“I’ll answer that, bukko,” Cobra said, her voice cold and flat. “Within Tiyy’s castle there is a treasure, one of extraordinary proportions. If we are able to steal even a portion of it, and with your help I think there is more than a reasonable chance of that, then my share would provide me the means with which to regain my wealth… and power.”
Gath hesitated, his eyes boring into hers, then turned to the bukko. “Just what are we going to steal, Brown?”
“The answer to all our problems, friend,” Brown John replied. The glint behind his eyes was suddenly as reckless as a bouncing rubber ball descending a flight of stairs. “Pyram’s is no ordinary treasure, but a fabled one. Gems not only worth a world’s ransom, but spilling over with magical powers. Diamonds, rubies and sapphires which have been hidden from the sight of ordinary men for a thousand years… the jewels of the holy White Veshta, the Goddess of Light.”
Gath glanced suspiciously at Cobra and she nodded. “They are there, Dark One. They have been there since long, long ago when my former master subdued the White Veshta and gave them to his favored consort, the Black Veshta. And I know where they are kept… I grew up in Pyram.”
Brown John chuckled with relish. “You see, Gath, it’s the perfect plot. We can’t fail. And once we steal them, all we have to give her is two or three stones as payment for her part.”
“As I said before, bukko,” Cobra said flatly, “we will discuss my payment after we have seen the stones and measured their wealth and powers.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Brown John, his eyes on Gath. “But there is bound to be plenty for all.” Gath asked Cobra, “No one has seen the jewels?”
“No one… except for Tiyy, the Nymph Queen.” Gath studied her erect figure as the morning sunlight sculpted her voluptuous body with brilliant white-gold light, hiding nothing, yet enhancing her mystery. Then, without looking at his friend, he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “She’s enchanted you, Brown. Made you believe her lies.”
“No! No!” the bukko protested. “This entire scheme is my idea. I’ve known for years that the sacred jewels were held in Pyram, and it was only by chance that she mentioned she knew of a map leading there.”
“She says nothing by chance,” Gath said, his eyes holding Cobra’s.
Brown John looked at the serpent woman warily, then said, “Perhaps you’re right. But it makes no difference. If the map leads anyplace other than Pyram, Jakar will tell us. He’s seen it. From a great distance, it’s true, but there’s no mistaking it, is there, lad?” Jakar shook his head, and the bukko added, “Besides, an opportunity like this simply cannot be ignored, regardless of the risks. These jewels are a veritable cornucopia of magical wonders. They have the power to turn the entire world upside down, and then make it over in the manner it should have been made in the first place. And we… you and I, Gath of Baal,” he held out upturned hands, “we can hold them in our hands… set them free!”
Gath eyed him skeptically.
“I know it sounds mad,” the old man said, his tone deliberately mocking himself. “The road will be plagued with demons which only Black Veshta herself can imagine. But if you and I aren’t the ones to jump off cliffs and attempt the impossible, then no one will. Besides, isn’t this precisely what you want to do? Stealing the jewels would strike a blow at the Master of Darkness far greater than even you dreamed of. The jewels are the source of power with which the sorceress Tiyy, by corrupting their powers of light into those of darkness, creates her unholy demon spawn.” Gath’s eyes hardened, and the bukko added, “There’s also a very personal reason for you to steal them.”
He turned to Cobra expectantly, and she said, “Tiyy used the powers of the jewels to fashion the horned helmet… and the power that gives the helmet control over you is the same power that can remove it.”
Gath’s eyes smiled, and he said, “I suddenly like your plot, old friend.”
“I thought you might,” said the bukko. “But there is one danger we should discuss before beginning. Once this Nymph Queen finds out she has the wrong girl, she will undoubtedly send this sharkman back to find her. And since we are entering her domain on the road by which he will be returning, there is the chance we may meet him. In that event we should avoid him… but Cobra fears the helmet may not let you. In fact, she fears if you put the helmet back on, there will be no need for these demons to come after Robin… that you’ll do their work for them.” He hesitated, then added, “I, for one, don’t think you’ll give in to that headpiece, not for a minute! But I promised I’d question you.”
Gath smiled, and glanced at Cobra, saying, “Have no fear, woman. I will do whatever I have to do.” His tone carried the finality of a hammered nail.
“Then it begins,” Brown John chortled, and Gath nodded.
On cue, the door of the red wagon swung open, and Robin tripped lightly down the steps. Seeing everyone look at her, she came to an embarrassed stop and covered her breasts with her arms. Then, laughing at herself, she lowered her arms and presented herself, turning in the morning sunlight. She wore a skirt of bright yellow rags low on narrow hips, a band of fuchsia cloth that conformed to high, firm breasts the way the skin of the pear conforms to the pear, and sunlight in her red-gold hair. There was no make-up on her face, except for the rouge of excitement.
Brown John murmured approvingly, “Well done, child, well done.”
“Is… is it all right?” blurted Robin.
“Nearly perfect, child,” extolled the bukko, “but bind your breasts in black. The fuchsia is too rich.” Robin, nodding, bounded back inside the wagon, closing the door behind her, and Brown John turned back to the others.
Cobra’s eyes shimmered like becalmed molten gold, and her voice was low as she spoke to the stagemaster, “I don’t mean to insult your theatrical skills, bukko, but if the girl is to succeed in drawing out these spies, she is going to have to play her new role, not with an entertainer’s idea of the sins of the flesh, but with a sinner’s… and I know the part.”
“I am sure you do,” agreed the bukko.
“Exactly, so I suggest you allow me to prepare all elements of her performance, including her wardrobe… just as we discussed.”
“So we did,” Brown John said reluctantly. “But you’d be smart to let her get involved. She’s clever.”
“She’ll be involved, believe me.” Cobra turned to Gath. “I presume, Dark One, that you agree to these arrangements, and will allow me to use the girl to draw these spies out… without interfering?”
Gath drank from the trough using his hands, then said, “If she’s hurt, in any way…”
“Don’t threaten me,” Cobra interrupted, her voice a commanding purr. “It’s useless. We are joined now like links of a chain, and you cannot change it. You want the jewels now as much as you wanted the helmet… even more. Because only they can set you free. And without me… you will never see them.” She hesitated, then added, “Will you cooperate or not?”
Gath nodded, but the threat remained in his eyes. “Don’t worry,” Cobra said lightly. “The trick she will perform is one any mountain girl can do. But she is not only going to have to dress the part of the whore… she’s going to have to play it.”
Eighteen
ON THE ROAD
The wagon, two days out of Rag Camp, rumbled north on Hog-Scald Road in the territory called Small Tree. Earlier, it had passed through the lands of the Kaven and Dowat tribes, and three times had met parties of Barhacha woodsmen on the road. But not a single member of these tribes had recognized the vehicle as their king’s.
The carriage’s wheels and shafts were now scraped clean, and fetishes rattled on the bloated body: bones, gourds, beads, flapping rabbit ears and the pelts of leopard, tiger and lynx. They were nailed to the driver’s box, the doorways, windows and sideboards, and mixed with them were bilious red and orange signs and numerals sacred to the deities of lechery, Zatt, Chuzz, Bajat and Yang.
All together, the wagon’s appeara
nce was not quite as civilized as a gorilla wearing a codpiece, and it moved with the grace of an armadillo making love to a fast duck.
Jakar sat in the box, holding the reins, and the bukko snoozed beside him.
Sounds of approaching horses joined the racket, and Jakar stood abruptly, glanced back across the flat roof.
Five riders had emerged from a forest trail, and were following the wagon, drawing closer and closer. A mangy bunch of freebooters, they carried crude spears and naked swords, and wore soiled leather armor. Blistering rashes on their bare arms and bald heads were crimson in the sunshine, and they were drinking in their saddles from wine jars. Coming close, they waved at Jakar and shouted crude words of welcome, then fell back, avoiding the wagon’s dust.
Jakar acknowledged them with a wave and smile, sat back down and stared thoughtfully ahead. The riders appeared to be following for no other reason than the obvious one, that the wagon’s occupants promised to provide a bawdy performance when it stopped for the night. On the other hand, the riders might be the demon spies the troupe had to destroy before it could leave the forest basin.
Jakar two-handed the reins, pulling back and slowing the horses as they rounded a bend and headed down a long straight tree-lined lane. Forty paces ahead, the broad back of the huge Barbarian came into view, leading the way on his stallion.
Gath of Baal now wore a black bearskin, a weapon belt, fur-trimmed boots and the shiny brass armbands of a macco, a strongman. Both he and his mount were stained with grease and trail dust, and their black hair was matted and tangled with burrs and bits of leaf. Jakar could not see Gath’s face, but he was certain that the large man’s expression was his normal one, about as tame as the bear who had provided his new clothing.
The young nobleman glanced back at the following riders and nudged Brown John. The old man did not respond. With entwined hands resting on his paunch, he jiggled and tossed, lost to his dreams.
Both the bukko and Jakar now wore dusty, stained tunics, sewn from rags, over their unwashed bodies. Their belts, pouches and weapons were embroidered with colored wooden beads, and loop earrings dangled amid greasy tangled hair. Coiled around Brown John’s neck was a coarse red whip, the scepter of the traveling whoremaster.
Jakar nudged his king again, and shouted over the clattering wheels and creaking body of the wagon, “Time to wake up, bukko! Your plot just added a whole new set of characters.”
Brown John came awake with a start, and sat up rubbing his eyes. “What’s that? What did you say?”
“Take a look behind us.”
The bukko yawned and stretched, then turned in his seat and looked back at the following riders.
One of them howled wildly, pitched a wine jar against a tree for no apparent reason. It crashed loudly, drawing howls from the others. Not manlike howls, but a high-pitched squealing.
Jakar put an eye on the startled bukko. “What do you think? Do we stop and let Gath murder them?” Brown John scowled and faced to the front, saying patiently, “We can’t go around killing people, lad, just because they look suspicious. We have to make sure we’ve got the right ones.”
“I know,” said Jakar lightly, “I just thought he might be hungry.”
Brown John scolded him with his brown eyes, and nodded with the back of his head at the riders. “How long have they been there?”
“They just showed up.” He put a wary eye on the old man. “If that’s the bunch Robin is supposed to arouse, all she’s going to need is a coat of oil and a tambourine!”
The bukko laughed easily and said, “There is more to it than that, lad, a great deal more. With the riffraff you find camped on the road, Robin’s kind of beauty can be a detriment if not presented properly. It is too far out of their reach, and that offends them. Shames them. Makes them aware of their own sorry lives. They wouldn’t pay and ’ave to look on Robin stark naked, and if they did, they’d only laugh with scorn at her inadequate breasts and buttocks, and demand their silver back.”
“Is that right?” asked Jakar mockingly.
“Yes,” the bukko said importantly. “The art, Jakar, is to make Robin appear as if she is one of them. The best of them, of course, and the most beautiful… but still one of them. Otherwise she is inaccessible, not only to their hands but to their minds and the secret passions in their hearts.”
“I see, and you’re going to let this serpent woman who was, and may still be, in league with the Master of Darkness decide just how accessible?”
“Precisely. She’s dressing her now.”
“You’re taking quite a risk, aren’t you?”
Brown John nodded firmly. “It’s what I do best.”
“Oh?” said Jakar with an arched eyebrow. “Well, from where I sit, Robin’s the one taking the risk.” That removed Brown John’s proud expression, and Jakar added, “We’ll make Upper Small by nightfall. With an early start tomorrow, we could reach the Barrier Mountains by mid-day. So, if we’re going to kill anybody, we better do it tonight.”
“I know,” said Brown John. He glanced back thoughtfully at the bald-headed riders, then turned to Jakar. “You’re right about Robin. She is taking the greater risk, and I appreciate your concern. Your presence is a great comfort to her.”
“You misunderstand me, old man. Robin is nothing more to me than a tool. A beautiful and amusing one, but nevertheless a tool. I intend to cut as many of these demons’ throats as possible, and apparently, by acting as bait, she can help me do it.”
“Yes, of course,” said Brown John. “I understand. Your feelings are motivated by the loss of your sister. But there is more at stake in this adventure now than revenge.”
“Not for me.”
The bukko hesitated at the hardness of his tone, then said, “I know how you feel, but you must not let your anger stop you from living.” His voice softened with respect. “Jakar, your sister is gone now, and Robin is very much alive.”
“Are you sure?” Jakar asked with cool mocking eyes. He nodded with an ear at the wagon. “Maybe you better find out just what they’re up to.”
“I will.” Brown John stood behind his words, adding, “And rest assured, I will see she is not put in any danger.”
He climbed back onto the roof and paused, once more looking back at the drunken riders, then climbed down through the trapdoor, closing it behind him.
Jakar whipped the horses, and they lunged forward in their huge red collars, hauling their load faster and faster, and the wagon rolled and bounced precariously under him like a grotesque wooden whore. He laughed darkly to himself, his body relaxed, riding the pitch and bounce. The huge vehicle was acting as if it were eager to wreck its favors against every turn in the road, and crush its lovers, breaking its own heart in the process, and all for nothing more than love of the open road. And inside he felt just as reckless.
It was madness, yet mysteriously irresistible, and he shuddered. Now more things were at play which he did not understand and could not see. He could feel them as surely as he could feel the wind bite his cheeks. Not only in the girl and serpent woman but in Brown John.
Nineteen
PRIVATE PERFORMANCE
The bukko descended the ladder and stood bracing his hands against the walls of the second-story room as the wagon tilted and shook its way around a corner. Daylight seeped through the seams of shuttered windows, filling the room with moody grey light. Baskets of provisions were stacked on the floor and on the racks above his wall bed. In the corner, vague whiffs of smoke rose out of the stairwell hole, and the sound of voices.
He crossed to the hole, listened to the voices but could not make out what they were saying. He started down the narrow, enclosed staircase toward a spill of orange candlelight on the floor below. Suddenly wheels squealed outside, combined with the growl of grinding boards and thundering hooves, and buried the voices in a cacophonous din. Just as suddenly the din subsided, and he stopped short only partway down. He could now hear Robin’s firm but muffled voice.
“Child,” a female voice said in a low purr, as if stroking a wildcat, “the time has come for you to put your modesty behind you.” The voice was Cobra’s, both indolent and authoritarian. “Now step out of your tunic, your costume is ready.”
“All right.” Robin’s voice was reluctant. “But I can put it on by myself. You don’t have to help. I’ve worked with cloth and clothing nearly all my life.” Robin’s voice hesitated, then continued, “Besides, where is it? If it’s so immodest, maybe I won’t agree to wear it.”
Brown John listened to sandaled feet crossing the room below, then the creak of tiny hinges, like those on a small ceremonial box, and more sounds of sandaled feet followed by Robin’s gasp.
“Is… is that it?” the girl’s shocked voice asked.
“Not all of it, but these are the essential elements.” Cobra’s voice was teasingly casual.
“Well, I won’t do it,” Robin’s voice said defiantly. “I’m not going to dance wearing nothing but a few dabs of rouge and kohl.”
The bukko smiled with amusement and sat down, listening to Cobra’s chuckle drift up the stairwell. It was heavy with power, hypnotic. Her voice followed, redolent with the same qualities.
“Your body will be covered, child, have no fear of that. But first I must mark it with the required signs and numerals. Now come, make yourself naked. There is much to do and we are wasting time.”
“But I don’t trust you. What signs? What will they do to me?”
“Come, come, child, they won’t harm you. Besides, did you not tell everyone that you would do anything… do whatever was asked of you, to help steal the sacred jewels?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then disrobe.”
“No!” Robin’s voice blurted. “You tried to kill me when the Kitzakks held me prisoner! And you would have if that priest hadn’t stopped you. And I think you want to kill me now. I can see it in your eyes.”
[Death Dealer 02] - Lords of Destruction Page 10