Storm over Vallia [Dray Prescot #35]

by Alan Burt Akers

  Walking along, she kept herself more on the qui vive than she would have done before the fracas. Lon the Knees had said that he did not think The Leather Bottle would be the nicest place for a lady to meet him, and had suggested an inn, The Silver Lotus, which he considered suitable. In the ordinary course of his life, Lon would never dream of entering so expensive and so—to him—high class an establishment. But he'd mumbled something to her about a deal he could arrange, and she'd gathered he was going to do something particular to find the silver stivers necessary for admittance.

  People like Lon, and those louts back there, habitually worked in copper or bronze coins. Silver was hailed with joy. Gold—wha’ that?

  Just about the only way they'd get their Diproo-fingers on gold was the way they'd tried in the alley. And, to be sure, during the Times of Troubles many lawless men had snatched more gold than they, their fathers and grandfathers, and sons and grandsons, would ordinarily see in their combined lifetimes.

  Lon the Knees, face aflame, nose a purple beacon, eyes brimming, looked splendiferous. He glowed. He waited under the dismounting porch so that he might enter the inn with the lady, and glory in the feeling that all eyes would be fixed upon his companion.

  “Lahal, Lon."

  “Lahal, my lady."

  Silda composed her face. Then she contrived a dazzling smile. She really wanted to bust a gut laughing.

  Lon! Lon the Knees! His famous bandy legs were encased in riding breeches that almost fitted, and their color owed more to judiciously applied brown chalk than to natural cloth. He'd borrowed those, that was for sure. Yet they were not too far removed from the usual Vallian buff breeches the gentlefolk wore.

  His boots glittered. Silda did not make too close an inspection of them. But that superb polished shine, that had come only from loving ministrations right here under the dismounting porch, for most people's boots were dusty if they walked a pace or two. Her own were a sorry mess compared with Lon's.

  And his coat! Now where the hell had he got that from? Originally the garment had been a khiganer, a heavy brown tunic that fastened by a wide flap along the left side of the body and along the left shoulder. The neck came in a variety of styles, and this specimen possessed what appeared to Silda to be the highest, stiffest, most constricting neck she'd ever seen fitted to a khiganer. Lon's chin jutted out like a chick sticking his neck out of the egg.

  The arms of the khiganer had been cut off to reveal the loose flowing sleeves of Lon's shirt. The color was ivory, for he did not wear the normal bands of color denoting allegiances. Silda was prepared to take a bet that Lon was wearing sleeves and no shirt at all.

  He wore no hat. This was probably, Silda decided, because he had been unable to beg, borrow or steal one of the typical Vallian floppy hats with the brave feathers. His own headgear, a skull cap, a head band, would be quite inappropriate here.

  The main gauche was thrust down into his belt and from somewhere he'd cobbled together a quite respectable scabbard for the dagger.

  Lon quivered.

  “Shall we go in, my lady?"

  “By all means, Lon. I am looking forward to a pleasant evening."

  “Shall you wish to see the illuminations, my lady?"

  He wouldn't normally speak like that. He was trying to suit his language to the importance of the occasion.

  She halted.

  “Lon—two things. One: speak nicely but normally. Two: Don't keep on my lady all the time. My name is Lyss. Use it when you have to."

  Lon swallowed.

  “Yes, my la—Yes, Lyss."

  So that meant that Silda was back into the persona of Lyss the Lone again. She sighed and went up the steps with Lon into The Silver Lotus. She'd be damned happy when all this present untidiness was over and she could go home and see Drak. That made her think of that awful Queen Lush. The fat scheming bitch! No doubt at this very minute she was fluttering her eyelashes at Drak, and oohing and aahing, and arching her back—the fat cow—and stinking of too much scent and—and—and she was with Drak! It was just about too much.

  Still and all, Silda was a Sister of the Rose, and so Silda must be Lyss and soldier on.

  The buttons of the khiganer along Lon's left collar bone, fashioned of pewter, had their embossed representation of Beng Debrant almost polished away. The buttons down his left side started out in exactly the same way, the pewter shining nicely. Halfway down, the buttons were made of bone, some with inscribed and worn away pictures, the lower ones plain. Toward the bottom of the tunic the buttons were of wood. Lon kept his right hand casually across his stomach as much as he could, concealing those wooden buttons.

  The Sisters of the Rose learning at Lancival were told that if a person made an effort, if they did the very best they could, and tried to their utmost, then, win or lose, they couldn't be faulted. The results of those contests lay with the Invisible Twins made manifest in the light of Opaz.

  Lon had made a tremendous effort.

  Silda gave him full marks.

  She was uncomfortably aware, with a feeling she tried to tell herself was not self-conscious superiority, that in Lon's mind no thought of any sexual approaches existed. He was just pleased to be out, and to be seen out, with a young lady of so different a background from those girls he habitually consorted with. And the very thought made Silda feel conscious of her unworthiness. How her sisters in the SoR would chortle at her now! And—she'd tell ‘em all to go hang!

  The inn was of the middling quality, clean, and the wine varied from reasonable to good. If some patron felt the rush of blood to his head and ordered a bottle of Jholaix, there was just the chance one might be found. The chance was very slender, for of all the wines of these parts, Jholaix was acknowledged to be the finest. Its cost was astronomical. She turned to Lon as they sat in the seats indicated by the serving girl, and said: “Something very simple, Lon, for me."

  He stared at her with a concerned expression.

  “Now, my la—Lyss—in the lights, I can see. Your head—there is blood—"

  “Oh!” she said crossly. “Didn't I wipe it all off?"

  She hauled out the kerchief and spat on it and scrubbed, wondering what the hell her mentors would say if they could see her.

  “Each time we meet, Lon, I am bloody. Take heed."

  “How? I mean—what—?"

  “Louts, drunken, out for a laugh and robbery."

  “The Watch is lax, I think.” Then Lon let one eyelid droop. “Which is fortunate, at times..."

  Silda laughed.

  The serving girl was a Fristle, all laypom-colored fur, and a saucy tail, and brushed whiskers, clad in a yellow apron. She was not, therefore, a slave. In her meek obedience Silda sensed much of a slave's mentality.

  “I am parched. I would like to start with a glass of parclear. The fizzy sherbet will clear my throat."

  “Two,” said Lon, importantly. “And, after?"

  The Fristle fifi said: “There is quidgling pie, roast chicken, any kind of fish you require, ordel pudding—"

  “Ordel pudding for me,” said Silda unthinkingly.

  “Two,” said Lon again.

  “Wine?” Silda twiddled her fingers on the table. “As I said, keep it simple."

  Lon said, “What would you like?"

  Decisively, Silda said, “Kensha, with herbs."

  “Two,” said Lon.

  Was that a slight nervous gesture to the wallet-pouch strapped to his belt? Silda fancied she'd have to be highly tactful if it came to push of pike, as Nath na Kochwold would say.

  Kensha wine, a delicate rosé, was best drunk with a sprinkling of herbs into the glass. They gave the wine a lift, a fragrance, and turned it from merely a good cheap wine into what was truly a fine vintage.

  So the evening progressed, eating, drinking and talking. The usual subjects of conversation were dealt with gravely by Lon. He was seething and bubbling inside with delirious pleasure. He'd live on this night's dinner for the rest of his life in memory, dr
awing spiritual nourishment when he drank up his cabbage soup and gnawed a heel of cheese or a crust of bread. This girl was superb!

  He told her that Nath the Goader had vanished. He, himself, had been exonerated. All the same, he'd sweated blood for just a little too long...

  When he apologized for his coarseness of expression, Silda laughed out loud, hugely amused. She was enjoying this evening as she'd never imagined she would. The day had been fraught enough, Opaz knew.

  The Silver Lotus was doing moderate business, people entering and leaving, and folk nipping in for a quick one before the illuminations. A brilliant laugh from the opposite corner of the alcove drew Silda's attention. A woman was in the act of throwing her head back, laughing with open enjoyment at some sally of her partner's. Her black skin sheened with health, her raven's-wing hair shone like an ebony waterfall, and her eyes gleamed with a challenging brilliance. Her ankle length gown of eye-catching emerald green suited her superbly, and the silver adornments were in perfect taste.

  On her left shoulder a little furry likl-likl crouched contentedly munching on the scraps of food she passed up, the little pet no doubt proud of his silver-studded green collar. The silver chain attaching him to the woman's left wrist glinted as she moved.

  Her companion's teeth shone in his black face as he laughed with her, gallant in decent Vallian buff, with bright bands of color to indicate his loyalties. They made a dazzling couple. Silda warmed to them. She did not know their names, nor was she ever likely to; yet she sensed this unknown woman was relaxing and letting the evening take over, rejoicing in her good fortune, letting life be lived and flow by.

  A noisy party entered, all chaffing the old jokes between themselves, and sat down around a table across from the couple who had so aroused Silda's admiration. The water dropped in the clepsydra, and a serving girl turned the glass over, and Silda began to think that she must now see about the possibly unpleasant business of ending this enjoyable evening.

  She had ascertained that Lon the Knees really did know nothing about whose hand had loosed the bars of the wild animals’ cages. He genuinely had no idea who might have done that hideous deed. He had not shared whatever macabre fate was reserved for Nath the Goader only because it was proved by subsequent inspection that his bars had not been loosed, that the very size and ferocity of the churmod had splintered them through.

  Lon swallowed and lifted the last of the herb-fragrant Kensha in his glass.

  “Shall I—that is, Lyss—do you wish to see me again?"

  The true answer was that Lon had failed her. She had hoped to pursue the lead afforded by that mysterious hand loosening the bars of the cages. With that as a dead end—why, there was no reason to see Lon again, was there?

  He drank the last of the wine down, looking at her. She wetted her lips and realized she could not destroy his happiness so callously.

  “Of course, Lon!"

  His smile in that florid face would have warmed up the Ice Floes of Sicce. He reached down to his wallet on his belt, and Silda saw his face go stiff.

  The smile dwindled. The color fled from his cheeks, and his nose lost its purple sheen, and shriveled.

  “Lyss! My money—it is gone!"

  * * *

  Chapter six

  Tavern brawling—Silda style

  No doubt whatsoever entered Silda's mind that Lon was lying, was trying to trick her into paying. She had summed up the animal handler, and she trusted her own judgment.

  Lon had gone to a tremendous amount of trouble for tonight. He had obtained his wonderful costume from somewhere. He had silver enough in his wallet to pay for what they had consumed. She was convinced of that.

  So—some thieving bastard had stolen Lon's money.

  Instantly, she said: “Don't fret over paying, Lon. That presents no problem."

  “But! My lady! I cannot—"

  “I'll have a word with the landlord. Thieves will do the reputation of his establishment no good at all."

  “I'd like to—"

  “Quite."

  Something light touched Silda's side, a feather-like glancing touch she barely appreciated. She opened her mouth to chide Lon and to tell him to brace up, when a shrill agonized shriek burst up from the seat at her side.

  She looked down, shocked.

  A round furry bundle rolled onto the seat.

  She knew what the little animal was, at once. The spinlikl, with a body of multi-colored fur, and eight long prehensile limbs each equipped with a powerful clutching hand, was one of the favorite methods by which the Thieves of Kregen secured their loot. A spinlikl could move about with amazing speed and deftness, quiet as Death, and open locks and bolts, steal treasure, and return to its master or mistress worth a fortune.

  She turned sharply as the spinlikl, screaming, gathered itself on seven of its eight limbs.

  The eighth limb glistened brightly with blood.

  The animal sprang past Silda. Swiveling her head she saw it clambering up to the shoulder and neck of the man who sat at the next table along. His face was that of a hairy Brokelsh, uncouth yet powerful, and now that lowering visage was black with anger.

  “What have you done to my lovely Lord Hofchin?” the Brokelsh bellowed. He grabbed the flailing arm and blood spurted. “You have fairly cut his hand off!” And, indeed, the poor creature's hand dangled limply with the blood pouring out.

  Silda knew what the poor creature had done. After he had stolen Lon's money, he'd opened her brown canvas sack and groped inside with that hand that was now half lopped off. Served him right, of course, yet he was not to blame. His master, who trained him in all the arts of thievery, was the true culprit.

  Two other hairy Brokelsh sat with the thief. Now they stood up, hands going to their belts where weapons dangled. They were all decently dressed in finery that chimed well with the festivities, bright colors, and sashes, feathers and the wink of imitation gems.

  Lon stumbled up onto his feet, passionate with rage.

  “You rasts! You stole my money! I'll have you—"

  He started around the table and Silda snapped, sharply and impatiently: “Lon! Sit down!"

  “But—"

  The thief snarled his words, quite as angry as Lon. “Have me, hey? I'll have your hide!"

  One of his companions stared down the dining room. “By Diproo the Nimble-fingered, Branka! Keep it down. Here comes the landlord..."

  This Branka, white-faced and savage at the damage to his spinlikl Lord Hofchin, would have none of it. He ripped out his clanxer and started for the table where Silda and Lon still sat.

  Silda stood up.

  “Landlord!” she called in a voice accustomed to ordering regiments about. “This rast has stolen our money. I intend to have it back off him. You may send for the Watch if you wish."

  With that, Silda Segutoria, the daughter of Seg Segutorio, started for the thieves. She drew her rapier.

  “Lyss!” Alarmed, Lon dragged himself up, lugging out the main gauche.

  This thief, hight Branka, sneered at the rapier.

  “That pinprick, missy? I'll show you what real tavern brawling is all about!"

  “Like this?” said Silda, and snatched up in her left hand the chair and hurled it full in the fellow's face. Her left arm, hard and muscled from long hours with the Jikvar, powered the chair so that it smashed the fellow's nose, knocked out an eye, and sent him tumbling backwards into his companions.

  She didn't stop there.

  The screams from the staggering men meant nothing. She snicked the blade through the arm of one of them, withdrew, slashed it across the guts of the next so that his fancy clothes all fell down, and then she was on Branka.

  He was shrieking and gobbling on blood. Half his teeth were knocked down his gullet. His eye dangled. His nose spouted blood everywhere.

  Silda ignored all that, carefully making sure she did not touch the mess. The spinlikl crouched on the floor, whimpering, sucking his damaged limb.

  Silda
dived her own fist into Branka's wallet and dragged out a handful of coins.

  “Lon!"

  He was just standing there, goggle-eyed.

  “Yes, Lyss—"

  “How much?"

  He swallowed. “Uh—seven sinvers. Oh, and four obs."

  Again Silda did not doubt Lon's honesty. If he said seven silver sinvers and four copper obs, that was what had been stolen. She sorted the money out and started to put the rest back, then she paused.

  “The rest of this is stolen, too, I suppose. Landlord!"

  He was standing there with his hands wrapped in his yellow apron and his eyeballs out on stalks.

  “Yes, my lady. I am here. The blood—"

  “You've seen plenty of that before. Keep the money and let the Watch sort it out. You have a nice place here, but I wouldn't let your clientele know that you allow this kind of thief free access."

  “But, my lady—"

  “We are leaving now. Tell the Watch. Oh, and what is the reckoning?"

  “No, no, my lady,” he babbled. “Please, say no more. You have been troubled in The Silver Lotus. I am desolated, please, my lady, with my compliments..."

  “That is considerate, under the circumstances. Here, your money, Lon."

  Lon wasn't sure if the money could ever make up for the glory of the moment. What a girl this Lyss was!

  As they went out, Silda noticed the black couple staring after them eager and alive and thoroughly enjoying the free entertainment.

  The lady stroked the furry likl-likl crouched on her shoulder, and the creature's bright eyes regarded with great wisdom the fracas upon the floor and the maimed form of the spinlikl. They were not related much as species, although, obviously, they shared much physiology in common. Also, Silda was reminded there were other reasons for carrying a likl-likl upon the shoulder.

  Yes, they were lovely little furry bundles, to be stroked and cuddled and petted, splendid companions. They were friendly little creatures, only resorting to violence if aroused by some extraordinary cruelty. The spinlikl had made no attempt to steal from the black lady in the emerald green dress. Her likl-likl would have known at once and set up an outcry.