Fires of Scorpio (23 page)

“I thought Pando, after Shamsi died — a tragedy, a tragedy — would settle down again and marry Pynsi. But no. No, he must aggrandize the kovnate and take this Vadni Dafni. I fear that his cousin Murgon will kill him for the sake of it.”

I glanced at the door, there was no sound beyond and I fretted to be with Pompino and about our business. But I had to say: “Shamsi?”

“A lovely girl. She made Pando very happy, and the twins are a joy. But she died, she died. I wept for a sennight.”

So Pando had made a life for himself, and it had been smashed up and his wife snatched from him. Maybe there lay one answer. My agents had not kept as full an observation as they might have done; and while this was understandable, I promised myself to find out just why that was. Tilda drank more wine.

“Why did Pando join up with the Silver Leem?”

Her glass trembled. “I came here to plead. Even although I know it to be useless. The foul wretches of Lem would have me killed without a care, if they could. Pando joined so that he might better stop his cousin, who is an adherent. I know a little, a little. Pando has plans for Murgon, and Lem offered him a chance to strike without suspicion...”

I felt much better. Pando had become an adherent of the Silver Wonder not out of love for the Silver Leem but with an ulterior motive. He was using the cult for his own ends; he might yet prove an ally.

Then, suddenly, she said, “Do you remember The Red Leem?”

“Aye.”

“I danced in the tavern — I could dance, could I not?”

“None better.”

“You saved me in The Red Leem, and we came here back home, and then you left me...” Not quite maudlin; not quite, but Tilda of the Many Veils was fast approaching that state. I could not wait any longer. I stood up.

“I do not think it will serve any purpose for you to remain, Tilda. I have to tell you that this evil temple will soon be burned to the ground, and—”

“But the king!” She was shocked into an emotion I could not identify.

“Nemo the flat slug has no part in this—”

“But you are wrong! The king is the Hyr Prince Majister. This temple lies directly beneath his palace!”

As she spoke I sniffed. Smoke wreathed in under the door. Pompino had been busy.

He came bouncing in and slammed the door after him. He rubbed his hands together briskly.

“We have done that,” he said. “Or, rather, I have done it, while you’ve been chatting away here.”

“The king is the chief villain,” I said. “And his palace is directly above us.”

“Capital! He’ll be burned out with the rest of the cramphs. The whole place will go up in flames in a moment or two. No one will get through there. We can leave quietly by the way the kovneva came in.”

Smoke billowed under the door, thickly and more thickly.

“Then let us be off,” I said. “Tilda, my arm.”

She appeared dazed. “My chair—”

I guessed that her gross body would be carried about everywhere; her entrance here must have exhausted her strength. Pompino and I would have to carry her. She weighed a ton.

“The things one does,” observed Pompino. And, then, he said, “You have — interesting — friends, Jak.”

“Aye. And if the stairway is steep—”

He groaned. “Don’t say it!”

We reached the small wooden door set in the shadows of the groined overhang. I tried the handle and it opened outward.

In that instant a torch flared in the passageway beyond. Heavy metalled sandals rang against stone. A harsh voice called out.

“Lock them in!”

The door slammed shut. The grating slide of iron bolts rattled against the door. I gave the wood a savage thrust of my shoulder, and it did not budge.

“We’re locked in!”

“And the temple at our backs is a sea of flame!”

Chapter twenty

Fire

When Pompino the Iarvin set the temple of an evil cult alight, he set it alight in no uncertain fashion.

Sea of flames or no damned sea of flames, we wouldn’t be leaving this place via that route.

Pompino let rip a few fruity curses, and came up and kicked the door nastily. Tilda let out a single small shriek. Then she fainted clean away. She weighed a ton and a half.

We were in a serious predicament. If we were not suffocated to death, we’d be burned to death, and if we somehow managed to bash this door open, there were armed men beyond ready to cut us to death. And yet, despite the gravity of the situation, I continued to find it extraordinarily hard to take this seriously. I kept thinking of what a ludicrous sight we must make. More than one of my comrades would find the sight we presented comical. Mind you, they’d be up there figuring a way out, ready to blatter anyone who wanted to stop us. But, all the same...

Now I have often mentioned that in these enormous castles and palaces of Kregen the walls are riddled with tunnels and secret passageways and entrances. So I suppose some of my feelings of levity arose from this fact; that I was confident we’d find a way out. We began to search.

Tilda had to be arranged as comfortably as her bulk and the chair and table would allow. She flopped over, a billowy blue mass, and I made sure she wouldn’t slip off before I joined Pompino. Now we could hear the crackle of the flames. Heat, although not as yet excessive, began to blast at us through the door to the temple. No sound reached us from the small door under the groined overhang.

“If that is the only way out—”

“If it is, Pompino, there is one desperate way of breaking down the door—”

“Burn it down?”

“Aye.”

“Do you continue to search. I will prepare.”

“If you do halfway as good a job as you did on the temple, we should be all right.”

He favored me with a look that said, more or less, “Go on! Blame me!” and bustled off. I went on tapping at the walls with my dagger.

Pompino wasted no time. Labyrinthine though Kregan palaces are, that is no guarantee that
every
room has a secret exit. He collected up combustibles, the stuffing of chairs, a spindly-legged side table. He had to shift Tilda and place her on the floor, a blue mound, and so break up that table and chair. The pile grew around the door. He sprinkled wine, judiciously some wine burns splendidly, some fizzes and some would put out the Hell Fires of Shurgurfrazz themselves.

My dagger kept on going “thud” instead of “ching.”

By the time I had circumnavigated the walls, Pompino was ready. I called across: “Fire her up!”

The door to the temple emitted jets and wisps of smoke from all over its surface. No flame played directly upon it yet; but it would burn and the heat would lick through in tongues of flame. Pompino struck flint and steel and the pile of combustibles roared. He stepped back, looking pleased.

“It’s a race, a race between which door goes first.”

“Are you quoting odds?”

“Not me.” He twirled up his moustaches. “I started both these runners!”

“As we have to wait and see which lot of flames gallops past the winning post, I am thirsty.” I licked my lips. “This is, indeed, thirsty work.” The heat in the room was now intense. We moved to the center. Pompino brought over a flagon and we drank. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth in a deliberate and theatrical gesture, for I saw that Tilda’s eyes were open and she was regarding me. “By Mother Zinzu the Blessed,” I said. “I needed that!”

“Dray! — Jak! What — I am hot—”

“We didn’t have the key of the door, Tilda — no need to fret. We’ll be out of this soon. Here, have some wine.”

That was an invitation she understood very well. The next flagon we happened to snatch up contained a light rose, Morceling, generally regarded as unassuming and satisfying. The wine all went down Tilda’s throat, red white or blue, it made no matter. Her face shone with perspiration. That glorious dark hair that in swirling out as she danced so quickened up the pulse, now lay dank and slick against her skull. I thrust sadness for her away. Very few, if any of us, choose our lives. We just have to make the best of what we get shoved onto us, tough though that may be, tough often to the point where it becomes insuperable. I condemn no one for that.

“Hot work,” commented Pompino, and he upended a jug of parclear over his head.

“Hold steady,” I said, somewhat sharply. “Have we plenty of parclear left?”

“At least four amphorae, over in the corner. Why?”

“I’m hot,” Tilda more moaned than said. She lay gasping, her breath a rattle of desperation. Pompino bent at once, wiping liquid around her forehead and cheeks. She shook that gross head pettishly; but Pompino persisted. The heat now roared at us from the door to the temple, pulsing waves of physical oppression. The door the other way flamed up, burning where Pompino had piled his combustibles. I studied the door carefully. We had precious little time left.

We were trapped between furnaces, flames leaping and shooting up, the very air drying and scorching our throats.

“Come on, come on!” I said, my impatience with the laggard flames turning my voice into that old ugly harshness. The orange and crimson filaments curled upwards mockingly, the smoke puffed impudently, the roar crackled out threateningly.

We waited between fires for fire to free us.

“I think...” said Pompino, at last.

We could scarcely breathe. The air scorched. The pain stabbing my lungs was not confined to me; Tilda now lay puddled and glazed, barely able to groan.

“It’s got to be now,” I husked out.

If we miscalculated, we’d be done for properly.

Pompino hefted one amphora of parclear, I took another of the sherbet drink. With flaps of our clothes over our heads, we approached the door under the groined overhang. In that instant the door at our backs leading to the temple burst into a gouting whirl of flame. It bellowed and shattered. Sparks shot everywhere. Flames licked in as though deliberately seeking us out individually to burn and crisp and devour.

Black smoke choked into the room, writhing like the coiled hair of demons.

“Bring the kovneva!” Pompino rushed on. “I’ll open the door.”

I did not argue. My amphora went flying through the air alongside Pompino, hit with his. I swung back without looking again and swooped on Tilda. She weighed, by Krun! She weighed!

With her in my arms I ran like a crippled crab for the door. Pompino had simply put his head down and charged. He wrenched the last few bits of smoldering wood aside, the black charred edges glistening. Smoke wisped. The whole room boiled in an inferno of flame and smoke. We smashed through the door, ripping clothes, leaving a great chunk of Tilda’s blue cloak, battled on.

The stone corridor beyond led onto a small room in which the smell of raw blood mingled with the stink of the smoke flattening in streamers after us. Here lay the bodies of four Womoxes, clad in blue with the red zhantil badge of Bormark upon their breasts. They had been slashed to death. Tilda’s carrying chair still stood where they had put it down to allow her to make the last effort to totter into the inner room.

We bundled her into the chair. It had four carrying handles, a wooden varnished roof and hanging curtains. This gherimcal with Tilda aboard was regarded as a fit burden for four Womoxes, large, horned, strong people. Men and women who carry gherimcals are often dubbed calsters, and these four calsters had served their last time for their mistress. Now we two, Pompino and I, had to stand in their stead.

“Don’t hang about, Jak! The rasts who did this and locked us in might still be about.”

I said: “When you fired up the door I imagine they took it that the fire from the temple had reached there. I do not think they expected a fire.”

Pompino laughed. He was very pleased with himself.

“We’ll make it even more hot for ’em!”

We took the poles and lifted. We carried the chair and Tilda. We went along the stone corridors. We saw no one. And, by Vox, the chair and Tilda weighed two tons.

Pompino led. He called back: “Those poor devils of Womoxes never carried this lot down a spiral staircase.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

The scorching feel of the fire still lay on me. I felt as though the insides of my lungs had been scraped out. I still kept coughing to get rid of smoke. My eyes stung. But we tramped on, carrying Tilda, and presently Pompino called: “Stairs!”

The flight of stairs was just wide enough. I got the poles up onto my shoulders, and Pompino kept his end low, and up we went. It was like pushing a boulder up The Stratemsk.

By now the chair and Tilda weighed three tons.

At the top we paused for a breather. I looked back, saw nothing but the dim reflection of the fire, and went to stand by Pompino. Ahead of us the corridor extended left and right, a little dusty, high-vaulted, bare. A few torches here and there lightened the gloom. Pompino jerked his head to the left.

“Is that daylight?”

In the distance, faintly, a wash of light lay across the wall. I squinted. My eyes hurt.

“Probably. Possibly. There is nothing the other way.”

Without another word we picked up the carrying chair and started.

The light was not daylight.

Along this left-hand corridor the light glimmered against the far wall to starboard. We reached the cross-corridor where the ruddy light reflected from the wall and looked to our left. We saw what we expected to see, what, in a real sense, we had dreaded to see.

Fire.

Against the orange glow which reached as high as we could see under the roof, distant some two hundred paces, the black imp-like silhouettes of people ran with frantic movements. The effect was like peering down into a demon-haunted inferno.

“That,” said Pompino with great satisfaction, “is this flat slug Nemo’s palace burning.”

“Aye.”

“I hope he crisps up with it in bed.”

“Any king whose basement catches alight is not going to hang about, now is he? He’ll be off out of it. Like us.”

The corridors below and above ground had brought us to an exit of the dusty old palace not too far from the entrance Strom Murgon had used. A dozen paces along we were able to assure ourselves that the door really was a door out. Pompino put his end of the gherimcal down. Tilda began to slide to the front until I slapped the rear legs down hard.