red of Dokerty, the red of the scrap of cloth found in the hand of Jenni Farlang, who’d worked in a jeweler’s shop.

  Although I’d so coolly told Dimpy not to fret, I was, myself, seething with frustration and disappointment. We could so easily have gone down the way Dimpy and the Hellraiser recruits had come up. I kept my futile anger to myself. Dimpy was doing splendidly and I did not want to jeopardize his confidence.

  There were two obvious courses of action that might be followed, one initiated by me, the other not.

  Using the skills taught by Deb-Lu I could change my face around. I could grab some fresh clothes, discard the braxters. I was enormously reluctant to abandon the rapier and main gauche; but if it came to a choice between those and my life, the decision was obvious. Even then, there’d be no cast iron guarantee of success. And Dimpy in that scenario?

  He was the reason the other course of action could not be followed. The Star Lords might — might, ha! — reach down and hoick me out of this mess. They’d probably want to talk to me and to discipline me. I’d not had so much of that lately as in the Old days. Then they’d hurl me back to guard the numim twins. I did not want that to happen; I didn’t want to leave Dimpy alone, and hunted.

  Anyway, even if the Everoinye returned me to duty, that fact would soon be known and the City Guard would be around Nandisha’s palace seeking my hide.

  Mind you, if my plan succeeded and I reached Brannomar first, everything would turn out for the best. I’d just have to convince the Hyr Kov that the Emperor of All Paz didn’t go around murdering sweet young girls and chopping them up.

  Dimpy leading, we scuttled through the mottled shadows.

  You could say this for Dimpy — he was the complete expert at keeping a low profile, of stealthily creeping along, of avoiding observation, of taking full advantage of every shadow. By Vox, you could say it, and it was true! Mind you, as an old leem-hunter I’d been at this game longer than he had. So we skulked along the streets, using the shadows, halting at the slightest sound, two fugitives from justice.

  Waiting patiently for some time at a corner, he took careful stock of the street and of the shopfronts lining it. Eventually he motioned and we padded across to a cake shop. It was a middling establishment, emblazoned with the name Nath’s Cake and Bun Emporium, and, of course, it was locked up for the night. Dimpy had us in there in no time.

  The place was not abandoned but in business and Dimpy said they’d be new owners. We went down into the cellar where Dimpy prodded and pried as he had before. He grunted as he heaved up a trapdoor. A ladder led down into darkness.

  “We Roaring Fifties used this.” He sighed. “Them was the days.” A lamp on a shelf was quickly lighted. We went down into the depths. I, for one, wondered just what I was getting myself into.

  Very soon the way down changed from a ladder to a stonewalled passage, past an iron-barred door, into rough-hewn tunnels. The way was steep and treacherous. Nitre shone on the walls. The air smelled musty and stale. There was the stink of sulphur.

  Dimpy was trying to go along at a breakneck speed.

  “Apart from lack of food and drink,” I told him, “we’re not in any tearing hurry. The longer they can’t find us aloft, the more they’ll slacken their search.”

  He slowed down a trifle — not by much, by Krun!

  The adventure down the tunnels was accompanied by many alarms and excursions. We met none of the skinned apes. We did run into a prowling praxul.

  The thing’s warty scaled hide bulked shoulder high for it was a full grown adult. Its three stalked eyes surveyed us in the luminosity of the lichen, and writhed away as the lanternlight fell across its head. It hissed, its claws slicing the musky air.

  Dimpy hauled out his braxter. I did likewise. Side by side we confronted the praxul.

  I had the light. I swung it violently forward and the praxul backed, hissing.

  “He stinks like garbage left in an alley for a sennight,” I said. “Phew!”

  Even as I spoke Dimpy leaped in and slashed. He missed the eye and jumped back, avoiding the return slash of the lethal claws. Watching for an opening as the thing weaved from side to side, I saw a chance, slid in, slashed, missed, and managed to skip back. The lights and shadows writhed madly along the walls and roof.

  The lamp might not be essential now we had left the darkness of the ladders down and were in the luminance of the lichen. Stepping back I placed the lamp carefully down, keeping my gaze fixed on the praxul. Had our light been a torch, of course, we’d have singed the beastie to a nice crispy toast.
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  Unencumbered and using two swords I attacked again as Dimpy put in a distracting side feint. Two stalked eyes flew up into the air.

  As always, as always, I felt sorry for the poor thing. It screeched and stank and turned around. Whining and howling it scuttled off into the confusing shadows.

  We went on and down resolutely, alertly. All the time I kept wondering why the Everoinye had not plucked me up out of the tunnels and set me down to my duty. Why?

  When the blue radiance formed Dimpy remained in complete ignorance of the phantasmal presence of a Witch of Loh. He could not hear Ling-Li or me. Her Ivory of Chem face looked as gravely beautiful as ever. “Gron-Arm-Chenlang. That’s his name. Recently graduated.”

  “I supposed,” I said drily.

  “Deb-Lu at first was concerned he might not be a true Wizard of Loh — of Walfarg. Khe-Hi, too, was worried lest he was a—”

  “Yes?”

  She touched her lips with an exquisite finger. “Balintol is famous for sorcery, Dray. The old king in Tolindrin tried to suppress some of them because they were becoming too powerful.”

  “I’ve only heard of low level mages here.”

  “Quite. It is better that way. Oh, and the trident. Deb-Lu is looking into that matter.”

  When I suggested she might like to give us directions as to the best way of getting out of this maze, and of contacting our ambassador when we did, she gave an immediate assent. Her directions were lucid and easily followed. After she had gone and Dimpy was with me again, as we went on down I saw that he was following Ling-Li’s suggested route. We met a couple more nasty moments. But working together we came through unscathed and, at blessed last, debouched from the hole in the cliff face leading onto a side alleyway.

  The mingled and wonderfully exotic aromas of the warrens wafted into my nostrils. There was little noise for it was near morning and the dopa dens and their ilk had at last closed. We crept out.

  “This was all Roaring Fifties territory. Now it’s Hellraisers’.” He sounded bitter. We paused at the corner of the street.