Captive Scorpio dp-17

by Alan Burt Akers

  of tea to hand, I sauntered across.

  The crowd around the emperor saw me and they eased back, moving away to let me through. The crowd was not so much congregated around the emperor as around the woman with whom he was having a delightful conversation, that kept making him roar with laughter and brought his color up brilliantly.

  She saw me as I saw her.

  Well.

  The emperor half-turned to glare at me.

  The woman started to laugh, a low malicious, velvety laugh that put my teeth on edge. Delia was suddenly at my side.

  The woman laughed her malicious laugh. “At least you are not still running, prince. And the air smells quite sweet.”

  I said nothing, half choking on a piece of squish pie.

  “You are late, son-in-law!” boomed the emperor. “You have been asked here to have the high honor of being introduced to the Hyr Serenity, Queen Lushfymi, the Queen of Lome.”

  I got the piece of pie down. I gulped.

  I swung a fishy eye on Delia.

  “You knew.”

  “I knew.”

  By Zim-Zair, but they breed princesses that are princesses in Vallia!

  Eight

  Queen Lushfymi of Lome

  For my own part I would have liked to have taken myself off to our own apartments in the palace and indulged in a long wallow in the Baths of the Nine. Then I could do justice to a six or seven course meal

  — a light meal, that, by Kregan standards — and see about preparing for the coming journey. But protocol demanded otherwise.

  The scene hung sparks for a moment, as Delia’s smile ravished me, and the violet-eyed woman, Queen Lushfymi — whom I would not call Queen Lush just for the moment — sipped daintily at her Yellow Unction and eyed me mockingly over the crystal rim of the goblet.

  In some traditions it would be in order for me to say to you words after the fashion of: “And now I draw a veil over what followed,” and then go on to tell you of what befell me on that Opaz-forsaken trip to the Northeast.

  There are many events of my life upon Kregen I have not related, for one reason or another, many people I knew who have not figured in my narrative, and much, very much, of the customs and mores, the color and pageantry, the religions and the metaphysical aspects of that marvelous world I have omitted. But things were said here that proved of some importance later on. The emperor wanted to know, by Vox, what the hell I meant by not being on time and why was I late. I indicated my clothes and said that if he’d told me the Queen was to be met in this unofficial reception I would have been pleased to attend in proper style. For these kind of early evening functions, that are styled unofficial — as, indeed, in comparison with the stiff formality of public functions they truly are -

  people wear clothes that are relaxed and yet formal. Long gowns of bright dark hues, much gold lace, a modicum of decorated collar, the nikmazilla, and a dress sword or dagger complete a costume that is half-formal, half-lounging, relaxed and proper, really quite charming. The emperor looked pointedly at my rapier and at the longsword.

  “You are trusted by the guards now, and Kov Layco has vouched for you. I do not forget Ashti Melekhi.”

  A white-clad slave girl wearing a tall yellow and red mitered headdress — so she could easily be seen in a crowd — went past with a silver tray and I used my free hand to liberate a glass of Wenhart Purple, the emperor’s favorite wine. I sipped. After I had taken just enough time to get the old devil in a mood, I said cheerfully: “The Melekhi is dead, slain by Kov Layco here.” The Chief Pallan stood watchfully at the emperor’s side, fingering his golden chain of office. “I leave you to remember how her friends died.”

  “All this talk of death,” broke in Queen Lushfymi. She turned her violet eyes to the emperor in a long, languishing look. “Let us talk of happier things.”

  “Yet is death always with us,” said Kolo York, the Vad of Larravur, a powerful, spare man with a lined wedge of a face. He wore a tastefully executed diamond brooch in the form of a krahnik. He was, so I understood, loyal to the emperor.

  “The queen’s commands are to be obeyed instantly!” exclaimed the emperor. He beamed. He was beside himself with pleasure in the company of this woman.

  Well, I was forced to admit then, and see no reason to change that opinion, she was indeed splendid. Her full creamy throat, the brightness of her lips, her mass of dark hair and those great violet eyes, all were calculated to dizzy a man. Her deep-blue gown, relieved by green and white embroidery, stood out sharply in that Vallian gathering where blue is a rare color. She wore, I thought, rather too much jewelry. But she radiated charm and a dominating sense of womanliness, a mystery of perfectly controlled sexual allure. And, at the same time, I, for one, sensed in her a hidden and deviously repressed spirit, as though her outward form and the brilliance of her person and character concealed depths of feelings and emotions she would reveal reluctantly and at peril to those who inquired too diligently. She took every opportunity to mock me with our first meeting, privately, between ourselves, malicious and bright and derisive.

  She took pains not to stand too close to Delia.

  She kept close to the emperor, laughing up at him, sipping her wine, nibbling miscils and daintily chewing palines. Why she did this was perfectly plain to me.

  This Queen Lushfymi carried the reputation of being the most beautiful of women, mysterious, almost witchlike in the best sense, ruling her country and bringing fantastic wealth and prosperity. She was fabulously wealthy.

  But beside my Delia she glowed as a candle glows in the radiance of the suns. Delia wore one of her long laypom colored gowns, a pale yellow so delicate as almost to be platinum, and her brown hair with those rebellious chestnut tints shone magnificently. Her only jewelry, two small brooches, one in the form of a red rose and the other the spoked hubless wheel I had given her, eloquently destroyed the jeweled opulence of Queen Lush.

  But, of course, Delia merely dressed naturally; it was through no fault of hers that other women faded into insignificance beside her. And, to be fair, Queen Lush was a beauty. The talk wended on. There were even a few tentative feelers about the pact to be drawn up between Vallia and Lome. I spoke in favor. There was resistance to the idea from many of the nobles there. Of the racters I knew, only Nath Ulverswan, Kov of the Singing Forests, was present, and his black and white favor looked lonely and forlorn.

  Queen Lush would get no real grasp of the true feelings in Vallia, then. . I fancied she would have her spies busy, and was shrewd enough by all accounts to take the pulse of the empire.

  Vad Kolo nal Larravur took the emperor’s remark about the commands of the queen as a personal rebuke. He withdrew a little, his face shadowed. I kept the frown off my face. If the emperor could so thoughtlessly upset his own people, he would make himself even more isolated. Vad Kolo’s daughter took his arm and spoke quickly, softly, in his ear. He scowled a bit, and then edged himself back into the group around the queen, forcing a smile. This daughter — she had some courtesy title, of course — was lithe, well-formed, glowing of face, open of countenance. She wore a dark yellow gown with silver lacing, and a long thin poniard of typical Vallian manufacture swung at her girdle. This was Leona nal Larravur. On the left shoulder of the gown she wore a brooch fashioned from ronil gems into the likeness of a purple bush, with a green emerald stem. By this device I knew Leona nal Larravur was a member of the Order of Sisters of Samphron. One of the ronils was missing, the one on the extreme tip of the bush-brooch. It was unlikely that the brooch for so meaningful a symbol was of Krasny work — inferior — nor was it likely that the stone would be knocked out by an ordinary accidental dropping of the brooch, even on the hardest of stone. The gold mounting had been painted over purple.

  A small vertical frown kept dinting in between Leona nal Larravur’s eyebrows, then she would force a smile, and the skin would smooth out and those two worrying lines disappear. The conversation became more animated as less tea was drunk and more win
e flowed. The emperor’s huge bark of laughter crashed out with more and more frequency. Colors in cheeks heightened. Eyes grew warm. I looked across at Delia. It was time we departed. Now, I did not then hear the words spoken, nor was I a witness to the entire scene. But voices around the queen were raised. The tones were still polite; but the venom was unmistakable. A hush fell over the rest of the Reception Room. Everyone looked and listened.

  The queen’s color was up. Her violet eyes were flying danger signals. The emperor was furious. His bulky body towered over the small, slight form of Foke Lyrsmin. Old Foke quivered, staring up, his elegant dark clothes shaking. A small, cheerful, wiry fellow, Foke Lyrsmin, the Kov of Vyborg. We had had a right old time of it at the uncompleted wedding ceremony he’d planned with Merle, the daughter of Trylon Jefan Werden.[2]The Lady of Vallia he had subsequently married was enchanting; she stood at his side, her face scarlet, her lips trembling. Their two strapping sons and two delightful daughters hesitated, as it were, on the edges of this ghastly scene.

  “. . and I don’t care what it is you meant to say, Kov Foke! You call yourself my friend.” The emperor’s voice boomed, rich and heavy, and everyone heard. “I do not account those as friends who insult Queen Lushfymi.”

  “Majister — I did not insult-”

  “I heard, Lyrsmin! I am not deaf! Be thankful I do not order your head off this instant.”

  At this the Kovneva of Vyborg let out a little squeak of pure agony. Her two stalwart sons held her arms, supporting her. How Old Foke had managed to get them was a mystery.

  “But, majister-”

  “Begone, Foke Lyrsmin!”

  “But-”

  “Shastum! Not another word. Go! Leave my presence.”

  Poor Old Foke looked shattered. His thin body writhed in the elegant gown. He turned about, and his teeth chattered.

  “And, Foke na Vyborg — I shall expect a written apology to be transmitted to the Queen of Lome, together with a gift of quality sufficient to show your sorrow and regrets and your wholehearted desire to make amends for your disgusting behavior.”

  Foke couldn’t say another word. The emperor had commanded that. He trailed away. His delightful wife followed, helped out by the twin sons, and the twin daughters tripped along afterward, like naughty schoolchildren chastised and sent to bed. The colors of Vyborg, maroon and silver, looked pathetic as they left.

  The Reception Room filled again with conversation as people started talking away. Scenes like this were no longer as common as they once had been. Delia caught my eye. I nodded sideways. We started to make for the doors.

  If there can be said, at that time, to have been a party in a political sense around the emperor, then Foke was certainly a member. I suppose the people near him might be called the Imperial Party. They had nothing like the organization or the power of the racters. But they were men loyal to the throne.

  “Poor Foke,” said Delia.

  “He looked shattered. Did you see what it was?”

  “No. But Queen Lush was most put out.”

  “Oh no, my heart.” We had reached the doors and the gaudily uniformed flunkeys were opening up again after the doors had been closed after the Vyborgs. “Oh, no. Old Foke was the one who was put out.”

  Nine

  Into Hawkwa Country

  “Now,” I said to Delia when all the preparations were complete. “This water bottle.”

  “I see it, my love.”

  We had gone up to our Valkan villa, which was still not fully brought back to habitability, despite the length of time that had elapsed since I’d acquired it by virtue of being made the Strom of Valka behind my back. But there were apartments enough beautifully furnished to make it a real home. Nalgre the Staff was the current Chamberlain, a stout fellow and one I would trust. We kept no slaves. The villa was set somewhat back from the road, bowered in greenery, presenting an outward appearance of decay and neglect. I did not object to that. Further along on the Hill — the Valkan villa was situated on the Hill of Vel’alar — the villas of the nobles presented all the munificence of aspect expected of the rich and mighty of the empire.

  “This water bottle.” I hefted it. Plain leather, scuffed, worn, it was a scruffy-looking object. “We must keep it safely locked away in the stoutest iron chest.”

  Delia nodded understandingly. After I had mended my hurts in the Sacred Pool of Baptism I had filled this water bottle with the milky fluid that conferred life. My return from the island of Ba-Domek on which stands the Swinging City of Aphrasoe had been rushed with the help of my Djangs; but I had managed to bring back my weapons, that superb zorca Shadow, and this water bottle.

  “It will be safe here.” Delia placed the bottle in humespack, wrapping the cloth over it, and then wadding down household linen so that the iron chest almost overflowed. We closed the lid and sat companionably upon it and did up the locks. They can make fine chests in Vallia, for they have much gold and silver, jewels and precious objects to preserve.

  The four keys and the master key were secreted away in a brick hole concealed within the wall of our bedroom. No picture covered that lenken paneling there; the wood had been carpentered to a close fit by men long since dead. I had found that small hiding place only by chance, and regretted it was not large enough to accommodate the water bottle itself.

  As we went up to the landing platform I said to Delia: “We keep up five villas here besides the quarters in the palace. It might be a good idea to sell one or two.”

  She cocked her head at me. The night air breathed sweet about us. She of the Veils rode through a tracery of clouds. The landing platform was dusty, and dead leaves blew with brittle rustlings into the corners. We had slept enough to feel refreshed. I was sorry that Delia could not fly with me; but she was adamant. The Sisters of the Rose had to be attended to first.

  “You may, my great grizzly graint. But I do not think I shall sell the Delphondian villa-”

  “Of course not!” That was a superb, a delightful, a magical home.

  “And the Blue Mountains-”

  “No.”

  “So, as you have an affection for this place, that leaves the villas of Zamra and Veliadrin.”

  “Um,” I said, throwing off the restraining chains on the flier I was using. “You are thinking of the children? They will need villas?”

  “Perhaps.”

  I climbed in and Delia climbed in after. She looked at me gravely. The flier was a small two-place craft, trim, reasonably fast, and one I hoped would sustain me in the air. We must think about buying some more vollers for the villas we kept up at different places; one never knew when a fleet air-boat would be required in a hurry. As you know, I had been in that kind of need before and was like to be again, Zair knows.

  She kissed me good-bye. I said “Remberee” with a deal of anger; but this was a case of having to accept the needle.

  When Delia stood once more on the dusty, refuse-blowing landing platform I looked down and waved, and shouted: “Remberee, my heart!” and took the voller up in a savage lunge of power. The Twins broke through a carpet of clouds and the two second moons of Kregen, eternally orbiting each other, cast down their fuzzy pink light. She of the Veils, the fourth moon, rolled along before them. So, once more, I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, raced through the nighted skies of Kregen, under the hurtling moons, driving headlong forward to action and adventure. The thought of seeing Barty again cheered me up. He was to meet me in Thengelsax. Sax means fort, and many of the towns and cities along the arc of the old frontiers of central northeast Vallia grew up from the ancient fortifications raised against the barbarian reivers. There are plenty of other words for castle, fortress, fort, Kregish being a rich language; but one thing they all share in common: they refer to serious concerns, matters of building pride and cunning military fortification. The sprawling cities that festoon the old walls would give heart palpitations to those ancient builders. And this, as you will perceive, was the nub of the affair. F
or Vallia was a great and puissant empire. There should not be, under the law, conflict within the boundaries of the empire between province and province. The emperor would be better advised seeking ways of settling these troubles instead of running after beautiful bitch-queens.

  But then, he was a man. And Queen Lush was a woman — that was blatantly obvious. If she occupied his attention perhaps I could get on with my own affairs. At least, he had not made too particular inquiries about his grandchildren. I had to hoick Dayra out of the mess she was in and straighten her out before the emperor decided to take a hand.

  And, again, that implied that I knew best for my daughter. That I was totally unsure must be obvious. But I thought, at the least, that smashing up taverns and raiding with a bunch of hairy reivers against innocent citizens of Vallia were not occupations she could in all honesty claim as morally defensible. Mind you, by Krun! She could easily have some explanation that would make me change my mind. The Suns of Scorpio flooded down their mingled streaming lights of jade and ruby as I circled once over Thengelsax and slanted in for a landing outside the designated inn. The city presented the expected appearance of a well-ordered city of Vallia. Clean, neat, prosperous, situated where the River Emerade flows into the Great River, the city looked justly proud of itself.

  As an interesting light upon the importance of those old fortifications, the Trylon took the name of Thengelsax, from the city, and not that of Thengel, from the trylonate. Barty met me as the airboat touched down and the hostlers ran out to see to her. He looked excited and I felt a welling of hope that he had discovered some vital clue to the whereabouts of Dayra. My hopes were dashed. As we went into the inn and posting house, The Hanged Leemshead, Barty started on cussing about the Strom of Vilandeul. He windmilled his arms and when we had pots of ale before us he sloshed suds about, scarlet-faced, almost incoherent, and yet, in the end, making lucid sense and betraying the very real depths of his affection for Dayra.