I noticed, too, in the banded sleeves of the men and the draperies of the walls, that the black and purple did not meet but were separated by two narrow lines of yellow enclosing a narrow line of red. I smiled. That was also new.
The sweet smell of squishes remained strong as I entered the room. There was even a scrap of pie crust on the floor and a pretty young serving girl was in the act of sweeping it up with a brush and dustpan. She was neatly dressed in a yellow tunic, her sleeves bearing the schturval, and in her combed hair a glitter showed where she wore a vimshu, a kind of small tiara set with brilliants much favored even by girls who were not considered vain.
She missed her sweep with the brush, for her head was cocked up and to the side and she was looking over at the far corner of the room. She might have seen that sight many and many a time, and yet I could well understand her bright interest and amusement.
In the corner — where I spotted another scrap of squish piecrust — I could see a man. He was inordinately tall and thin. He wore a scarlet tunic and a golden belt. His long yellow hair was tightly wound into a red bandage-cap somewhat like a turban. He was a strange and powerful figure, well, enough.
The trouble was, he was standing on his head.
I could feel my harsh old lips stretching into the broadest of smiles.
He saw me.
Now I give him his due. He did not fall over.
To one side stood another fellow almost as tall wearing a proper decent Vallian evening robe of midnight blue. To him I said:
“Tell me, Brince, how long?”
“Majister!” This tall streak recovered himself. “But a couple of murs more, majister. And lahal, I am overjoyed to see you. As is my cousin—”
With that the tall man standing on his head flung himself in an amazing contortion around so that he landed on those spider-long legs. He towered in the room. He advanced on me, hand outstretched, beaming away like a searchlight.
I grasped his hand as he grasped mine.
“Dray!”
“Inch!”
Seven foot he stood in his socks, and not an inch shorter. I looked up and I laughed, and I gripped his hand as he gripped mine.
Good old Inch!
As he had said on an occasion before, so, now, he said, “As a rascally comrade of ours would say, Dray — Lahal, my old dom!”
“Aye,” I said, “and he is well and I’ve sent him back to Vondium for reinforcements. And that is why I’m here.”
“You do not surprise me.” He lifted his voice, as gangling and bubbling with life as ever, and yet with the marks of his responsibilities upon him in the line of lip and jaw, the crinkle around the eyes. “Wine! Wine for the emperor! The best we have — Jholaix! By Ngrozyan the Axe! Break out that crate of Jholaix hidden behind the racks of Stuvan! And hurry!”
Men ran off to do the kov’s bidding, and he rubbed his hands at the ends of those long thin arms where the bunched muscles showed strongly. “I’ve waited a long time for something worthwhile to celebrate.”
“Maybe celebrations are a trifle premature, particularly when I wish to deprive you of some fine fellows of your best regiments.”
“We have had a turn of fortune up here, recently, Dray. The Racters are quiet. Brince says they’re so quiet they’re up to something fiendish. Isn’t that so, Brince, you lathe of stubborn willpower?”
Inch’s second cousin, who’d come over from their native Ng’groga to help out with five hundred axemen, nodded.
“I’ve grown to love Vallia. When all these troubles are over, majister, we’d like to settle down here, if that falls within your will and permission—”
“Falls within my gratitude, Brince. You are all most welcome.”
“I thank you, majister. But what my long streak of a cousin says is true. I believe the Racters merely withdraw a little to regroup and so strike us with full force.”
“That is a sensible reading of the situation. I think, however, that the true picture is even more dire.”
Then I told them, as the Jholaix hoarded against a special day was brought in and opened and we drank, savoring the superb vintage, told them of the schemes of Layco Jhansi and the Racters. Jhansi concentrated against Turko in Falinur. The Racters turned their attentions to the King of North Vallia, upstart and usurper though he was. When, if not before, they had accomplished those tasks, they would crush Inch in the Black Mountains between them.
Inch quaffed the wine.
“Very well. We strike first. It can be done.”
“Agreed. But I still need regiments to assist Turko.” Then I spoke of the disaster that had sorcerously overtaken the Ninth Army.
The moment I had finished speaking Inch burst out: “Anything Turko requires from me he can have, and at once. We’ll get started first thing. By Ngrangi! I can’t abandon Turko — and, anyway, we can keep the Racters in play and then, when we’ve won, we’ll be the ones to crush them in a vise!”
Many and many a time I thank Zair for good comrades. And, more, I thank all the gods and spirits that my blade comrades are blade comrades one with another. Not for me the system which sets subordinates at one another’s throats, filled with petty jealousies, unwilling to act together, trying always to steal a march. That this system does work, after a fashion, has been proved. But its inefficiency puts it out of court to anyone with a heart and an eye to the main chance. If all my blade comrades ganged up together on me — well, then, by the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno, perhaps I would deserve that fate.
That I had not a single qualm that that could happen does not indicate I was a blind fool. I give trust seldom. When I do, I judge fairly that it is given in full.
Then Inch raised a point I had known he would, and had rather wished he wouldn’t. Still, the ridicule would have to be faced.
“Tell me, Dray, the army with Turko that is so badly shaken. Did you say — Ninth Army?”
“Aye.”
He looked down on me with a comical expression and said: “Well? You’d better tell me what’s been going on.”
“Yes, I suppose so. The Presidio have been doing very well running the country, and their council has been invaluable. Also, they handle the day-to-day affairs that are so time-consuming.”
“That I well believe. But—”
“They decided that for the glory of Vallia and the better management of the army as a whole, each Kapt commanding an army should be given an army with a number. Turko’s happened to be the Ninth.”
“And the other eight?”
I made a face.
“Drak has the First down in the southwest. The Second was serving up in the northeast. The Eighth I had, and although that army no longer exists, its brigades being distributed among the others, I still hang onto the number. As for the others, they served in Hamal.”
“I have heard somewhat of what went on down there. You must tell me of it over supper.”
“I will. Also I will tell you about Tilda and Pando—”
“You have seen them again? Spoken to them?” He bent down, eager, concerned for our old friends who had turned out so different from what we had expected.
“Aye, I’ve seen ’em and spoken to them. I’ll tell you.”
He frowned at my tone, and so I promised to tell him all over supper. At that, he had been very decent over this grandiloquent business of numbering the armies, and had not mocked the notion at all. He would, though, he would, when the time was ripe.
To scotch that plan, I said, “I think I shall ask the Presidio to allocate your forces an army number, Inch. How does that seize you?”
“My lads will laugh.”
“So well they may. They’ll still fight.”
“Oh, aye, that is sooth.”
Then we sat down at the tables to concentrate upon the wine, upon miscils and palines, and upon the forces Inch could spare to march to the east to assist our blade comrade Turko — who was never a blade comrade in the sense of wearing edged weapons. I fo
und that Inch had, as I suspected, been waging his struggle to free the Black Mountains with very slender resources.
His own Black Mountain Men, bonny fighters all, were in truth fearsome irregulars. His main disciplined strength resided in the regiments sent over from Valka, and a handful from the Vallian forces who had been flown in from time to time. For a good few seasons no direct land link had existed between our sections of Vallia and the Black Mountains.
So we fomented our plans. I was sorry to have missed Sasha, for she had proved tremendously popular in Vondium and had worked damned hard at being a good kovneva alongside her husband the kov. The twins — and there was another boy child as well now — had gone with their mother back to Ng’groga. Inch said, “Don’t ask me what my Sasha did to break that particular taboo. It meant she had to go to Ng’groga, and so we felt it good that the children should see the place. I hated losing one of my fliers, though.”
Always, around Inch of Ng’groga, one had to watch for his own infringement of his taboos. Wonderful and fearful they were, too, and never understandable to anyone who wasn’t seven foot tall and as muscular-thin as a tentacle. The way he exorcised his taboos was even more remarkable. Well, we talked and in the end agreed that Inch could spare two regiments of Valkan archers, a regiment of Vallian spearmen and a mixed regiment of totrix cavalry, lances and bows.
“There is no point in taking any of your Black Mountain Men,” I said. “They do best where they know the ground.”
“Aye.”
“Although soon you’ll be breaking beyond the river to the north and attacking the Racters in their own lands.”
Then I told him of the astonishing request received from Natyzha Famphreon, the dowager kovneva of Falkerdrin, that, owing to the unfortunate but inescapable fact that she was dying — or considered herself to be dying — she wanted me to ensure the legal inheritance of her son Nath, who was regarded as a weakling.
“But she’s the chief biddy of the Racters!” exclaimed Inch.
“Certainly. But she seems to think I’ll make sure Nath gets his dues.”
“As a Racter,” put in Brince, “his dues come at the sharp end of a sword, or the edge of an axe.”
“But,” said Inch, and he put his head on one side in a most comical-wise fashion, “if the Emperor of Vallia ensures his safe succession, he might renounce the Racters and join us. That would be a stroke!”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“When—?”
“When Natyzha shuffles off to the Ice Floes of Sicce. By Krun! The gray ones had better look sharp when she gets there.”
The laugh came easily. The future did hold a gleam of brightness through the gloom. I told Inch I’d make arrangements to transport his troops. He said he was sorry to see them go, for they were veteran fighting men.
“You’ll get ’em back the moment we’ve finished Jhansi. Then we hit north.”
“Look after ’em, Dray. And those two archer regiments, splendid, splendid. Endrass’s Avengers, and Ernelltar’s Neemus, they’re dubbed. Fine fellows.”
“We’ll hit Jhansi from the east, you’ll carve him up from the west, and when we meet in the middle, you’ll have your regiments rejoin.”
Making it sound casual, as though it had already happened instead of only being in the offing, I said, “I’m going to split Vennar down the middle, north to south. Turko will take his half into Falinur, and you your half into the Black Mountains.”
Inch just said, after a pause: “I give you thanks, Dray.”
“Now,” and I spoke briskly. “Where’s Salvation the Second?”
“Do what?”
“My fluttrell.Is he ready?”
“He’s been fed and watered, and no doubt perched for the night—”
“Then he’ll have to be dug out.”
“You mean you’re off—”
“Of course! By the Black Chunkrah! An emperor can’t spend his time lollygagging about when the empire is falling into wrack and ruin! You have to be up and about. I’m off to the Blue Mountains.”
Inch opened his mouth, shut it, said: “Give the lahal to Korf Aighos for me.” Then he bellowed for his lads to ready the fluttrell.
Very soon, under the Moons of Kregen, I shouted down the remberees and took off, flying south.
“Remberee, Inch!”
“Remberee, Dray!”
The wind blustered into my face and the fuzzy pink moons light fell about me as Salvation the Second bore me on to the next stage in this venture.
Chapter eight
A flying visit to High Zorcady
Korf Aighos was pleased to see me. I flew into High Zorcady with the pangs of memory tingling, and made damned sure my portable possessions were firmly chained down.
Great rogues and bandits are the Blue Mountain Boys. The province of the Blue Mountains owes the utmost devotion and loyalty to Delia. They knew my mettle from of old. They worshipped Delia’s children. Apart from those few, anybody else was fair game.
High Zorcady remains always for me a place apart, lofting high on its crags above the pass, eerie and awesome, cupped by mountains, shielded by clouds. High Zorcady frowns down from the mists. Yet it is a place of color and liveliness, where Delia and I have spent many happy times.
Korf Aighos, his eyes still that brilliant blue so unusual in a Vallian, still strutting with a swagger, and yet half cautious as well as half arrogant, not a tall man but possessing a massive chest and arms corded with muscle, made me welcome. I will not detail our transactions, for essentially they followed the pattern I had established with Inch.
The Blue Mountain Boys had cleared the mountains of our foemen, as their compatriots had cleared the Zorca Plains extending out to the south. Filbarrka was still away in Balintol. Now they planned an excursion to the large island of Womox, off their west coast.
“We merely hold the ring against Jhansi,” the Korf told me as we supped in the great hall of High Zorcady with the trophies upon the wall and the hunting dogs lolling upon the rugs. “Womox is our target. They are a full lot there; but we hear there is much treasure.”
An itchy-fingered lot, Delia’s Blue Mountain Boys.
I nodded. “That is probably best. We can take Jhansi out with what we have. I sent a mob of his paktuns packing by a stratagem.” Then, telling him of what had passed at the temple of Lem the Silver Leem, I solemnly warned him again of the danger of the cult.
“We have seen no sign of the rasts. If we do...”
The sign he made eloquently conveyed his intentions.
The time I spent with Korf Aighos was even less than the time with Inch.
Delia had long ago sent over from Djanduin, of which country in the far southwest of Havilfar she was queen, a stud stock of flutduins. These magnificent flyers, the best in all Havilfar for my money, had taken to the Blue Mountains and they throve. There had inevitably been a hiccup in the ecology of the region; but the flutduins were saddle flyers and partially domesticated, so that the wild life, after the first shattering alarm, survived albeit in somewhat altered food chains. Now the Blue Mountains boasted a formidable flutduin force of aerial cavalry.
The Korf insisted I exchange Salvation the Second for the finest flutduin he could provide, a saddle bird called Lightning. He was a marvel. I accepted.
So, ascending strapped to Lightning, I bellowed down the remberees and set course for Vondium.
My hopes of meeting up with Seg were dashed, for he’d shot in aboard a voller, brow-beaten everyone into instant action, and shot off again spurring the reinforcements, as it were, before him. Farris had responded with all the vollers and vorlcas he could spare. As ever, our resources were spread thin as butter over the crusts in the poor quarters of Ruathytu.
Delia was not in Vondium, so my side trip was entirely wasted.
Anxious though I was to get back north and finish off Layco Jhansi, I knew well enough the lads up there were in good hands. I indulged myself. I admit it.
The Half Moon
, an old theater, now boasted a brand new roof. The seats had been freshly painted and their fleece-stuffed cushions were of high-quality ponsho. There were even a few gilded cornices to add a little glitter. The vision and acoustics remained first class.
Thither I took myself with a few of the pallans and high officials, a few of the officers of the garrison, for a new play was being offered and this night would see the first performance.
Master Belzur the Aphorist, renowned as a playwright in all Vallia, had produced another masterpiece. He’d called it The Thread of Life, and a deeply probing piece it was, making the audience take a fresh look at some of their actions, and the motives, and the results that were never the expected ones. The play was rapturously applauded.
During the interval, as usual, a frothy piece was staged, with much buffoonery and half-naked girls prancing about the stage, and a deal of four-armed tomfoolery.
Afterwards, not feeling in the least tired, I told Farris and the other nobles and pallans that I intended to fly now, right away, and leave for the front.
They set up such a clacking at this that I was persuaded at least to drop by a favorite tavern where we would not be disturbed.
“A flagon or two, majister! By Vox! Do we not deserve that?” So called Naghan Strandar, a trusted pallan.
“You and your colleagues most certainly do, Naghan,” I told him. “As for me, I am not so sure. I remain always itchy and irritable when there is work to be done and I cannot get on with it.”
“Aye, majister!”
They wanted to troop off to The Risslaca Transfix’d but I bellowed out: “Oh, no! Oho no! If you insist on my company then I insist on the tavern.”
They whooped at this, sensing my change of mood.
“Where, majis?Where?”
“Why, what better place is there than The Rose of Valka?”
That tavern and posting house was very dear to me. Situated on the eastern bank of the Great Northern Cut, the inn had witnessed important events in my life upon Kregen. The owner was Young Bargom, still, and he was overjoyed to see us. Not overwhelmed. As a Valkan making a good living in Vondium and running a respectable house, he was now himself an important member of the community.
Witches of Kregen Page 6