“Lingurd was cut up, and Roidon the Riscus lost a few feathers and had his beak knocked askew. That devil-spawned Kataki, Trako Ironbelly, should be sent down to the Ice Floes of Sicce with his tail lopped off.”
We went along Ferndown Street and then turned again and came upon the cable car terminus from the opposite direction. A few people waited and when the next car docked there was no trouble. We paid our copper obs for the journey and swung and swayed across to the next hill. Eventually we crossed the Hill of Sturgies and Nalgre led me along unfamiliar streets to a small but respectable-looking house in a back alley. He knocked.
A bristle-haired Brokelsh, Tarbak the Sohan, answered. He, too, bore bruises. “By the Resplendent Bridzilkelsh! You took your time. Lingurd is nearly dead.”
Naghan the Barrel rolled up from an inner room, his fat face grave. “This way.”
In the darkened room poor old Lingurd the polsim lay on a bed and coughed blood down his chin. He had been stuck through and the bandages across his chest were soaked. A little Och lady was trying to change the dressings. She had dotted the various parts of his anatomy with her needles to ease the pain. Lingurd spoke through a bubble of blood.
“Do not worry, Mother Ivy. I’m done for, may Impolimar receive me at the end.”
“Your sacred Impolimar will be vexed with you, Lingurd the Obstinate, if you do not let me attend you.” As she spoke her left upper held a cold bandage to his forehead, her right upper held him down and her two middle limbs expertly re-dressed the wound. “There. Just lie still, you stryler.”
Staring down on Lingurd I reflected he was in no real position to be obstinate, what in Kregish is called stryle, not with this brisk little Puncture Lady attending him. The wound looked bad; I judged he’d live.
“Speak up, Lingurd.” Nalgre the Barrel’s voice, fruity as ever, held just the edge of testiness.
“I waited for the notor,” Lingurd said, with difficulty. “The trust — and the Watch — but I did not fail.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Lingurd.” I made my tones pleasant.
“They were on us. The item — I hid it.” He tried to move restlessly and Mother Ivy soothed him. He went on in that weak voice: “In a barrel — you remember, notor, the barrels?”
I nodded. “Which one?”
“A chalk mark — yellow.”
“I recall they all had a yellow mark.”
“Yes. The sign for She of the Veils. And the figure ord.”
The mark meant the eighth month of Kregan’s fourth moon, She of the Veils.
Before I could answer Raerdu spluttered out: “You could have told us before this! I’ll have some men go down there at once—”
“And,” I cut in. “I shall go with them.”
“But—”
“But, as they say in Clishdrin, me no buts, my friend. I am going.”
Naghan Raerdu knew me of old. He ceased his protestations. Our venture would have to be carried out this night and so for the short time remaining I ate and drank and presently Nalgre the Ron started in humming a tune, some others joined in, and a spritely little sing-song was in progress. I felt these ruffians were not singing in an attempt to keep up their spirits for the night. Most, not all, Kregans love to sing and seize any opportunity to caterwaul the old favorite tunes. We had, I remember “The Maiden with the Single Veil” and “Zakryst’s Great War Horse” among songs current over most of Paz. A comical song of Tolindrin, funny and at the same time, to a foreigner, pathetic in its wish-fulfillment is “Nath the Iarvin among the Clouds.” This tells of how Nath the Iarvin, a simple candle-maker’s son, sought his fortune in Caneldrin, the nation immediately to the north of Tolindrin. He found himself one day on one of the volgendrins that circle in the air in that country and by calling upon Tolaar the Mighty sailed the flying island all the way south to Tolindrin. The song finishes with Nath the Iarvin’s joyous reception at home. As to why there are no volgendrins soaring in the air in Tolindrin — well that is another and altogether more painful truth of geography.
At last Naghan Raerdu stood up and the sing-song was over. A couple of his men went out to scout the neighborhood. If any spies had followed Nalgre the Ron and myself here they were far more expert than those two back in Amintin whom Fweygo had seen off. I had not been conscious of anybody tailing us and Nalgre confirmed that as his own feelings.
They found me another floppy hat and a short cloak and so, disguised as a right tearaway ruffian of the runnels, off I went with this band of cut-throats. The new rapier and left hand dagger were concealed by the cloak; the sword I’d taken from Palfrey’s unconscious guard was buckled up in a handy position so that my fist could haul hilt fast.
We did not use the lifter but descended the rubble-strewn slope carefully. Occasionally the Maiden with the Many Smiles peeped out from the clouds but in general we had darkness to cloak our nefarious activities. This gang led by Naghan had followed me to The Brass Lily. We all knew the way along the dolorous runnels among the stews, avoiding the piles of refuse and the thickly clinging mud that never seemed to dry out. The smells choked up our nostrils once again and the weird cries that echoed among the buildings spoke eloquently — and hideously — of all manner of deviltry going on here.
At the penultimate block we halted. The tavern was visible through a thin mist that hung about damply. A gyp lolloped across to a pile of rubbish and started to ferret about. Cautiously we skirted around to arrive at the rear of The Brass Lily. The sounds of revelry flowed muted from the front.
“This is the back entrance to the yard,” grunted Naghan in my ear.
“And that’s Fonnell’s snug,” I whispered, pointing to the building where the Fristle had met his death. “Not that he needs it now.”
“So where are the damn barrels?”
“Right alongside the snug where poor Lingurd was standing. You can’t see ’em from out here. Still,” I nodded my head. “You can see that confounded trapdoor where I went down like offal down a mincer.”
Naghan’s laugh wheezed as he stifled his amusement. Here in Tolindrin the barrel of Northern countries was used as a container alongside the amphora of Southern lands. Both barrels and amphorae traveled the wide world of Kregen. The trade of coopering is demanding in its exactitude — but then, so is throwing a pot — and as a consequence barrels were cared for. This stack consisted of the empties, ready to be picked up and returned to the merchants.
Naghan moved forward, bulky and determined. He whispered over his shoulder. “Liftu, you and Nath the Nose keep watch out here.” He passed me and said: “I’ll just go in and—”
I took his arm. “Not so. It’s down to me to go first.” I added and even as I spoke, knew I shouldn’t: “You should know me by now, my friend.”
He grunted his wheezing snort. “Oh, aye, I know. I remember The Headless Zorcaman.”
So, in I went, peering every which way in the erratic illumination.
As you know, although I was not absolutely sure, I had an inkling the Star Lords had given me the ability to see rather better in gloomy situations than a person with normal eyesight might expect. Certainly, the details of the yard were easy enough to make out. Noise from the front of The Brass Lily spurted through the night. I slunk in and turned towards Fonnell’s snug and the stack of empty barrels. All bore yellow chalk markings.
The barrels were piled up differently from the way I pictured them in my mind. If the sword had been discovered... Rapidly I searched for the yellow chalk mark of the eighth month of She of the Veils.
There were many kinds of marks, many of them half obliterated and washed away by rain, some with new marks over old. What I sought was not visible in the first or second tier of barrels. The top two tiers leaned crazily out like projecting house fronts. There was nothing for it but to climb up.
At my elbow Naghan whispered: “I don’t see it.”
“Give me a leg up.”
So, with Naghan’s brawny fist under my shoe, up I went. I c
lawed at the lip of the top barrel and with a squirming wriggle like an eel hoisted myself onto the top. I lay there for a moment, hoping not enough noise had been made to attract attention through the racket from the tavern.
The yellow marks danced like abandoned sarabandas in a pagan temple. I blinked and cleared my eyes and looked and there the mark was, plain as a pikestaff, the eighth month of She of the Veils.
The empty barrel top came off easily and I reached in and the whole pile erupted like an avalanche and in an infernal thundering uproar the stack of barrels collapsed. Barrels bounced and rolled everywhere across the yard. Down I went like a skier whose somersault has come to grief. Smack flat down on my back I flopped like a landed fish, gasping. The barrels were rolling and booming and careening about all over the yard.
“Krug take it!” yelped Naghan as he went toppling over knocked flying by a maniacal barrel. I tried to sit up and was rolled flat again by a demonic booming monster plunging from the top rear tier. This was like being in the way of a vove cavalry charge. Gasping, I clawed up once more and stared in horror at the trundling devastation across the yard.
You couldn’t have aroused more attention by beating a battalion’s massed drums. The rear door of the tavern flew open, lamplight flowered across the tiles, and men bearing weapons tumbled out.
“By the leprous left ear and disgusting decayed right nostril of Makki Grodno!” I fumed away as I leaped up. “What a way to conduct a silent secret nefarious operation!”
Chapter seventeen
All the same — by Krun! you had to laugh!
One crazed barrel was spinning on its axis like a Whirling Dervish. A fellow from the tavern loosed at it and the bolt caromed from the revolving staves and steamed off into the night. The uproar bellowed splendidly in the back yard of The Brass Lily.
Uproariously amusing though this imbroglio was, time was dropping inexorably away, grain by grain, drop by drop. Where in a Herrelldrin Hell was that Djan-forsaken sword?
The men from the tavern were in no doubt that some rival gang had chosen this very night to stage a surprise attack on The Brass Lily. They stormed into the yard shooting at anything that moved. Bolts and arrows feathered into barrels or caromed away under the stars. Yells of order and counter-order spurted as they tried to discover what exactly was going on.
Then — and for the sweet sake of Opaz I let out a yelp of pure delight — a barrel swung on its last revolution and halted beside me and there, plain as the nose on your face, gleamed the yellow chalk mark I sought. I dived headlong.
The double-damned empty barrel was empty!
“Oh, my Divine Lady of Belschutz!” I ground out through my teeth. “You and Makki-Grodno were created one for the other!”
Now Naghan’s men had been inordinately patient during all this furore. True, they were at the gate keeping watch. True, they were hired hands. But, equally truthfully, they had been paid good red gold for a task to their liking and so now when they were shot at it irked them. They shot back.
The result was instantaneous. In the flickering uncertain light as the moon shed her radiance down through the ever-shifting clouds the men from The Brass Lily let out yells of consternation. They turned and rushed back into the tavern. So much for their brave advance against the enemy!
Looking about this way and that, and I can tell you I was in a right old state by this time, I searched for that miserable sword. Try to do someone a good turn, try to fulfill a promise to a dying man, and look where it gets you... Caught up in a diabolical mess like this.
Kicking barrels out of the way and heaving them rolling in the general direction of the tavern, I peered about like a beggar searching for scraps in a refuse dump. A gleam from the end of a tub, a quick heave of my shoulders and — there it lay. The confounded sword caught a stray flash of light and winked, as it were, insolently at me, laughing at my concern.
I snatched it up and yelled: “All out! Wenda!”
In a tumbling mass we rollicked out of the yard and hared along up the alley. The Maiden with the Many Smiles took pity on us then and allowed drifting clouds to cover her roseate glory. In pungent gloom we hurried along.
Naghan the Barrel, wily as ever, called softly: “This way,” and led off down a narrow-gutted alley even more dark and forbidding than the last.
That cross-way led into another. Naghan’s sense of direction did not fail and I, a stranger here, sensed too the way we were heading. We pressed on. Naghan held up a hand and we all collided in a chain, bump, bump, bump, and so came to a halt. Ahead a wider street lay pooled with light from lanterns hitched thinly to corner buildings. The ominous tramp of iron-shod boots echoed into the night air.
There was no need for Naghan or anyone to say: “Shastum! Silence!” Like fearful mice we waited, suppressing our breathing, our eyes gleaming muddily like bad eggs, our weapons clutched in grimy fists. The Watch stalked past.
The Kataki Hikdar who led them was not, of course, Trako Ironbelly; no doubt he was a collateral relation and almost as bad. Itching though we might be to leap out and drub these licensed villains, we kept still and silent.
We gave the Watch ample time to march off — march! That was a laugh. They strolled along in no kind of step or order, masichieri, the lot of ’em.
“They’re gone,” whispered Nath the Nose.
“Aye,” rumbled Naghan. “Gone to Cottmer’s Caverns I hope.”
After that we were able to negotiate the rest of the drab and festering warrens and so reach the rubble slope and climb back up to the fresher air of the hill. “Anybody could climb up here,” I said to Naghan. “Don’t the folk on the hills worry? Keep guards?”
“The rabble can climb up — to do what? The guards exist at points where they are needed. It would take half a dozen armies to guard every way up from the warrens to the hills.”
“And,” added Liftu, “they know if they do climb up a force will descend and wreak vengeance. Not a pretty sight, that.”
“I can imagine,” I said. And, by Krun, I could.
Nalgre the Ron, who despite his bruises had insisted on going with our expedition, brought up the rear of the party. He kept a wary eye out and, to our relief, was able to report that no one followed us.
We regrouped at the inconspicuous house and our immediate enquiries regarding Lingurd were answered by Mother Ivy saying he was in a deep sleep. No one questioned her further. Kregen, after all, is Kregen, and there the doctoring process very very often includes a magical element. We all went into the side room for a wet.
Although our adventures down at The Brass Lily seemed to have lasted an eternity, little time had elapsed and the night was still young. Time for me at last to rid myself of the sword and my obligation to Strom Korden. Taking my leave with due formality and an expression of thanks I advised Naghan Raerdu I could be reached at Princess Nandisha’s palace. Then I set off for the palace of Hyr Kov Brannomar.
Naghan would not hear of my traversing the nighted streets of Oxonium alone, even though they were safe enough what with the Guard alert. A group accompanied me to Grand Central and I could hear them muttering questioningly among themselves at the downright foolish action on my part of boldly marching into the Hyr Kov’s palace. I thanked them all again and promised to see them later. So, into the palace I went.
Brannomar ran a tight ship. The guards halted me under the first portico. They were polite about it; but the crossbows did not waver as they centered on my midriff. Their swords might be munitions quality, they’d be good and sharp within the quality of the steel.
“The lord is in a meeting,” I was told by the Deldar, sharp, correct, his uniform immaculate, his Deldar’s rank badges glittering in the lantern lights. He was a Pachak and his yellow hair showed a neat trim under the rim of his helmet.
“Please send a message to the Hyr Kov. Tell him Drajak the Sudden has that which—”
“You are Drajak known as the Sudden?”
“Aye.”
Insta
ntly a transformation occurred. The guard surrounded me, a Hikdar appeared, wiping his mouth with a yellow napkin, and off I was marched into the courtyard. Clearly, I was expected. A number of carriages stood about with grooms and coachmen in attendance. We went through the various passages until we reached those I recognized from my previous visit.
The inner guard, already alerted by a runner, took over here and in further I marched. I held my left hand on the hilt of Korden’s sword nestling in the scabbard Naghan had provided. The brand had cost me a deal of sweat, toil and trouble — not to say pain — and the thought of losing it now at the last moment was not to be borne.
There was no hesitation about my introduction to the meeting. Double-doors were thrown open and the guard ushered me into a comfortable withdrawing room, furnished with couches and chairs and side tables. There were drinks on the tables together with light refreshments. From the faces of those in the meeting I judged this was no pleasant evening’s entertainment.
Carefully, I looked at them all as Brannomar came forward, extending his hand. “You have it?”
“Aye, notor.” I drew the blessed thing and, smartly reversing it and resting the blade on my arm, extended the hilt towards him. He took it into his fist with the grip of a devotee of Kurin and a little sigh escaped his lips. “Thank you.” As I say, a polite noble, thank Zair!
Now the others in the room stood as though immersed in wax, absorbed in what was going on. Of them, Nandisha and Ranaj wore puzzled frowns. The spritely young fellow I’d met in the Shrine of Cymbaro with whom I’d had an argument about precedence through a door, and the faded woman sitting next to him, also looked puzzled by my entrance and the sword. Not so Khonstanton. His face drew down in a heavy frown. The young man standing in a pose of irritation near him almost started forward, and then halted, and so joined the rest in immobility.
Looking at Khonstanton I was minded to say something; but common sense held my lips sealed. Bad cess to him — he’d lost the precious sword!
Intrigue of Antares Page 14