Beasts of Antares (7 page)

I will not go into details of the lavishness of the Day. The twin suns shone, Zim and Genodras, blazing down out of a clear sky. The waters of the canals scintillated in light. The houses were festooned with flags and bunting and draped curtains and streamers. The people shouted. The processions wound in and out, and the priests went through their rituals, earnestly and with dedication, and sweating more than a little.

The bands played. Contingents of various regiments marched. The people pranced through the avenues and crowded the narrow boats so that the canals became solid walkways.

Chanting lines of folk weaved in and out, all repeating over and over those ancient litanies, chief of which resounded all day among the half-ruined houses.

“OO-lie O-paz ... OO-lie O-paz...” Over and over, rising and falling, Oolie Opaz, on and on and on.

Surrounded by dignitaries and nobles and functionaries, I went as prescribed from place to place within the city. How different this was, by Vox, from those earlier times! Now I was surrounded by comrades, men and women who had fought with me shoulder to shoulder against our common foes. Now I had no fear, not now, not on this Day, of the poisoned frown, the disgusted look, the turning away in contempt.

The Second Sword Watch were there, inconspicuous, but there, ready in case a more deadly threat manifested itself.

Messengers in relays kept me informed on the progress of Bjanching. He had not gained clear contact with Quienyin. The two Wizards of Loh continued to investigate the extent and force of this new power wielded by Phu-Si-Yantong.

Vallia is a civilized country of Kregen, with wild enough parts here and there, as I well knew. But all the same, these processions, the brilliance of jewels and feathers, the caparisoned animals, the uproar with the banging of drums and gongs and the fierce blowing of trumpets, the smells and the scents, the sheer vitality of it all, this was a splendid and barbaric spectacle.

But the luster of the Day was dimmed for me until almost halfway through, just as we were approaching the hour of mid.

“I am parched!” quoth Nath na Kochwold — who remembered his name with the utmost clarity — and he smiled. “I look forward to the meal they have prepared with almost as much pleasure as I look forward to the march past. By Vox! What we have left of the Phalanx is a poor remnant. But they will march with a swing.”

“They will, Nath, they will.”

We alighted from the narrow boat and burst into the light of the suns and the roaring welcome of the crowds. Above us lifted the bulk of the Temple of Opaz the Judge. Glistening, impressive, floating among the clouds, it seemed, that vision of spire and dome. I looked up. The manifestation of Opaz in the guise of Judge was traditionally linked with midday, the balancing point between night and night. Here the priests would have prepared a mouth-watering repast to tide us over the next part of the Day’s events. We were all sharp set.

The marble steps glistened with gold-veined whiteness. Crimson drapes stained the marble with the semblance of blood. Ranked lines of men held back the pressing crowds. The color, the excitement and the heady energy of the celebrations filled everyone with the passionate conviction that it was divine to be alive on such a day as this.

Pausing for a moment to speak to one of the swods guarding the marble stairs, I was aware of his hard, tanned face, the direct look of his brown Vallian eyes. He was a spearman of the Fifteenth Regiment, trim in leather and crimson, his shield with its proud devices angled just so, his stout spear precisely vertical, its steel head polished to a starry glitter.

“Lahal, Kalei.” I noticed the absence of rank badges. “You were a Deldar when we fought together.”

“Aye, majister. But I got into a fight with a poor fellow out of the Phalanx. They stripped one Deldar rank from me for every tooth he lost.”

“Then—” I said, remembering. “Then he lost seven teeth.” Kalei’s hard face showed pleasure.

“I will make ob-Deldar again in three of the months of the Maiden with the Many Smiles.”

“When you reach shebov-Deldar again send me a message. I will make you a zan-Deldar at once.”
[2]

His pleasure increased. I was not being magnanimous. I was not pandering to the men in the ranks. A kampeon is a veteran, a soldier who has received recognition, a man who has won renown in the army. Kalei was a kampeon. Such men are valuable, as precious as gold to an army, for from their experience and war wisdom comes the training of the youngsters. Kalei was too valuable to spend his life carrying a spear as a swod in the ranks.

And, at the same time, he had to be subject to the same iron discipline, what the swods call mazingle, as the men he trained up. There was no question of my instantly restoring his rank as a Deldar. That would undermine discipline.

Kalei knew that.

He saluted, an enormous bashing of his spear against his shield, and I nodded and walked on up the marble stairs.

“Remberee, Kalei!”

“Remberee, majister!” And then, unexpectedly, he added in his stentorian Deldar’s bellow, “May Vox of the Cunning Sword go with you always, majister!”

The soldier near the foot of the wide sweep of marble steps moved. In neat precision they opened ranks. Their weapons and harness glittered. A sedan chair borne by eight Womoxes swayed up the steps from a narrow boat moored next to the boat in which we had arrived. The chair was sumptuous. It was splendid. Crimson velvet curtains and drapes of cloth of gold concealed the occupant. Tassels of bullion glittered. Feathers waved. The rear Womoxes, massive, bull-headed men from the island of Womox off the west coast of Vallia, raised their carved and gilt-encrusted carrying poles so that the sedan chair remained level.

I turned to look back down the steps.

The chair was altogether more ornate, more regal, than the usual run of gherimcals, for the normal gherimcal of Kregen serves functional needs of carrying people about. This palanquin concentrated glory and splendor within itself.

At the side of the gherimcal walked Rosala and Fiona. So I knew.

I walked back down the steps, leaving the dignitaries and the waiting priests above me. I did not run. I do not know how I did not run.

I lifted the cloth-of-gold curtains.

Delia said, “We found not a single sign of them, and I’m late for the Day of Opaz the Deliverer — what a way for an empress to carry on!”

And I, Dray Prescot, laughed.

Neither Delia nor I cared a fig for being empress or emperor. We just wanted to get the job done.

“Whatever you do, my heart,” I said, “the people of Vallia love you.”

So we went up together to the Temple of Opaz the Judge.

Delia looked superb. She was radiant. She wore a simple sheer gown all of white, with those two special brooches, and a cape of scarlet and gold, crimson and silver, in an artful blend that combined sumptuousness with good taste in a miraculous fashion. Her brown hair was dressed high, threaded with gold and gems, and those outrageous tints of chestnut lent the perfect touch of natural beauty. Like us all, she carried arms, a rapier and a dagger swinging from jeweled lockets on a narrow gem-encrusted belt over her hips.

“And I am famished,” she said as we walked up.

“Jilian?”

“She continues the search. But the trail has gone cold, I think.”

When the people saw Delia they went wild.

Fantastic cheering and roaring, shrill cries calling down the blessings of Opaz upon her, a bedlam of love and good wishes broke in an inferno of joy to the clear skies over Vondium.

Delia smiled. The whole world brightened. She looked wonderful. With an incredibly graceful gesture, she lifted her hand, bowing to the people left and right and then walking on, her head high, proud, superb, radiant — Delia — Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains.

And I, Dray Prescot, was privileged to walk along at her side. Yes, it wasn’t all bad, being Emperor of Vallia!

The rest of the day passed in something of a blur. All the necessary rituals were gone through with proper deference. Whenever I was called on to give a speech outside the customary rote observances, it was very easy to remind the citizens of Vondium of the perils through which we had just passed, and to harp on the dangers we still faced.

“We of Vallia believe! Our children clamor to be heard. We cannot let their justifiable ambitions go unheeded. The land calls for purification. From all over the continents and islands of Paz our oppressors have flooded in. We have fought them. We have driven them back from Vondium, the proud city, and from many of the provinces.”

Standing on an obelisk, or at the summit of steps, or upon some balcony banked with flowers, I would say the same words, or almost the same, telling these people that we had come a very long way, and that there was a very long way still to go.

“The iron legions of Hamal have invaded us. The slavers, aragorn, slavemasters have taken away our loved ones, our fathers and mothers, our husbands and wives, our children, brothers and sisters, taken away to be chained in slavery. The flutsmen wing in our skies, pillaging and slaying. The masichieri march against us with rapine in their hearts — no! No, my friends. I am wrong! These masichieri, all the rest of the scum, they have no hearts that beat in human breasts.”

The crowds would yell at this, raging, knowing the awful tragedies that had overtaken us, knowing what we had to do to bring Vallia once more into the light of Opaz.

While I was, as you will see, preaching to the converted, I was uneasily aware that since our successes the hard edge to our purpose might fall away.

After all, many and many a mile separated the hated foe-men now from the citizens of Vondium. Despite the ruins everywhere thrusting their harsh reminders upon us, it was deceptively easy to feel the victory had been won. The sounds of the drums were muffled by distance. Yet Vondium remained the heart of Vallia. Nothing less than total dedication could be required...

Delia looked sharply at me as I walked back from the balcony where the last speech had been vociferously received.

“Dray?”

“I was thinking, even as I spoke — we
must
do this, Vondium
must
fight on, nothing less than total dedication can be—” I looked at her, seeing her beauty and the wary look on that face I know so well. “Can be tolerated, permitted?”

“You said required.”

“Yes. We run perilously close to deep waters.”

“Come away and drink a glass of wine. The suns decline. They have a fine Tardalvoh here which will curl your toes.”

We were due to dine this season with the Bankers Guild. Each season on the Day, various authorities took it in turns to host the emperor and empress. The Bankers Guild, formed by a number of Companies of Friends to further their own ends, would surpass all efforts at entertainment. Well, I will not bore you with details of what we ate, the golden plates and all that high living. After the feast, the reckoning.

We had changed from the foolish sumptuous clothes of the day to evening attire, with the smaller nikmazillas that are so becoming a part of Vallian costume. Turko and Nath and a few other nobles were talking in a corner when the portly form of Nomile Ristemer rolled up.

“Majister! May I present my son, Mileon Ristemer, of whom I am inordinately proud. He has but just returned home to offer his sword in your service.”

I nodded and shook hands in the Vallian fashion.

Old Nomile Ristemer was one of the elite of the banking fraternity of Vondium, immensely rich before the Time of Troubles, still a very wealthy man. His interests extended to many parts of Kregen. He was stout, chunky, with short legs and a strut to his walk. His face was not quite doughy and he had a swab nose. His brain was like a cold chisel. He was nothing like Casmas the Deldy of Ruathytu, right out of his class altogether.

His son, Mileon, partook of that chunky appearance, but he had kept himself in shape and looked what he was, a tough, experienced mercenary. When a mercenary achieves enough distinction, his comrades may see fit to elect him to the august company of brethren who wear the silver mortilhead on its silk ribbon at their throats. He is then a paktun. Of course, the word paktun is more often than not used of any mercenary, as I have said. The silver mortilhead, the pakmort, showed a discreet glitter at Mileon Ristemer’s throat.

“You will, I trust, majister, find room and service for my son.”

Constantly I was being approached in this way, and I dealt with the applicants as they deserved and in as just a way as I could contrive. Mileon Ristemer looked likely. His father was not a noble but had been given the title of Kyr, a kind of honorific, by the old emperor. The son was plain Koter Ristemer.
[3]

“I shall be glad to have the honor to serve you, majister. I shall not require pay. I have one or two ideas that, I believe, will prove of great value in future campaigns—”

“Where have you seen service, Koter Ristemer?”

“In various countries of Havilfar, and in Loh.”

“I am interested in any new schemes. Make an appointment with my chief stylor, Kyr Enevon. I trust we can serve the interests of Vallia together.”

Mileon visibly drew himself up, his shoulders going back. Maybe he hadn’t been used to dealing with raspy, down-to-earth characters like me before when taking service as a paktun.

“Quidang, majister!”

He rattled that out, and the word, the tone, the very vehemence of that soldier reply, sounded strange in the golden, refined world of the Bankers Guild.

I nodded. I fancied Mileon Ristemer would shape up.

Three or four other young hopefuls were introduced to me in the course of the evening, and if I mention Mileon alone at the moment it is not because the others did not serve Vallia well, but that Mileon’s scheme — well, all in good time you will hear about that, by Zair!

We fell into a conversation about the army Turko would need to bring Falinur back in to our kind of civilization. He well knew my face was turned against hiring mercenaries. My son Drak had hired paktuns and had won battles with them. There were mercenaries in the army that had marched into the southwest under the command of Vodun Alloran, the Kov of Kaldi. He had taken the Fifth Army down there and had won victories and was now attempting to consolidate what he had conquered. But more than one of my comrades now grasped the essentials of the policy of using Vallians to fight Vallian battles.