Legions of Antares (11 page)

The Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu is essentially a higgledy-piggledy collection of narrow streets and tiny alleys and claustrophobic courts ruthlessly slashed through by the wider avenues, after the fashion of Baron Haussmann, which in the strange way of Kregen’s architecture, do not always coincide with the new boulevards of the city beyond the old walls to the west. To the north the River Havilthytus flows eastward and joining it from the southwest comes the River Mak. The Sacred Quarter is contained in this triangle. The black waters of the River Mak do not mingle with the ochre waters of the Havilthytus for a considerable distance downstream, and this is one of the remarkable attractions of the place to visitors.

The twin Suns of Scorpio reflected glitteringly from every projection and gable and spire as I sauntered along. People moved everywhere, idling, gaping, with many a hurrying slave slipping quickly through the throngs. And, of course, there were soldiers everywhere, here on leave before departing for any of the fronts mad Empress Thyllis had opened in her senseless wars.

Deeming it a good idea to wander along to The Blue Zhyan and discover what the inn had to offer in the way of accommodation, I reflected on the curious fact that Nath Tolfeyr had not once asked me where I had been or what I’d been up to. He must just have assumed I’d been at Paline Valley, or else serving with the army. The Blue Zhyan, in Ohmlad’s Alley, turned out to be a snug little place, angled of roof, with flowers banked around the narrow windows, and with at least two convenient trees for shinnying down and up, if, as I fully intended, I had to go on nefarious expeditions into the city. The landlord rubbed his hands, wine-stained, on his blue-striped apron and frowned and then smiled at sight of the golden deldys that appeared in my hand.

“Of course, Amak. There is a room. We are honored to have you here.”

The room was narrow, cramped, and the view looked out onto a shadowed courtyard and a blank wall above the totrix stables where those fractious six-legged saddle animals were kicking up a din anxious to be fed. I looked around, punched the bed, checked the water supply, and nodded.

“Very well, Nodgen the Apron.” That was his name, a fat and oily man showing signs of care over continuing supplies wherewith to satisfy his patrons. “I have been traveling and would rest now. See that I am not disturbed.”

“No, notor, of course not, notor.” He bowed himself out.

I flopped on the bed. If I was going flying through the city tonight I needed to catch up on my sleep. A phantasmal apparition glimmered against the paneled wall opposite the window. The spectral form wavered, and coalesced. I sat up, watchful, cautious. The arch-devil, Phu-Si-Yantong, had spied on me by sending an occult manifestation of himself to descry what I was doing. His kharrna was very great, his capacity to exert supernatural — as we believed — forces that flew in the face of nature. Khe-Hi-Bjanching, who was a Wizard of Loh as well as a friend, had set up defensive barriers against this spying. His arcane arts had been materially assisted and increased by Deb-Lu-Quienyin, who was a Wizard of Loh with a character and a history. He said, himself, that he was not as powerful in the thaumaturgical arts as Phu-Si-Yantong; but I believed Deb-Lu to be equally as powerful, if not more so. He and I had gone through enough adventures together to make me absolutely confident in him, to make me trust implicitly the old Wizard of Loh, who was a comrade and friend.

The wavering form moved as undersea fronds move in the tidal flow. The gaseous outlines thickened. The simple robes, the absence of runes, told me this was Deb-Lu, and then I saw his face, smiling at me in the old way, and I relaxed, and let out a breath.

“You look — perturbed,” he said. “I am in lupu and send my projection to talk to you. It is no new thing for you. Why does it affect you so?”

“I’ll tell you, Deb-Lu, I’ll tell you. I thought it might be that bastard—”

“Hush, majister!” The voice cracked in indisputable command. “Do not speak the name.”

I nodded. “Very well.”

“Khe-Hi-Bjanching and I have surmounted the problems strewn before us. Our communication is now clear. It was a Daunting Task.” I did not mistake his use of Capital Letters, and smiled.

“You are well? How goes it at home?”

“We prosper in most areas; but there is a Blight. Kov Turko has almost succeeded in bringing his kovnate of Falinur into the fold. Soon he will, as you say, hook left against Layco Jhansi. Your son Drak and the Presidio rule Vallia well. I will tell you—”

“The Blight?”

“Ah, yes. It is small at present, and concerns the Southwest.”

“Drak said he had a problem down there.”

“The man you sent in command of the army to liberate the Southwest has done so. But he raises the standard in his own name, and calls himself the King of Thothclef Vallia.”

“The devil he does! I’ll have a few strong words to say toKov Vodun Alloran, believe me. I’d better come home right away, although this is a damned nuisance, just as I’ve arrived here.”

The apparition raised a hand. I waited for Deb-Lu to speak, speak to me down here in Hamal all the live-long way from Vallia. But he let the hand drop, and for a moment a silence lay between us.

“Well, Deb-Lu? Why should I not go home and sort out this problem? Kov Vodun was the Kov of Kaldi at the hands of the old emperor, Delia’s father. I confirmed him in those rights and sent him off with a goodly army. If this is how he behaves we will have to teach him otherwise. Vallia is a united country — well, it will be once we’ve chucked all the leeches out.”

“I think, majister—” When he called me that I knew he was up to mischief. “Prince Drak is handling the affair. I have great affection for Prince Drak, and trust in him. It may be...”

Drak was the sober, grim, intense one of my lads. Yes, yes, I could see what Deb-Lu was saying. I’d left Drak in charge, and I meant to hand over all Vallia and this stupid emperor part of it to him as soon as the country was back in one piece. If I went haring back the moment there was trouble — how would he feel? How would he look in the eyes of those to whom he gave orders? No, it was simple stuff, naïve, really — but Drak could and would handle this.

“Quidang, Deb-Lu! Give Drak my warmest wishes for a speedily concluded successful campaign.”

Now it was Deb-Lu-Quienyin’s turn to say: “Quidang!” in acknowledgment.

Then he said, “On the other matter. The great devil is active in Pandahem. There have been rebellions, which have been put down with much bloodshed. Some people here think that an invasion of Hamal is premature. We should clear Pandahem first.”

“You are sure, Deb-Lu, that that cramph of a Wizard of Loh is not eavesdropping on us?”

“Quite sure. Khe-Hi monitors the conversation.”

“Hm. In that case — no, leave it. Let me think on this.”

I did not want to say, even like this, that the island of Pandahem between Vallia and Hamal would fall like that fabulous rotten fruit once we invaded Hamal. Go for the bold stroke — that was the way. Allies from the Dawn Lands to the south, allies from Hyrklana in the east, and we from the north, we’d hit Hamal and crush the empire between us. I did not want my Vallian lads tangled up and trapped in Pandahem.

“One thing, majister. The Fifth Army that went with Kov Kaldi to the southwest — the mercenaries declared for him, of course. The Phalanx and many regiments of our army refused and returned to Vondium. The Southwest crawls with mercenaries and flutsmen — but I thought you would like to know the army remained loyal.”

“Thank you, Deb-Lu. That is a bright spot.”

“Remberee, Jak. My kindest regards to Tyfar when you see him.”

“Remberee, Deb-Lu.”

The ghostly apparition faded. The paneling showed brown and grained where Deb-Lu-Quienyin, Wizard of Loh, had stood and spoken to me. What he had not said openly was the crux of this situation. The evil Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, was on the move and actively plotting fresh mischief against us. That was sure...

Chapter nine

Blades of Spikatur

By the time the suns had set and the Twins, the two second moons of Kregen eternally revolving one about the other and casting down their fuzzy pink light, rose above the pinnacles and rooftops, Nath Tolfeyr had still not put in an appearance at The Blue Zhyan.

It was in my mind to make a round of some of the more insalubrious nightspots of Ruathytu. Nath would have gone with me, for he enjoyed a good carouse as well as the next fellow. Well, if the Bladesman had not shown up by the time the ob-bur clepsydra drained through, I’d be off without him.

What Deb-Lu-Quienyin had both said and not said remained troubling me. He’d called me Jak, as my daughter Jaezila did, and this comforted me. I’d been using the name Jak a great deal just lately, and this new nonsense of Zaydo afforded me amusement. A lot of people knew me as Jak the this or Jak the that; just now I wanted to be Hamun ham Farthytu. The thought also brought up the problem of Deb-Lu’s strange lack of progress in tracing down further details on Spikatur Hunting Sword. We knew in broad outline what had happened, although not why, and we were totally in the dark about what the Spikatur Conspiracy intended. Men had claimed there were no leaders, only local chapters, devoted to hunting. They swore by Sasco, whoever he was. Torture had been applied by Hamalese tormentors in the dungeons of the ghastly fortress of Hanitcha the Harrower on its spit of land extended downriver from the Sacred Quarter, ochre water to the left, black water to the right. Men called that castle of horror the Hanitchik. Before they died, after assassinating Hamalese nobles, the followers of Spikatur Hunting Sword had confessed nothing beyond their deeds.

From this unwholesome fact I had pieced together the notion that the Spikatur Conspiracy was directed against Hamal. We knew they burned voller factories. Anybody who was against Hamal in these parlous times bid fair to be an ally. But these people, whoever and wherever they might be, remained vague and unapproachable.

The very last drop of water splashed in the clepsydra. The water was stained a pleasant apple green color. I turned the clepsydra and picked up my evening cape. This was a natty blue affair with golden cords. If Nath Tolfeyr was not coming, I was going to wait no longer.

The wardrobe I’d taken from Paline Valley contained enough foppish clothes to outfit me as a real dandy, from the hard round stiff-brimmed Spanish-style hat to the blue and gray trousers and polished boots. The cape settled over my left shoulder and I did up the golden clasps. With a rapier and main gauche scabbarded at my sides, I sallied out to partake of the raffish nightlife of Ruathytu’s Sacred Quarters. In any other time, this would have been the life by Krun!

Perhaps I should mention that my jacket was stiff with gold braid, and that foolish finery almost concealed the brilliance of the green-dyed material. Well, times change, and we all march on into the future that all too soon becomes the past. Green jackets were all the rage in Hamal. I looked, in fine, your true indolent, high-tempered, mettlesome Bladesman to the life.

Dressing up in fancy clothes is easy enough and does not demand overmuch imagination. Adopting a fresh name also does not demand great cogitation. But a face... Ah, now!

Deb-Lu-Quienyin had taught me the art of so altering my features that I could pass friends unrecognized. The trick was damned painful for faces largely remote from my own arrogant physiognomy; I’d always been able to adopt a foolish sort of face, and had done so in establishing the weak character of Hamun ham Farthytu. So, now, I adopted a face that would be recalled as that of Hamun’s, although by subtle touches I removed it from the face that would be remembered as that of Dray Prescot — or Jak or any of the many names I have used on Kregen.

A fat lot of good that did me in the first emergency I encountered.

The idling crowds were out. The taverns and inns were wide open. What was going on in the private rings and arenas of the great ones was not to be dwelled on. I skirted the high brick wall of nobles’ villas, for not all the lords rented out small shops fronting the streets. The avenues were brilliantly lit; the streets illuminated passing well, and the alleys pits of darkness and deviltry.

The heady scent of moon blooms hung on the evening air.

Only one attempt was made to rob me as I passed a gloomy alley mouth, and the fellows slunk off when I whipped out the rapier and flourished it at them, meanwhile detailing what portions of their several anatomies would first be sliced up for mincemeat.

Slamming the blade back into the scabbard, I hurried on into the light of cressets bracketed to a high wall where vegetation spilled and moon blooms opened wondrously to She of the Veils, golden and pink, floating high above. I passed a narrow gate above which a lantern dispelled the shadows. The door was open and men laughed and joked inside, their boots loud on the graveled path. A party of gallants out for the night’s entertainments, obviously; I wanted no part of that and quickened my pace.

Beyond the end of the wall, where another wall began hiding off the villa of another lord, the alley between looked shadowed and uninviting. I looked hard, hand on hilt, but the little alley between the villas remained silent. I went on.

Up ahead lay a small tree-bowered square where six taverns stood cheek by jowl surrounding the square and the well at its center. Here, during the day, the gossips from this section congregated. This was Veilmon Kyronik, from the name of the graceful, sweet-scented trees. If you wanted a fight after dark, go to Veilmon Kyronik. Someone would always oblige you.

The silly abortive attack on me by those chicken-brained would-be robbers, and the thought that I would have to avoid a fight ahead must have combined to do the trick. People hurried past, and we kept to the left-hand side of the pathway, as was natural, to keep our sword arms free. I barely looked at them, swathed in their clownish fancy-dress and their capes. I moved on and—

A hand clapped me on the shoulder.

“Jak! By Krun! Jak the Sturr, as I live and breathe!”

Emotions of furious anger, thoughts of courses of action, clashed and collided in my skull and through my blood. Instinct almost undid me. My sword was halfway out of the scabbard, I was half-turned, ready to run this brash newcomer through the guts, before I hauled myself up, shivering, as though taken in irons. By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki-Grodno! Here I was, being myself, being Hamun ham Farthytu, and some idiot had recognized me as Jak the Sturr!