Fires of Scorpio (9 page)

And so, with these maudlin — if arguably true and demonstrably banal — thoughts echoing in my old vosk-skull of a head, I trudged on along the dusty road and a high and a fierce voice roared: “Duck!”

So, grabbing Ashti, I dropped and rolled full length. Ashti let out a startled yell.

The flung billy hissed through the air where my head had been a heartbeat ago.

She was quick on the uptake.

“Durkin!”

“Aye.” One of the Durkin brothers — the one without the towser cut — dodged back into the leaves.

“Who shouted?” Demanded Ashti. She wriggled around and half-sat up. “Hai!” she called. “Durkin cramph!”

“Ashti!”

The fierce, dominating voice that had told me to duck, roared again: “Still in trouble, then, Jak! I don’t know how you’ve survived without me to look after you.”

So I stood up. Ashti clung to my fingers. A man flew up out of the bushes and landed on his head. He landed, to be accurate, on his towser cut. His brother followed. Then a Khibil broke through the screen of leaves dragging the man who had flung the billy at me. He was being drawn along by an ear. He was not very happy about the situation. The Khibil landed a soggy kick and the third Durkin brother reeled away.

“Clear off!” ordered the Khibil, not even bothering to gesture. “Schtump! Before I lose my temper.”

The three tearaways picked themselves up, groaning, and slouched off along the road. It had not, all things considered, been their day.

“I don’t know,” said Pompino. He looked full at me.

I looked back. It had been some time.

He was grandly — no, no, sumptuously dressed. He wore silken robes of a brilliant blue, emerald sharp, sapphire soft. A quantity of gold chains hung about him and bullion and lace decorated the cunning curves and folds of the garment. He carried a thraxter and a dagger in jeweled scabbards. His hat was a broad floppy feather-fluttering creation. He looked, in short, splendid.

I said, “You look splendid, Pompino. Been to a fancy dress party?”

“And you, apim, look as though you’ve just been in a fight and not come off well.”

Very calmly, and quickly, I said, “Ashti. Do not bite the Khibil — no! Do not kick him, either. He is a friend and he just saved our heads from being knocked off.”

Ashti swung back. Pompino looked at her. He smiled.

“Ashti, is it? I shall like you, Ashti. You are smart and quick.”

Ashti just glowered at Pompino. She said, hard and determined and with a mind made up: “I’m thirsty. Sazz.”

Pompino’s ferocious whiskers bristled up. His foxy face with that supercilious curl to his mouth and the damyoutohell eyes regarded me with lofty scorn.

“You keep a lady waiting for a drink, Jak? What has become of your manners?” Then, very gallant, very polished, he bent down and crooked his arm. “My lady Ashti. Pray, allow me to escort you to the Swod’s Revenge, where my good friend Palando the Berry will provide sazz in abundance.”

She gave a swift, liquid, upward glance at me. I nodded. Then, and only then, she took Pompino’s arm. They set off for the tavern.

Time enough when Pompino was settled with a drink under his belt to tell him of the attack on his family. They were safe now, there was nothing Pompino could do. Ergo, let us get comfortable in our relationship again before we opened up new problems.

Palando the Berry looked at us, swiped his cloth at the counter, and said: “So you found them, then, Pompino.”

“Aye, Palando. The child fooled me.”

We sat in a corner and it being almost time, wine was brought. Ashti looked at the flagon, and I said: “Stick to sazz or parclear for as long as you can, my girl. They bear less hard on the stomach and the purse.”

“My girl?” said Pompino.

So I sketched in how I’d run across Ashti. Then I said: “We parted on a scheme to steal a voller. I know you took her. I also can guess you waited for me. But, I was otherwise engaged.”

“We waited for you, Jak. Then the Kildoi, Drogo, became impatient. It was not wise to argue with him.”

“No. I can see that. Anyway, no harm was done.” I told him what had happened and how I’d indulged in Death Jikaida, and then I said: “And you’ve been working for the Star Lords again?”

“Of course. It is all that keeps me sane. My wife — well, enough of that. And I’ve been importuned by these confounded idiots of Lem recently.”

I told him what had chanced at his house.

He did not jump and go rushing up there. He held his glass steady. He said: “And the children are safe?”

“Yes.”

“And the lady Pompina?”

“Your wife is safe.” I put a fist to my chin, and then said, “There were four of them, as I have told you, an apim, a Brokelsh, a Rapa and the other fellow. The lady Pompina slit all their throats.”

“Well, Jak, what else did you expect?”

I drew a breath. “What else, indeed?” Still talking, finishing the wine, we brought ourselves up to date. Then Pompino rose. “Well, I shall have to go home some time. You will be dining with us, of course. Chenunga will have the place cleaned up by now if I know him. Come on, Jak. Let’s go and eat and talk. Maybe, if we are lucky, the Star Lords will send us out on an adventure for them.”

Chapter eight

Pompino and I plan a Jikai

In some societies on Kregen, custom demands that a host and hostess sit at either end of a long table with their guests between them. Other cultures ordain that a host and hostess sit side by side with their guests around them. Others place the host and hostess each within a circle of guests in semi-obliviousness one circle of the other. Where there are more than one host and one hostess — as in the quadrim people of Loghrangipar — more variations ensue.

In Tuscursmot, wherever originally the people had traveled from to settle here, they held dinner parties with style. And you have to remember that on Kregen, besides the differences of location and culture, you have also the differences of racial stock in a form far more violently different from anything here on Earth.

The Khibils of the inner sea, the Eye of the World, accustomed to the ways of the folk there, might have been surprised at the social mores of the Khibils of South Pandahem. The Khibils of other parts of Paz would have their own customs. The variety remains enormous.

The three of us — the Lady Pompina, Pompino, and me — sat each at a small separate table facing three long mirrors. We sat side by side, and could see one another in the mirrors. Ashti had been sent to a comfortable bed along with the two sets of twins, who were growing apace.

This custom does have advantages; it is also diabolically inconvenient. But Pompina insisted on high culture. Everything had to be done perfectly and by the strictest code of etiquette. Pompino looked fed up.

The greeting between the two Khibils had been casual to the point of exiguity.

Satisfied that his wife was safe, and his pairs of twins still whole, Pompino seemed — to me at least — to lapse into a private world of his own. He acted the host as the strict etiquette demanded by Pompina dictated. Beyond that he spoke only when spoken to, and shortly. He drank sparingly. So that wasn’t the problem. The servants served a fine meal. That one of the cooks had been killed, that the place had been reeking with blood, that the mistress had nearly been murdered, could not be allowed to interfere with the proper entertainment of an honored guest.

That I was an honored guest followed in the nature of the events. Being a crusty old shellback, I could handle that kind of attention, and keep a hand over my goblet when the flagons came around.

Pompina did not so much become drunk — and I would be the last to blame her had she done so — as merry. To use a technical word known to the sorority, she became sloshed. She uttered fervent thanks to a variety of gods and spirits, and Beng Dikkane, the patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz, got in there along with Pandrite and Opaz and Shenorveul the Sceptered Scourge.

Pompino caught my eye in the mirror opposite.

He made a face.

“My wife is happy, Jak. I must—”

“Don’t, Pompino.”

“Yes. You are probably right. I think the Star Lords picked me for my last mission because of my familiarity with this little problem in life’s rich armpit.”

“Oh?”

“Later.”

I nodded, and allowed a charming Fristle fifi — all the servants, after the death of the woman in the cellars, had been locked in the woodshed in the yard — to fill my goblet.

The wine was not Jholaix, from the northeast corner of Pandahem. It was a clear golden Markan and highly prized.

“Captain Logan brought it in from his last cruise,” Pompino told me. He twirled his goblet, looking at the clear golden liquid. “A successful captain, Logan. He commands
Tuscur Castle
.”

My ears pricked up. If Pompino knew someone connected with shipping I’d put in for a passage out. That would be far faster than riding or walking around the coast. Already I envisaged myself back with Seg and my comrades.

“You did not seem particularly surprised to see me, Pompino.”

“Palando the Berry told me a hulking great brute of an apim, with a little golden child, sought me. I’d an idea, from his description, that hairy apim brute must be you.”

“I have a confession—”

“Yes. You did not just happen to be here and thought to look up a fellow kregoinye.”

“The Everoinye sent me on a mission along the coast.” I outlined what I’d been up to, from a more professional angle this time and in more detail. Pompina hiccoughed and her head touched her breast. She started erect, and then stood up. We mere men rose also.

“I shall now retire, Pompino. Good night, Jak. I am in your debt. Please partake of my hospitality for as long as you wish.”

“You are very kind, my lady. I do crave a boon—”

“Ask.”

“Ashti. You have heard how she came into my care. I do not relish taking her with me into danger—”

“Of course. She has a home here for as long as the gods allow. I like her.” Pompina chuckled and tears squeezed from her beautiful foxy eyes. “I loved the way she bit that stinking Rapa.”

“Again, my thanks.”

When she had gone, Pompino walked across to a lounging chair and flung himself down. He did not spill a drop. “Very grand, the lady wife. She lives partly in a world of her own, a world of fantasy. I have done well, as you can see. But Pompina affects the ways of the nobles. She feels she should be a vadni, at least. And I am a mere horter...

He used the word for gentleman — equating with the Vallian koter — used mainly in Havilfar which was used also in many other places. A horter was a cut above your ruffianly riffraff. Yet Pompino had that word “ti” in his name, and therefore was of importance.

I turned the subject back to shipping.

“Tell me, Pompino. What chance is there for me to ship out? I have to get—”

“You’ve only just arrived!”

“Aye. But I have unfinished business—”

“Everyone who is not yet dead has unfinished business.”

“That is true, by Zair.”

“Must you go so soon? I want to tell you what the Everoinye had entrusted to me. Because of that I’ve been pestered by these vile Leem Lovers.”

“Oh?”

He nodded and quaffed his wine. His whiskers were marvels of grace and proportion, ferocious when he brushed them back.

“Aye! I was sent up north to smoke out a temple of Lem, and although I had the place gutted, I was not satisfied with my work or that I had finalized my commission.”

Thorough, Pompino, when he got his teeth into a problem. Unlike me, he was devoted to the Star Lords. Although, to be fair, I’d come to a much better understanding of those remote and superhuman beings in these latter days.

He went on: “They passed information down through their network to the south here. I’d masqueraded as an adept of Lem, having gained some insight to their foul rites, and the local temple insisted I join.”

“They didn’t know you’d worked against them, up north?”

“Of course not! But, with this last ugly attack it seems they may have discovered that.”

“So the unpleasantness is likely to recur?”

He did not look pleased, sitting erect holding his goblet, his foxy face compressed and fierce.

“Maybe we will have to discover what they know.” I ruminated. “If we follow up the local temple, and—”

“It will be razed to the ground tomorrow. I have passed the information to the town governor. We are an independent town, and soon we will be a city and will cease to be Tuscursmot, and become — I think — Tuscursden. But even so, some of the rasts may escape.”

“Would it be possible for us to attend the razing?”

“Yes, it would. It would also be not a politic act. The main source of infection stems from the north.”

“Where you were?”

“Aye. In Tomboram.”

To say that I was shafted by a bolt of illumination might be extravagant. I did not gasp. But I know my craggy old face drew down into that frightening beakhead some folk describe as the devil’s frown.

Pompino said: “What—?”

I said: “In Tomboram, a kingdom up there in North Pandahem. To the west lies Menaham, whose people are called the Bloody Menahem by their foes. Aye! And your wife — and you said the Everoinye selected you because you were married to her and understood her ways — you went to the Kovnate of Bormark. The kov is, I guess, Pando. And his mother, Tilda the Beautiful, Tilda of the Many Veils! That is it, is it not? Tilda is much like your wife—”

He gaped at me.

He licked his foxy lips.

“How—?”

“There is no magic in this, Pompino. I knew Pando when he was an imp of mischief, seasons and seasons ago. And his mother—” I paused. I would not stand condemned in my own eyes over Tilda the Beautiful. If she had begun to drink because I treated her correctly and as a great lady, had helped her to gain the kovnate for her son Pando, and had then left — I would not feel guilt. All my affection, love and life are dedicated to Delia.

“Pando, Kov of Bormark,” said Pompino. He drank hugely. “Well, he may have been an imp of mischief when you knew him. I tell you, my friend, he is a right tearaway now.”