Rise of the Death Dealer (41 page)

ON THE ROAD

T
he wagon, two days out of Rag Camp, rumbled north on Hog-Scald Road in the
territory called Small Tree. Earlier, it had passed through the lands of the
Kaven and Dowat tribes, and three times had met parties of Barhacha woodsmen on
the road. But not a single member of these tribes had recognized the vehicle as
their king’s.

The carriage’s wheels and shafts were now scraped clean, and fetishes rattled
on the bloated body: bones, gourds, beads, flapping rabbit ears and the pelts of
leopard, tiger and lynx. They were nailed to the driver’s box, the doorways,
windows and sideboards, and mixed with them were bilious red and orange signs
and numerals sacred to the deities of lechery, Zatt, Chuzz, Bajat and Yang.

All together, the wagon’s appearance was not quite as civilized as a gorilla
wearing a codpiece, and it moved with the grace of an armadillo making love to a
fast duck.

Jakar sat in the box, holding the reins, and the
bukko
snoozed beside
him.

Sounds of approaching horses joined the racket, and Jakar stood abruptly,
glanced back across the flat roof.

Five riders had emerged from a forest trail, and were following the wagon,
drawing closer and closer. A mangy bunch of freebooters, they carried crude
spears and naked swords, and wore soiled leather armor. Blistering rashes on
their bare arms and bald heads were crimson in the sunshine, and they were
drinking in their saddles from wine jars. Coming close, they waved at Jakar and
shouted crude words of welcome, then fell back, avoiding the wagon’s dust.

Jakar acknowledged them with a wave and smile, sat back down and stared
thoughtfully ahead. The riders appeared to be following for no other reason than
the obvious one, that the wagon’s occupants promised to provide a bawdy
performance when it stopped for the night. On the other hand, the riders might
be the demon spies the troupe had to destroy before it could leave the forest
basin.

Jakar two-handed the reins, pulling back and slowing the horses as they
rounded a bend and headed down a long straight tree-lined lane. Forty paces
ahead, the broad back of the huge Barbarian came into view, leading the way on
his stallion.

Gath of Baal now wore a black bearskin, a weapon belt, fur-trimmed boots and
the shiny brass armbands of a
macco,
a strongman. Both he and his mount
were stained with grease and trail dust, and their black hair was matted and
tangled with burrs and bits of leaf. Jakar could not see Gath’s face, but he was
certain that the large man’s expression was his normal one, about as tame as the
bear who had provided his new clothing.

The young nobleman glanced back at the following riders and nudged Brown
John. The old man did not respond. With entwined hands resting on his paunch, he
jiggled and tossed, lost to his dreams.

Both the
bukko
and Jakar now wore dusty, stained tunics, sewn from
rags, over their unwashed bodies. Their belts, pouches and weapons were
embroidered with colored wooden beads, and loop earrings dangled amid greasy
tangled hair. Coiled around Brown John’s neck was a coarse red whip, the scepter
of the traveling whoremaster.

Jakar nudged his king again, and shouted over the clattering wheels and
creaking body of the wagon, “Time to wake up, bukko! Your plot just added a
whole new set of characters.”

Brown John came awake with a start, and sat up rubbing his eyes. “What’s
that? What did you say?”

“Take a look behind us.”

The
bukko
yawned and stretched, then turned in his seat and looked
back at the following riders.

One of them howled wildly, pitched a wine jar against a tree for no apparent
reason. It crashed loudly, drawing howls from the others. Not manlike howls, but
a high-pitched squealing.

Jakar put an eye on the startled
bukko.
“What do you think? Do we stop
and let Gath murder them?” Brown John scowled and faced to the front, saying
patiently, “We can’t go around killing people, lad, just because they look
suspicious. We have to make sure we’ve got the right ones.”

“I know,” said Jakar lightly, “I just thought he might be hungry.”

Brown John scolded him with his brown eyes, and nodded with the back of his
head at the riders. “How long have they been there?”

“They just showed up.” He put a wary eye on the old man. “If that’s the bunch
Robin is supposed to arouse, all she’s going to need is a coat of oil and a
tambourine!”

The
bukko
laughed easily and said, “There is more to it than that,
lad, a great deal more. With the riffraff you find camped on the road, Robin’s
kind of beauty can be a detriment if not presented properly. It is too far out
of their reach, and that offends them. Shames them. Makes them aware of their
own sorry lives. They wouldn’t pay and ’ave to look on Robin stark naked, and if
they did, they’d only laugh with scorn at her inadequate breasts and buttocks,
and demand their silver back.”

“Is that right?” asked Jakar mockingly.

“Yes,” the
bukko
said importantly. “The art, Jakar, is to make Robin
appear as if she is one of them. The best of them, of course, and the most
beautiful… but still one of them. Otherwise she is inaccessible, not only
to their hands but to their minds and the secret passions in their hearts.”

“I see, and you’re going to let this serpent woman who was, and may still be,
in league with the Master of Darkness decide just how accessible?”

“Precisely. She’s dressing her now.”

“You’re taking quite a risk, aren’t you?”

Brown John nodded firmly. “It’s what I do best.”

“Oh?” said Jakar with an
arched eyebrow. “Well, from where I sit, Robin’s the one taking the risk.” That
removed Brown John’s proud expression, and Jakar added, “We’ll make Upper Small
by nightfall. With an early start tomorrow, we could reach the Barrier Mountains
by mid-day. So, if we’re going to kill anybody, we better do it tonight.”

“I know,” said Brown John. He glanced back thoughtfully at the bald-headed
riders, then turned to Jakar. “You’re right about Robin. She is taking the
greater risk, and I appreciate your concern. Your presence is a great comfort to
her.”

“You misunderstand me, old man. Robin is nothing more to me than a tool. A
beautiful and amusing one, but nevertheless a tool. I intend to cut as many of
these demons’ throats as possible, and apparently, by acting as bait, she can
help me do it.”

“Yes, of course,” said Brown John. “I understand. Your feelings are motivated
by the loss of your sister. But there is more at stake in this adventure now
than revenge.”

“Not for me.”

The
bukko
hesitated at the hardness of his tone, then said, “I know
how you feel, but you must not let your anger stop you from living.” His voice
softened with respect. “Jakar, your sister is gone now, and Robin is very much
alive.”

“Are you sure?” Jakar asked with cool mocking eyes. He nodded with an ear at
the wagon. “Maybe you better find out just what they’re up to.”

“I will.” Brown John stood behind his words, adding, “And rest assured, I
will see she is not put in any danger.”

He climbed back onto the roof and paused, once more looking back at the
drunken riders, then climbed down through the trapdoor, closing it behind him.

Jakar whipped the horses, and they lunged forward in their huge red collars,
hauling their load faster and faster, and the wagon rolled and bounced
precariously under him like a grotesque wooden whore. He laughed darkly to
himself, his body relaxed, riding the pitch and bounce. The huge vehicle was
acting as if it were eager to wreck its favors against every turn in the road,
and crush its lovers, breaking its own heart in the process, and all for nothing
more than love of the open road. And inside he felt just as reckless.

It was madness, yet mysteriously irresistible, and he shuddered. Now more
things were at play which he did not understand and could not see. He could feel
them as surely as he could feel the wind bite his cheeks. Not only in the girl
and serpent woman but in Brown John.

PRIVATE PERFORMANCE

T
he
bukko
descended the ladder and stood bracing his hands against the
walls of the second-story room as the wagon tilted and shook its way around a
corner. Daylight seeped through the seams of shuttered windows, filling the room
with moody grey light. Baskets of provisions were stacked on the floor and on
the racks above his wall bed. In the corner, vague whiffs of smoke rose out of
the stairwell hole, and the sound of voices.

He crossed to the hole, listened to the voices but could not make out what
they were saying. He started down the narrow, enclosed staircase toward a spill
of orange candlelight on the floor below. Suddenly wheels squealed outside,
combined with the growl of grinding boards and thundering hooves, and buried the
voices in a cacophonous din. Just as suddenly the din subsided, and he stopped
short only partway down. He could now hear Robin’s firm but muffled voice.

“But I don’t want to take my clothes off! I won’t! I already feel cheap and
dirty.”

“Child,” a female voice said in a low purr, as if stroking a wildcat, “the
time has come for you to put your modesty behind you.” The voice was Cobra’s,
both indolent and authoritarian. “Now step out of your tunic, your costume is ready.”

“All right.” Robin’s voice was reluctant. “But I can put it on by myself. You
don’t have to help. I’ve worked with cloth and clothing nearly all my life.”
Robin’s voice hesitated, then continued, “Besides, where is it? If it’s so
immodest, maybe I won’t agree to wear it.”

Brown John listened to sandaled feet crossing the room below, then the creak
of tiny hinges, like those on a small ceremonial box, and more sounds of
sandaled feet followed by Robin’s gasp.

“Is… is that it?” the girl’s shocked voice asked.

“Not all of it, but these are the essential elements.” Cobra’s voice was
teasingly casual.

“Well, I won’t do it,” Robin’s voice said defiantly. “I’m not going to dance
wearing nothing but a few dabs of rouge and kohl.”

The
bukko
smiled with amusement and sat down, listening to Cobra’s
chuckle drift up the stairwell. It was heavy with power, hypnotic. Her voice
followed, redolent with the same qualities.

“Your body will be covered, child, have no fear of that. But first I must
mark it with the required signs and numerals. Now come, make yourself naked.
There is much to do and we are wasting time.”

“But I don’t trust you. What signs? What will they do to me?”

“Come, come, child, they won’t harm you. Besides, did you not tell everyone
that you would do anything… do whatever was asked of you, to help steal the
sacred jewels?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then disrobe.”

“No!” Robin’s voice blurted. “You tried to kill me when the Kitzakks held me
prisoner! And you would have if that priest hadn’t stopped you. And I think you
want to kill me now. I can see it in your eyes.”

Brown John rose into a crouch, his hand clutching the whip coiled around his
neck, and listened intently. The women’s voices were closer together now.

“You see correctly, butterfly,” the sorceress said calmly, “but it is only a
surface emotion. Come, stand next to me. Look deep, and tell me what you see.”

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Just look!”

The sound of scuffling sandals, then the girl’s voice came again. “I don’t
see…”

“Closer, put your face to mine.” Cobra’s voice was so close to Robin’s it
sounded as if their lips were touching.

Brown John descended three more steps, and turned an ear toward the bottom of
the stairwell. Motionless. Intent.

“Now what do you see?” Cobra’s voice asked.

“Fear!” The girl’s voice was startled. Then she lost control, and her words
tossed like leaves on a wind. “Fear! A… a terrible fear!”

“For what?” Two words as weighted with portent as the entire prologue of
Thirteen Knives at Hog-Scald.

“For yourself, and…” Robin’s voice gasped in confusion. “But I don’t
understand!”

“You see it now, don’t you?” the woman’s voice purred. “Here, I will remove
the mandrake root.” Her voice paused, then added, “And still you see it, don’t
you? I fear for you as much as I fear for myself.”

“But… but why?”

Brown John’s eyes asked the same question, and he felt suddenly out of
control. Things were going too fast. He moved halfway down the stairwell until
he could hear clearly as Cobra spoke.

“There is no mystery to it, girl. You are the one the Nymph Queen hunts, and
if anything happens to you, all is lost! For me as well as your friends.”

“I know that, but that’s what confuses me. Why does she want to… to murder
me instead of Gath?”

“Well, primarily, I would think, because you keep the helmet from
overpowering Gath. But there are undoubtedly other reasons as well.”

“What reasons?”

“They would only confuse you further if I tried to explain. Besides, there is
no time. All you must understand is that I wish you no harm, and that you must
trust me. Completely. Just as Brown John trusts me.”

Brown John scowled. Cobra was taking him for granted.

“But why does he trust you?” Robin’s voice asked tentatively.

“Because he knows, or rather senses, that I know more about you than you know
yourself.”

Brown John’s mouth dropped open.

“But… but that’s not possible.”

“If you doubt me, look again into my eyes and see if I lie.”

The sounds of pounding hooves and rattling wheels filled the void left by the
momentarily silent voices, and the
bukko
slid down another step, his ear
turned. He waited, and a whimpering gasp of recognition rose above the sounds.
It was Robin’s.

“You see,” Cobra’s voice said quietly, “I am not playing false with you. I
know you, butterfly, and I can help you do what must be done. Do you understand
now?”

The
bukko
sat rigidly still, waiting. Why was the serpent woman trying
to gain Robin’s trust? What was she up to? When Robin’s voice came again, it
startled him. It was weak and timid, as if drawn out of her by sorcery.

She said, “Yes.”

“You’ll let me draw the signs, instruct you?”

“Yes.” Weaker still.

“Then get undressed!” Cobra’s voice no longer coaxed: it was in control.

“Yes,” Robin’s voice said obediently, then said it again. There was the sound
of a cloak dropping to the floor, and sandals being kicked off, then her voice
came a third time, startled now. “Why… why are you undressing?”

The old man’s brown eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and
sweat drained off his forehead. When Cobra’s voice replied, it was cool and
calming.

“Do not be alarmed. We are going to perform a routine transfer of knowledge,
something every hill girl can do. All that is required is a belief in one’s
natural powers, and a strong Kaa. You have these, your gift of healing has
proven it, and you have an exceptionally vulnerable and absorbing nature. When
my flesh touches yours, it will instruct you, teach your senses how to arouse
carnal pleasure in the men you dance for… and in yourself.”

“Myself?” Robin’s voice protested weakly.

“Yes.” Cobra’s voice was low and flat. Robin whimpered, and the woman
continued with cold candor, “You must understand, butterfly. When you dance, you
are going to have to perform in a way that is vile and repellent to you. You
must allow feelings and sensations that you have suppressed to blossom, or you
will not arouse these demon spawn and make them show themselves.”

“But what if I can’t?”

“You must!” Desperation had entered Cobra’s voice, faint but shaking.

There was a moment of hesitation, and Brown John’s breathing raced
uncertainly. The serpent woman was up to something, and he was not sure he
wanted to know what it was. Then Robin’s trembling voice asked, “What’s going to
happen to me? How… how will these… these creatures show themselves?
What kind of monsters are they? They’re going to hurt me, aren’t they?”

“I do not know their natures,” Cobra’s voice answered candidly. “Hopefully
they will just circle you, like moths stupefied by torchlight. But I cannot
promise it. Understand, I’ll dance first and try to draw them out. If I can, you
will not need to dance, but don’t count on that.”

“That’s all I have to do, dance?”

“Yes, but this above all, Robin, you must understand.” Her voice had quieted,
and become deadly sober. “Whatever danger comes your way, tonight, tomorrow or
next week, you must risk it. You must be willing to sacrifice yourself… at any
moment… or the quest will fail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I cannot explain why, not to you or anyone else. The knowledge could tarnish
you. You must simply understand that the risk and efforts you take to steal the
sacred jewels must not be for your own gain, but for your friends. And you must
take the risks and expend the effort silently, seeking no pity, no glory, no
reward.”

“But I don’t want any. I only thought that their powers could not only free
Gath but maybe cure Jakar of his grief and bitterness.”

“Good,” replied Cobra’s voice, and Brown John thought he could hear her
smile.

A moment passed, then Robin’s voice asked, “Brown John doesn’t know I’m in
danger, does he?”

“No. He knows you take some risk, but he is confused as to its
nature. He is a dreamer: he only sees things as he wishes to see them. I am sure
he thinks that the only things at stake tonight are your theatrical scruples,
and you must not let him, or Gath or the handsome young nobleman, think anything
different. If they knew the risk, they would try to stop you.”

Brown John held his breath, and visions of Jakar’s threatening eyes and
Gath’s deadly axe coming at him passed across his mind. But he remained where he
was. Motionless. Silent.

“I understand,” Robin’s voice replied. “Brown seems much older now, and
somehow softer. I think he needs a woman.”

Cobra’s chuckle rang in the
bukko
’s ears, then her voice. “You are
wiser, butterfly, than your years admit to. Now hurry, get those things off.”

Brown John sagged back against the stairs. He was sweating, and his face was
florid with humiliation. He pushed himself erect and started down the stairs. He
came within two steps of the opening at the bottom of the stairwell and once
more stopped short. He could hear the sounds of more clothing falling on the
floor. He frowned in confusion and leaned forward listening. The wheels squealed
again outside, and the boards heaved and groaned as the wagon bounced and
tossed. Amid the noise there was a tinkle of warm laughter, then Cobra spoke.

“Child, you are indeed a wonder. Even more beautiful than when I saw you
imprisoned in the Kitzakk priest’s huge flask with the milk spilling over you.
You’ve grown, filled out, and it becomes you. I wish I were not so jealous, so I
could enjoy it more.” She laughed again, with restrained warmth, then her voice
purred invitingly. “Now stand close, let our bodies touch.”

Brown John hesitated, a sudden rush of scruples making him think twice about
what he was about to do. Then the rubber ball began to bounce again in his eyes,
and he mischievously peered around the corner.

The two figures stood naked face-to-face in the dark shuttered room, flesh
pressed against flesh. One body as carnal as the other was wholesome. One as
white as warm cream, and the other the color of nutmeg and oiled, glistening in
the smoky yellow light rising from the candles on the floor.

A rush of hot breath escaped the
bukko
’s lips, and fearing detection,
he sank back out of sight into the stairwell. He was panting, and shaking his
head, not in shame, but in wonder. The vision was chaotic. It confounded love
and desire, and simultaneously unleashed disorder and order, and virtue and
vice. It humbled him, and made him feel suddenly impotent, not as a man, but as
a
bukko.
Never in all his days could his imagination have set two such
extraordinary players on a stage. So, telling himself it was his professional
duty to examine the vision in detail in order to instruct himself for further
use, he again peered around the corner.

Robin stood perfectly still as the sorceress’ voluptuous white body pressed
against hers, and waves of heat appeared to unfold within the girl’s flesh, like
a flowering bud with petals a dozen shades of red.

Cobra slid her red-nailed hands over the girl’s shoulders and down her back,
pressing their breasts together.

Robin’s hair had been dyed a reddish black, and oiled ringlets trembled about
her flushed face, clinging wetly to cheeks and neck. Two buzzard feathers, tied
with a thong to her hair, dangled rakishly beside one ear. A thick line of black
kohl rimmed her large eyes, giving them a harsh, brazen quality the girl could
not have managed on her own, and a scarlet arrow was painted on her forehead. It
pointed down at her small nose, and its angularity had a touch of cruelty.

Brown John, using the cuff of his sleeve, dabbed at the sweat dripping off
his face, and his eyes marveled at the sorceress’ skill. Robin already seemed
more accessible than he had ever seen her before, and the access was not to her
heart, but to her flesh. It stirred him shamefully, but he did not turn away,
and his eyes took in the whole room.

His chests were all open, and costumes of all description littered the floor.
Some had been tom apart, others had obviously been discarded and were piled in
the corners. A small firepot burned under a flask on the table which was
littered with pastes, berries, herbs, the cadaver of a large featherless bird,
jars of animal fat and a small leaden vial with a lead stopper which he did not
recall seeing before.

Suddenly the girl pushed away from Cobra and stepped back, gasping for breath
and trembling. Her body was flushed from ankle to forehead, and her eyes smoked
with inner heat.