Delia of Vallia [Dray Prescot #28]

by Alan Burt Akers

  She rushed forward and yanked Delia up. She thwacked out with her silver rod, striking Delia about the shoulders.

  “Imbecile! Onker! Look what you have done!” The silver rod slashed. “Now you will be flogged jikaider until you are shredded to death!"

  * * *

  Chapter eleven

  Nyleen Gillois

  The silver rod struck again.

  Tangled up with a naked woman as she was, Delia had to make up her mind.

  Her instinct was simply to get up and take the silver rod away and give the flunkey woman a taste or two. That was also the act of a slave who wished to commit suicide. The flunkey woman, dragging at her to pull her off, hit again.

  With a twisting heave as though struggling to get free, Delia half-hunched around and so took the silver rod into her left hand. Naked flesh, pink and glowing, bulged up before her eyes. Concealing her movements, she gave the rod a hefty pull and then instantly rolled the other way. She started to yell, adding to the shrieks from the other two.

  “Your pardon, my lady! I was trying to help!"

  That vicious pull on the rod yanked the flunkey woman forward, caught unexpectedly and off balance. She staggered. In the next instant she would go head first into the bath.

  Delia considered enough was enough.

  She got her body in the way, rear-ended the woman off, and then bent to the other who screamed in her nakedness upon the matting. Delia hauled her up.

  “There, there, my lady. It's all right. You are unhurt, praise be!"

  She did not care to give the praise to any particular deity or spirit until she knew a little more of this platinum-haired woman's predilection in religious matters.

  “You touched me, slave!"

  “Yes, my lady. You would have been boiled—"

  “Silence!” screamed flunkey-woman.

  “Oh, do hold still. Ilka, do!"

  “Yes, my lady."

  “Now you, slave. What is your name?"

  “Alyss, my lady."

  “Alyss. I see. And you saved me from the boiling water?"

  “I could do nothing else, my lady."

  Let her chew on that one. Delia had the idea that too great a pressure on a sense of gratitude would be wasted on this woman.

  “Let me look at you—” The great lady stood up, gave herself a genteel shake and, oblivious of her nudity, sized up the slave before her.

  At that moment the opposite doors burst open and three hulking great warriors burst in, swords drawn, shields up, glaring and spitting, ready for blood. They skidded to a halt on the marble, and then began to hop up and down.

  “My lady!” the Hikdar shouted.

  “I'm perfectly all right, thank you, Nadia. You'd better leave. Otherwise you'll bum your feet off clear up to the ankles."

  “Yes, my lady!” And: “Quidang!” The three Jikai Vuvushis bashed their swords against their shields, turned smartly, and trotted off. Smartly.

  As though the antics of her guards cleared the atmosphere, the great lady unbent graciously. A dent at each corner of her mouth might have been mistaken for amusement. Delia stood, unmoving, silent, waiting for events. Great ladies were unpredictable—by Krun! who better than her to know that?—and it might be very necessary in the next moment or two to be cunning, groveling, tearful or grateful.

  The woman flunkey, this Ilka, came forward with the white robe, which she wrapped about her mistress. All the time the pearl-clad handmaid had remained in a stasis of terror, her hands clasped together on her breast.

  The great lady settled the robe about her shoulders. She drew her head up so that the platinum hair sheened.

  “I have taken a liking to you, Alyss. I think it will be amusing for you to serve me. If you continue to do as well, you will do well.” And she laughed, delighted at her own quip.

  “Yes, my lady."

  “Do you think the water of the correct temperature now?"

  Delia did not hesitate. If this was how the fish felt when the hook whipped out of his mouth, she did not know. But it was a chance, and she grabbed it.

  Going to the edge of the bath, she knelt down and tested the water with a tentative finger. It stung only a little.

  “It stings only a little, my lady."

  “Then I will chew a palmful of palines. Sissy!"

  The pearly maiden jumped and blushed and ran to fetch the yellow berries so that her mistress might savor their flavor while she waited for her bath to cool.

  Ilka, the flunkey woman, glowered at Delia.

  When the water reached the right temperature, and Delia reported the fact, the great lady once more removed her gown and stepped forward. She dipped that purple-painted toenailed toe into the water, and smiled, and sank down into the depths. The water sluiced away from under her. Perfumes were poured in, and soft scents filled the room. The place stank rather too high for Delia's tastes, but she had been told by other ladies that her tastes were far too refined in some directions, and far too coarse in others.

  Gently laving the water about her breast, the great lady looked up.

  “Ilka. See to it that Alyss is taken away and bathed, cleaned up, her hair combed, given decent clothes. I think Sissy cannot teach her very much, but let her try. Then bring her to me."

  “Yes, my lady."

  This was done.

  As they went through the performance in an adjoining and less splendid bath chamber, Delia said: “Who is the lady, mistress?"

  Ilka, superintending the operations upon her new charge, sniffed.

  “Why, you fambly. She is Nyleen Gillois na Sagaie, who is now Kovneva of Vindelka."

  In an even voice, Delia said: “She is newly married to the kov, is she not?"

  “Oh, him,” said Ilka, and slapped her silver rod at the slave braiding up Delia's hair.

  “Is he here?"

  “No. And speak properly, girl!"

  “Yes, mistress."

  Presently, when they were clothing her in silver tissue and dangling strings of pearls about her in strategic positions, she said: “Mistress. Is there something I might eat?"

  “Eat? You cannot be hungry?"

  “I am hungry, mistress."

  Ilka sniffed, as though the clepsydra had sprung a leak. “Oh, very well. You, slave, fetch food. And Grak!"

  The slave girl prodded by the silver rod ran off, to return shortly with a copper bowl of bread and bird's wings, roasted in brown gravy and smothered in Tarnton dressing. Delia made herself eat it all, although she was not overfond of Tarnton dressing with its rich mixture of fruits and honeys.

  She liked fruit and she liked honey; but she liked them as they came and not adulterated by would-be culinary artists.

  As she ate she reflected that it was sheer bad luck that her half-brother was absent. Any appeal to this Nyleen would, in her judgment, prove fatal. Quite clearly, Nyleen ran this household of slavery and Vomanus could know nothing of it all. He couldn't, surely? No—Delia would not believe that of Vomanus, despite all his feckless ways.

  She consoled herself with the hope that this removal to a higher sphere within the castle would afford her better opportunities for escape.

  In the old evil days when slavery was the norm in Vallia, if slaves ran off they were usually recaptured very quickly, simply because they had nowhere to hide. Once Delia ran off she'd have a very different future. Oh, yes, very different, by Vox! As she rearranged the strings of pearls and pulled the silver tissue straight she dwelled for a time on what might happen here when, say Nath Karidge, the commander of her personal bodyguard, turned up with his cavalry...

  “Grak, girl!” Ilka, frowning, harassed, shooed the slaves away. These slaves appeared to be a poor lot, pinched and hollow-eyed, and reserved for the most menial work. That they were employed this close to the great lady reinforced the impression of emergency everywhere apparent. At the same time Delia winced within herself at her own categorization of these poor creatures, and then she chastised herself again for that demean
ing thought. People were people in the light of Opaz.

  The emergency, to put it in overstatement, was easily understood. This Nyleen was from Evir, and that northernmost province of the empire had broken away, revolted, got itself a king and carried on the practice of slavery. Nyleen expected to be served by slaves. Just how Vomanus had happened on her was beyond Delia's grasp at the moment. But he had and he had married her. So here she was, kovneva of the kovnate, and damned-well determined to go on being a slavemistress. The countryside was being raided for human merchandise. Until the stock of slaves could be built up, they'd be short.

  Delia fumed, hurrying along with Ilka through corridors showing every sign of new and uncompleted furnishings. This place had probably been just three or four stone towers joined by short curtain walls, an ancient sax, a frontier fort. Now they'd built new timber halls and walls and kitchens and were furnishing the whole up like a palace. Well, Delia felt even more convinced as they hurried through the antechamber that Vomanus could know nothing of all this.

  Two bulky female slaves wearing just grey breechclouts and carrying a sofa with gilded legs and upholstery of a bright green and yellow shrank aside to let Ilka pass. The flunkey woman—she was called with respect Silver Rod—pushed past without noticing. Delia followed.

  Through the antechamber, the great lady's retiring room beyond was not quite what Delia had expected.

  Yes, there were quantities of furniture in dubious taste, and feathers and fans and drapes, and side tables bearing wine and munchables. The carpets floated one ankle deep. The air stank of perfume. All this was tiresomely normal for women suddenly catapulted into affluence. But, also, there were more tasteful refinements. Three or four good pictures adorned the walls. The mirror was a marvel, tall and cunningly swiveled. In an alcove stood a harp. The instrument had not been tampered with in the sense that many women ordered grotesque carved representations of gods and goddesses to be applied all over the frame. This specimen stood upright and was there to do what it had been built to do.

  Delia recognized the handiwork, of course. This one had been built by Master Nalgre the Strings, for there was no mistaking his supreme craftsmanship. He was dead now for over three hundred seasons. If she cared to look down low at the side of the soundboard she would find a name scratched into the varnished wood. Her mother had been cross. Harps, young Delia, she had said, are for playing on and not for writing your name on, as though you can claim the instrument as yours. And, in her strict old-fashioned and loving way, her mother had sent the harp to Vomanus and brought in a new one. Well, that was all a long time ago.

  “Stop gawping, girl! Arrange your clothes. And recline on the lowest step of the divan!"

  Stopping gawping was not too difficult, for the harp brought back a gush of memories. And reclining on the lowest carpeted step of the divan was easy. The divan itself, smothered in silks and furs, waited under its freight of feathered fans. But arranging her clothes—well, now, how did you arrange a scrap of silver tissue and few strings of beads?

  She finally decided to get a string each side and the rest down the middle when Nyleen walked in. She came with her retinue. This was small. Sissy hovered, still unsure of herself. A big strapping wench waved a feathered fan, for the overheated atmosphere needed to be siphoned off and fresh air imported to make any real difference. Nadia, the guard Hikdar, led her pair of fighting women. They wore silvered breastplates, deeply curved. Delia had always thought girls comical when they adopted brass breastplates, but these girls in their breastplates, corselets, breast and backs, looked likely in a fight.

  “Parclear, Alyss!"

  In a weird reprise of her actions with the mistress, Delia rose and poured and fetched the sparkling drink. Nyleen slouched in her divan and the others took up their ritual positions. A large dark girl wearing the black and white skin of a wersting led a couple of werstings in on leashes. These black and white striped hunting dogs had been thoroughly tamed. They hunched together for comfort, and rolled their eyes. No doubt their fangs had been blunted.

  Wondering what was to happen next, Delia resumed her reclining position on the lowest step. She had seen queens and empresses in their thrones, with slaves and chail sheom, chained slave handmaids, and savage beasts chained, with handlers to control them, and enormous slaves waving faerling fans. This Nyleen aped her betters and aimed high. It was, Delia decided, comical and also farcical. Also, it was dangerous.

  A bell rang. A woman wearing a deep green gown and girded by a belt from which hung many keys, entered and began a long conversation with Nyleen. The kovneva listened, pettishly, every now and then sipping her parclear or taking a biscuit crumb from Sissy and throwing it to the werstings. Delia lay and schemed plans of escape.

  Then she discovered what her main duties for the kovneva were to be.

  She was not at all surprised.

  After all, hadn't she been along this road before?

  Fat Queen Fahia of Hyrklana had used golden bowls. As for that poor unfortunate wretch, rumor had it she'd been chewed up by her own vicious black neemus. In any event, as Delia's son Jaidur was now King of Hyrklana, with Lildra as queen, Fahia would never again be queen and snap her fingers for her golden pot.

  Nyleen, Kovneva of Vindelka, favored silver pots with a furry rim. Much, my dear, more comfortable.

  At least she retired behind a screen to wash. Delia did all that was necessary. In truth, compared with the muck and mess she'd scrubbed up in Mellinsmot, this was a mere tiresome chore. Throwing the soiled linen into the basket and washing her hands before fetching fresh, she debated if she should break this Nyleen's neck now. No. Perhaps it would be better to unriddle the puzzle first. Nyleen, aloof, her platinum hair in the almost capable hands of Sissy, returned more than once. Delia soldiered on, nursed on, sistered on.

  There were no men in close attendance on Nyleen.

  She managed to snatch a bite to eat now and again, for any idea of the Kregan's regular six or eight meals a day was quite out of the question. Only when Nyleen slept was Delia free to sleep. Common sense made her decide not to escape that night. Sleep was the first priority. After all, she wouldn't run far when she could barely drag herself to her new cot and fall, flat out.

  The next few days witnessed a gradual improvement in her bodily strength. Soon, she bubbled with confidence, soon she'd be back to her full natural vigor.

  Kovneva Nyleen's routine varied but little. When she went out riding she left her handmaids in the fortress and rode with Nadia and an escort. No banquets were held. Dancing was arranged for the next evening. On the appointed hour people began to appear in the wide hall which, now cleared of its benches, normally served as the refectory. Not a single man was present.

  Being cut off from news of the outside world always gave Delia a claustrophobic feeling. What was going on, right now, in Vondium, in Valkanium, in Delphond? Had there been any news of her husband? Were her children still well?

  Had the Shanks attacked again from around the curve of the world? There were a million and one items the answers to which she desperately required. Yet during this time she remained calm. She planned her escape. She stole food and clothes and found a loose flagstone and scooped a hole and hid her loot there. She was ready on the night of the dance.

  The slaves with whom she had worked in the kitchens could only stare enviously. Only Silly Nath yelled out, some nonsense about cuddling that night. Nan the Bosom thwacked him over the head with her second largest ladle.

  These slaves had been trundled in to stoke up the fires and provide hot food from a railed area at one side. They kept looking at the piles of food and racked amphorae, and licking their lips. Depending on what manner of slavemistress Nyleen was, they might this evening get a wet or get a thrashing.

  Nan the Bosom started a racket among the slaves, fiercely accusing some scoundrel of stealing her best onion-slicing knife. “How can I make soup if I can't slice onions, and how can I slice onions if I don't have my best onion
slicer?"

  The knife—it had a black handle and was thin and exceedingly sharp—was not found. Naturally. By that time it lay snugged under a flagstone.

  If any wight was foolish enough to try to stop Delia, then she or he or it would serve in lieu of an onion.

  Nyleen showed no great discrimination among her women as to rank. All those who were free danced. The slaves slaved. Forming an opinion about the inclinations of Nyleen, Delia grasped at another thread. Nyleen detested men, clearly, and surrounded herself with women. That was her privilege up to a point. But Silly Nath was here, and other male slaves. They were not seen as men. They were seen as slaves.

  The orchestra proved abominable.

  Five women scraped and blew and banged away, and Sissy jangled on the great harp made by Nalgre the Strings over three hundred seasons ago. The superb instrument had been carted down to the converted refectory. Delia chose not to listen to the so-called music. But it served to provide a background and a tempo for the various dances. The lines formed and broke apart and reformed, hands joined and parted. Couples gyrated in the waltz brought to Kregen by the emperor. Eyes sparkled and teeth glistened and the glowing aromas rose.

  They were circling in the dance called the Broken Vaol Paol when Delia slipped away unnoticed. In this dance the circle is broken at a certain point and a general excuse me follows as partners change in order to reform the Vaol Paol, the great circle of life of the philosophers. Delia hurried away.

  Down through ways she now knew well she pattered on bare feet. Her flagstone would yield a pair of stout sandals one of the Jikai Vuvushis had spent one hell of a time yelling over and searching for. Torches cast their streaming orange hair in the night breeze. Stars prickled above. In the yard the well looked lonely without Silly Nath as its constant companion.

  The kitchens still operated, pre-preparing the food for its final cooking aloft in the refectory. Delia avoided the light, skulked over to her flagstone. She put on the drab brown clothes, girded up the belt, fingered Nan the Bosom's black-handled onion knife. She put on the sandals and made for the totrix stalls.