Intrigue of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  Now, as you know it is not my habit to sit in a strange place with my back towards the door. Although I say I took no notice of the newcomers, that would appear to be the case to any outward observer. When a shuffling movement attracted my closer attention I realized I had to act rapidly. From the plaited-straw purse the Rapa had put the gold in I shook out half a dozen of the rhoks, still shiny although well-worn, and passed them under the table to Tiri. Moving with deceptive slowness I unbuckled Strom Korden’s sword and handed belt and sword to her.

  “You say nothing, you know nothing. Keep this sword safely, and do not lose it!” Then I stood up, still slowly, and looking down finished: “If you run across a golden kildoi called Fweygo — tell him.” Tankard in my fist I walked casually between the tables as though too impatient to wait for the Fristle serving girl and going for a refill myself. The proprietor, a little Och whose two middle limbs clasped together and whose right upper mopped his shiny forehead with a blue cloth, hurried forward towards the smart youngster in charge of the guard.

  “Hikdar Ortyg! What a pleasure to see you here.”

  “I am on duty, master Olabal.”

  The Och didn’t look worried; we had chosen a respectable establishment all right. The shuffling movement among the guards was repeated and the Rapa to whom I’d sold the zorca stumbled forward. His feathers were decidedly more bedraggled now. Two of the Hytaks held him firmly.

  The youngster, this Hikdar Ortyg, said in his squeaky voice: “This is the man, you blintz?”

  “Yes, master, yes, master—”

  Ortyg put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You will please come with me.” He was perfectly polite about it.

  I still wore the second braxter. He didn’t know but he could have guessed that I could stick him through and then deal with the rest of the guard before he even cleared leather. His face was shiny and officious. I said: “You have business with me, hikdar?”

  Give him credit. He stuck to his task manfully.

  “You will please come with me.” Then he motioned with his head and the four remaining Hytaks moved forward and surrounded me. I let them. A fracas here would serve no one’s purpose. I said: “Of course.”

  So we marched off out of the hostelry and down the street and along the main road and still he hadn’t thought to ask me for my sword. Either he was too cocky for words, or he was a coy, a greenhorn. The Hytaks looked useful and he was not stupid to rely on them. We reached a gray stone building after a number of twists and turns and the sound of the iron bars clanging on my rear was at once a doleful and familiar sound.

  The rest of the night sizzled by rapidly. I was accused of selling a stolen zorca; other zorcas had been discovered in the stables of The Fluted Hen. All bore the marks of Strom Korden.

  I told them my story, omitting the sword and Tiri.

  Now, again to give them their due, they didn’t chuck me into the cells straightaway. They considered my case. A magistrate came in, late as it was, a rotund, grave fellow, a numim, and he sized me up.

  Stroking his darkly-golden whiskers, he gave his verdict.

  “You will be held here until we can verify your unlikely story. Such dreadful news, if true, cannot be kept secret. Strom Nath will deal with you as soon as the case is proven. Take him away.”

  Off I went and at last they had their opportunity to chuck me into the cells.

  By that time they’d taken sword and knife and the plaited-straw purse with the golden rhoks to prove my guilt.

  Going to sleep in a prison cell is no new experience for me. As always, anywhere I am, my last thought was the same, then I went to sleep and dreamed, I do recall, of happy sunny days in Esser Rarioch.

  Now if I sound utterly callous in this, the facts were different. I had thought of young Tiri before I slept; I hadn’t really stopped worrying about the young temple dancer since I’d first bumped into her — or, rather, since she’d first flung a jeweled dagger at my head.

  At first appraisal she looked to be a fresh bright-faced youngster, well-formed and beautifully graceful, full of life and spirits. That very bubbling aliveness had been dreadfully reduced by the horrific experience of seeing her friends butchered. Even her little Bandi piled horror upon horror. What experience of the wide world did she have? Temple dancers are trained rigidly and remorselessly; but there are differing varieties upon Kregen. She might simply be a dancer and nothing else until she became too old and her limbs too stiff to continue. She might graduate to higher offices within the temple. She might leave and marry and raise a family — there were some temples where married dancers were considered perfectly correct. Or, she might aspire to much greater ambitions.

  Somehow or other I fancied young Tiri was destined to scale the rarefied heights of the inner mysteries, penetrate the hidden sanctuaries and participate in the most secret rites. Pure religion, fanciful cult, magical circle, whatever the doctrine of Cymbaro the Just might be, Tiri would, I could feel it in my bones, one day become the highest of the high — if she lived.

  Right now, right here and now in Bharang as a young girl with limited experience still suffering from a mind-shattering horror — how could she be expected to react normally, as though life merely went on?

  Oh, yes, by Zim-Zair, I suffered in that damned prison for young Tiri!

  In addition to the young madam Tirivenswatha I had the problem of Princess Nandisha to concern me. Fweygo, I felt absolutely confident, was a perfectly competent kregoinye and he’d handle upsets and disasters with the same aplomb he’d handle successes and triumphs. There’s an old saying on Kregen — ‘Don’t dice with a four-armed fellow’ — and I’d rolled the bones enough times with Korero to feel the truth of that, by Vox! Let alone that disgusting and yet ultimately pathetic cramph Mefto the Kazzur.

  Most of the following day I spent in the cell being fed and watered and toileted with a strictness of regimen that told me Bharang did indeed belong to a civilization I could recognize. The city was the capital of the stromnate of the same name, and the strom was this Nath B’Bensarm. He was out of town and was not expected back for a few days.

  The captain of the city guard turned out to be a seamed old veteran, an apim, named Mogper. He came in to see if I was all right.

  “News came in,” he told me severely. “They brought the bodies in for proper burial. Poor Strom Korden!” He kept his bright hooded gaze fixed on me. But he was at ease. “You’re for the high jump.”

  “What about the stikitches?”

  “Your accomplices, you mean?” He grimaced. “They deserved to be chucked into the ditch. Still, we don’t foul our own drainage.”

  I opened my mouth to bawl at him, and then I closed it with a snap. That would be useless. The conversation made up my mind.

  Later on I said to one of the Hytak guards: “Send for the captain.”

  “What for, apim? Are you going to confess?”

  “That’s between me and Mogper. Now — bratch!”

  When Mogper came in still wiping gravy from his moustache with a yellow napkin, he wore lounging robes of watered blue silk, very chic, with a silver belt and fancy dagger. His slippers did have something of a curl to them. I hadn’t shaved since my interview with the Star Lords and my own beard and moustaches were enough like Mogper’s to pass. Dear old Deb-Lu-Quienyin, our comrade Wizard of Loh, had long ago taught me how to change the appearance of my face. Even better these days the trick did not fill my features with a thousand bee stings.

  “What—?” began the captain of the city guard and then he went to sleep standing up and in a passable imitation of his gruff voice I finished: “—do you want interrupting my supper?”

  I lowered him gently to the cell floor and quicker than it takes to tell I wore his blue robe, girded on the silver dagger belt, donned the slippers, and was ready to sally forth. I said a few choice words, with a couple of ‘blintzes!’ thrown in, a choice word of insult in these parts.

  The Hytak outside snapped to attention as I
passed and I strutted off in Mogper’s heavy walk, saying: “He’ll keep for the strom.”

  Up the steps and corridors down which I had been brought I went. My face was the face of Jiktar Mogper. No one challenged me. A Hytak guard opened the outer gate for me and I stepped through into the very last crimson rays of sunset, for Genodras had already set. I walked out and along and took a good hefty sniff of the evening air. By Zair! That tasted as sweet as wine of Jholaix!

  The feeling of successfully pulling off the trick buoyed me up. It did not always succeed. That time when I’d assumed the face of a diff of the race of Quavens, folk with apim-looking faces but bodies of very strange configuration over in Sharver’s End, still rankled. They’d taken a good look and then jumped me. Oh, well, that was back in my lurid past on Kregen.

  Now — now I was out and running free.

  Letting the contorted muscles of my face relax a trifle I set off with brisk determination for The Fluted Hen.

  Chapter seven

  Up the back wall of the Fluted Hen I clambered with the aid of a trellised vine. The blue gown was wrapped up around my waist. I dug bare toes into crevices and heaved up and so tapped softly on Tiri’s window.

  Very quickly — remarkably quickly, considering the circumstances — the window opened outwards and I ducked my head to let it pass above me and then with a single muscular heave hauled myself over the sill into the bedroom. It was in darkness save for the tell-tale fan of light from a lamp with a metal hood shielding the flame. I heard heavy breathing. There was a loud rustling noise. Then a woman’s voice, a rich, fruity, passionate voice, said: “Oh, my darling Ferdie! I knew you’d come to me after all my encouragement.”

  The metal shield was snatched away from the lamp by its wooden handle and light flooded the room.

  The woman turned from the lamp table by the bed. Her nightgown hung in what she must fondly imagine to be enticing folds about her, parted from neck to hem. She was gross. Immense folds of fat rolled between deep creases horizontally about her non-existent waist, bulged her thighs and stomach where the white scars of stretch marks looked like a map of hell. Her face bulged with passionate longing and her moustache rivaled Mogper’s. “Darling Ferdie! Your little Mimi longs for you so!”

  In that heartbeat of time carved from apprehension, laughter and pity I slapped on a face of imbecilic incomprehension. She turned and saw me.

  Whatever I expected I did not expect her to fling herself forward, fat arms outspread to engulf me, her nightdress draggling away over all that vast expanse of shining skin. “You’re not Ferdie — I know, my darling, I know! But — you’ll do!”

  “Madam! You misunderstand—”

  “You need not be coy, my little heart’s-ease. You have seen me and Ferdie and you long for me! I know! Come to me!” Her lips were plum-colored in the light, spittle-flecked, her squashed nose a flower of passion. She lurched forward and I skipped away, looking desperately for the door.

  She lumbered after me and tripped over the nightgown and toppled and almost fell. The sight was awe-inspiring. Demolition workers pulling down temples must experience that sensation of the mass of the world collapsing. I reached the door.

  She made a convulsive effort to regain her balance, everything quivering like jelly. “Don’t go! Don’t go! Little Mimi needs you!”

  “I assure you, madam, I am sensible of your most gracious offer. But I am otherwise engaged and must therefore with deep regret decline.”

  You couldn’t say fairer than that, by Shansi, the Sprite of Love, who sends her loop of flowers down to entwine lovers.

  “Please—” Spittle ran down her several chins like artificial waterfalls. I thought she’d start to cry in a minute and I didn’t want that on my conscience. I wrenched the door open. “Madam Mimi, your devoted servant. Remberee.” And I fairly scuttled off.

  By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! What a turn up! Good luck to Ferdie, whoever he was.

  If the whole hostelry awoke in an uproar I’d be done for. Where in a Herrelldrin Hell was Tiri’s room?

  I heard footsteps advancing along the passageway. A thin shaft of light from a lamp on the corner threw shadows into a door alcove and illuminated the rest. I ducked into the shadows.

  A man walked along clad in a blue lounging robe not unlike Mogper’s. He was tall and thin, although not a Ng’grogan. If Mimi could get her fat arms about anyone, she’d manage with skinny Ferdie. He saw her fat moonshining face around the edge of her door and he started to run, arms outstretched. “Mimi! My little turtle-dove!”

  They went inside and the door slammed. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and Tiri put her head out of the next door along, puzzled, not so much alarmed as intrigued.

  I stepped out and put a finger to my lips, remembering to lose the imbecilic face that had so enchanted Mimi.

  In a trice we were in her room and the door shut silently at our backs. She wore a nice short nightdress and looked marvelous.

  “Drajak!” she said in an accusing whisper. “Where have you been? What happened? The city guard—?”

  “A matter of Strom Korden’s zorca. I thought I could trust the rascality of that Rapa Rindle. Maybe he was careless. Anyway, I felt it prudent to get away, particularly after the news came in.”

  “It is all over the place. It has ousted the news of the death of the king’s son. What have—?”

  “I need to get out of this lounging robe and find some decent clobber. You have Strom Korden’s sword safe?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  I studied her face carefully. She looked tired. There was no mistaking the jut of her rounded chin, the defiance with which she held her head erect. Her fair hair was brushed back and gleamed golden. She was a girl of parts, all right, struggling to come to terms with what had happened, facing head on the horror that had engulfed her world.

  In that moment I felt I could rest more easily where young Tirivenswatha was concerned.

  “Did the city guards question you?”

  “No. I have kept very quiet. But—”

  “But what?” We spoke in tense whispers.

  “I should go to them and explain. That would soon—”

  That had always been and possibly still was an obvious course of action. I had set my face against that from the start of the business.

  “I want you kept out of it, Tiri.”

  “Oh, I know they worship Tolaar here in Bharang. Cymbaro is recognized as merely a cult. But, all the same, I am a dancer before Cymbaro and they will listen.”

  “I really do not think that a good idea. There’d be too many explanations.” I was thinking of Strom Korden’s mysterious charge to me which I fully intended to honor.

  “But you’re a fugitive! A leemshead!”

  “I’ve been that before and, no doubt, will be so again. Now, young lady, bed time for you. I’ll kip down on the floor and in the morning we’ll think better with clear heads.”

  She climbed up into the bed and hauled the covers up. Her gray-green eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “Don’t think you will always be able to tell me what to do, Drajak. I can only return to Oxonium and seek comfort and advice at the shrine.” She sounded positive. “San Paynor will make everything clear.” And, with that, she snuggled down and in no time at all was fast asleep.

  Oh, yes, I told myself, young Tiri was indeed a fine spirited girl of parts.

  During the course of the following morning things fell out quite other than I had anticipated. Tiri ventured out with some gold rhoks and silver bhins and returned with clothes. I had specified a length of scarlet cloth for a breechclout and she brought with that a garment called shamlak, a tunic-like vestment which was worn with a gap of at least a hand’s breadth down the front, from neck to hem. Shades of Mimi’s nightgown! It fastened across the front with cords stretching from button to button, rather like a hussar’s dolman. Both men and women wore the same fashion. Below it women wore skirts of a tiered style and men wore s
hort kilts. The whole was designed for lightness, airiness and comfort in a climate mild and hospitable most of the time.

  Also, a little breathlessly, she said: “And, Drajak! What do you think!”

  Smiling, for smiling came easily where young Tiri was concerned when dark thoughts of the horror in both our minds could be pushed aside, I said: “Well, young lady. What do I think?”

  “You can never guess. I saw Princess Nandisha!”

  “Oh,” I said, and remained dumb thereafter.

  “I did! She was as close as you are. It was strange, though. Her golden numim was there, as they passed by, and the princess I am sure was trying to conceal her face. It was most odd. Everybody likes her.”

  “You didn’t happen to see a big Kildoi?”

  “No.”

  “Look, Tiri, you’ll have to go out again and find Nandisha and then find Fweygo. Tell him what happened. All of it.”

  “But—?”

  “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  Although I was not at all sure that, indeed, it would be all right, I sincerely hoped so. Fweygo would fathom a way around the problem.

  So, stuck in Tiri’s bedroom, I waited. Some time elapsed. When at last she returned she waltzed in and, lo! in came Nandisha and Ranaj and Fweygo. They were not looking particularly overjoyed and relieved at finding the lost member of their party. Ranaj had a scowl all across his features. Fweygo, alone, look undisturbed.

  Before I’d even had a chance to get out a polite lahal, Ranaj started up: “Thanks to you, Drajak, and your onkerish behavior, the princess has had to reveal herself. Now—”

  “It isn’t all that bad.” Nandisha sat in the only chair, looking far more relaxed than when we’d parted. “To obtain a lifter it would have been necessary, I suspect.”