Masks of Scorpio (14 page)

There being no answer to that, we all dropped down the black hole into the stink, one after the other.

And, of course, Pompino dropped down first.

We managed to bring Rondas down without causing him overmuch pain. His mail had saved his life. But if we did not get the barb out within a reasonable time, and patch him up, he could easily lose that precious commodity.

Jespar’s squeak said: “We are approaching Murgon’s quarters. I am sure of it.”

Nobody could see a blind thing. We shuffled along a narrow ankle-breaking slit in which muddy water ran. If this was a drain and someone pulled the plug up aloft, well, we’d be neck high, or mouth high, in filthy water — or drowned.

I made up my mind I’d see to it that Jespar was lifted up so that he stood the same chance as folk of races not dumpy and near to the ground.

We came to a fork where our hands met emptiness each side.

“Which way, Jespar?” growled Pompino.

“To — to the right, master, lies Murgon’s suite — I think.”

“And to the left?”

“I am not sure. If this drain lies under the Corridor of Fountains, then the left would lead to the drain opening onto the cliff—”

“To the right, then.”

A moment’s thought assured me that to emerge onto the cliff, separated from Dayra and the voller by the bulk of the fortress, would not serve my purpose. We had to go back and up. If that way lay through Murgon’s apartments, then that was the way we would have to go.

When we came across a ladder, Pompino halted.

“I am going up. I am heartily sick of this drain.”

Perforce, up we went. When Nath the Gristle and I maneuvered Rondas up onto the paving through the manhole we found ourselves in a narrow space walled by masonry and brick. Lanternlight fell through a latticework a score of paces off to our right. That was the way Pompino led.

Now we padded along silently, feral, alert, and with weapons in our fists.

The sound of voices reached us, and at this we all took heart.

Soundlessly, we approached the latticework and peered through.

Had an observer chanced to spy us he must have jumped back, aghast. At the best of times an unruly, fearsome, hairy bunch, after our experiences with Murgon’s traps, our struggles in the corridors and pits, and to top it off the trudge through the slimy stink of the drain, we must now appear a truly awful, horrendous bunch of scarecrows.

Pompino put his nose against the stone latticework. He sniffed. That sharp cunning foxy nose wrinkled, and he sniffed again.

About to make a tart comment that we were aware that we all stank, I stopped. I, too, sniffed.

“Undoubtedly,” pronounced Pompino.

Cap’n Murkizon said with enormous satisfaction: “Roast vosk for a certainty.”

“And momolams.”

We were all sniffing away at the delectable odors drifting in through the latticework. Our own stinks were forgotten.

Everyone smelled out his favorite dish. They were all there.

“If this is not another trap...” said Pompino.

“It’s got to be Murgon’s kitchens.”

“True. But I have the deepest suspicions of anything that man does. None of you will rush upon the viands. If you do—”

Rather tartly, I reminded them.

“I do not believe Rondas the Bold will go rushing anywhere for a time.”

That was cruel of me, of course; for they were all aware of Rondas’ plight; but I felt the responsibility in an odd way. As the others led off, going cautiously, and Nath the Gristle and I followed on with Rondas between us, I reflected that I’d taken enough responsibility in my life, Zair knew, and taken it damned ungraciously usually. Responsibility to others, to some shadowy creed, to your own damned stupid self, sometimes weighs a fellow down more heavily than all the iron shackles in Kregen.

When we fetched up with the others in a vaulted barn-like place with two walls roaring with fireplaces, with broad tables groaning with provender, with pots abubbling and pans afrying and spits aroasting, the glorious mouth-watering scents of any gourmet’s paradise enclosed us in a world of enchantment.

The cooks and serving folk huddled against the one wall that held only shelves, and a posse of Naghan’s Fristles prodded absently at them with their spears one-handed, while they gorged on whatever came to the other hand.

Nothing loath, for like them all we were sharp-set, Nath the Gristle and I plunged for the nearest food-piled table. Rondas, comfortably on his side, appeared not the least interested in food. We took him back a drink, which eased his thirst but was probably not too clever, although I was confident the dart had not penetrated into his intestines.

Pompino rolled over, swallowed down, hiccoughed, and said: “Murgon is in the middle of a feast. I imagine he will not wait too long for the next course.”

“He won’t tolerate slack service.” I spoke solemnly, already gleeing at what was to follow.

For, of course, Pompino the Iarvin, as a smart kregoinye, saw as fast as did I — probably faster — what the next ploy would have to be.

“Although, Pompino, I also won’t tolerate delay in attending to Rondas.”

“There’s a needlewoman at the feast. I asked.”

“Then I am with you and let us try to knock some sense into these rascals of ours... They’ll stuff themselves silly given half a chance.”

With superb food distending their stomachs, their blood still hot from the insults they had received within this place, the lads were very much inclined to go and do nasties to Strom Murgon and his cronies. An eye for an eye, reprehensible though that may be, tended to operate at certain levels.

I said to Pompino: “Mind you, Murgon is feasting late. The night won’t last forever. One wonders what was the occasion, apart from the lady Dafni, of course.”

“A fellow doesn’t really need an excuse for a feast, Jak Leemsjid!”

I agreed. As Pompino spoke the new name, I realized that there was a certain lack, a wanting of euphony. The name needed a lightening syllable...

In no time at all, once the idea had taken hold on their evil imaginations, the crew and the guards dressed in the flamboyant if shoddy festive robes of the servitors. They disguised themselves amid much stifled laughter. Weapons were hidden. Quendur stuffed his sword into an enormous pie, and swathed a yellow hot-serving cloth about the hilt, guffawing.

Soon, choking to keep down their merriment, their weapons hidden and ready, their festive serving garments, all swathing multi-colored cloths and feathers and baubles, disguising the grimy bodies beneath, they were marshaled into a procession. Trays bearing a bewildering assortment of foods for the next course hoisted high to conceal their faces, they marched solemnly for the doorway leading into the banqueting hall.

I, Dray Prescot, walked with them, clad as were they, my weapons hidden as were theirs.

We were going to serve up Strom Murgon with an unexpected delicacy.

Every one of us wore a golden zhantil mask.

And, with us, clinging like a vile miasma, the stink of our passage through the sewers floated about us.

So, dressed up, kitted up, with sharp weapons, stinking to high heaven, we entered Strom Murgon’s banqueting hall.

“Bratch, you rasts, bratch!” called a silly foppishly dressed fellow who must be the overseer of the servers. We ignored him. We marched on in stately procession, carrying the viands high to conceal the golden zhantil-masks.

Strom Murgon sat in state in this banqueting hall of Korfseyrie. The chamber bore none of the marks of long disuse of the other parts of the fortress. Tapestries glowed upon the stone walls. The beams above were carved and gilded. The tables in the form of a horseshoe carried fine yellow napery, and silver and gold vessels, and banked vases of flowers. Incense hung in the air, which stank worse than we did from the sewers. Murgon’s cronies sat about the tables, facing inward to the hollow center. Among them lolled many painted girls in transparent draperies.

In the space between the arms of the horseshoe tables a troupe of erotic contortionists performed. This explained the lack of urgency in chasing up the next course of the feast. They’d been sitting here enjoying themselves since they’d avoided us in the forest and settled down to a night of debauchery, and they were not halfway through yet.

The orchestra in a grilled enclosure to one side donged and plucked and tootled away. The performing troupe performed. There were Sylvies there — as one expected — and they always gave within the expertise of their art superlative exhibitions.

From a bulky grotesquely clothed form with a silver tray bearing a whole roasted bird stuffed with smaller birds ad infinitum a throaty rumble said: “...Belschutz!”

“Such decadence is to be expected,” whispered Pompino.

“But there are still guards lining the walls.”

“Oh, aye, I see them.”

We advanced in procession, and the foppish personage realized that this was not according to plan. We would clash with the high spot of the Sylvies’ performance.

He tried to halt us.

“Wait, you cramphs! Wait by the nine-towered serving tray of Beng Forlti.”

Although adjured to stop by the patron saint of all waiters and waitresses, we marched on.

The guards, the musicians, the erotic performers, did not wear masks.

Everyone else did.

The glitter from the samphron-oil lamps’ reflections blinded in silver.

Masks of Lem the Silver Leem — snarling silver leem masks! — adorned every face in that blasphemous assembly.

No need to describe the color or ornamentation of the robes of those feasting so merrily here!

High against the end wall the monstrous silver statue of the leem glittered down.

There was no iron cage, no little girl sacrifice in her white dress.

There were bloodstains upon the stone floor in a cleared area to the side.

Scuff marks in the stone flags told where the sacrificial block had been dragged away after the gruesome rites had been performed.

“Stop, you misbegotten cramphs, you spawn of Hodan Set! Stop or you will be flogged jikaider.”

The foppish personage fairly danced with frustration, probably well knowing that if the servitors fouled up he would be flogged in that cruel crisscross fashion also.

Now I happened to be carrying a silver tray which bore a large, sugary, creamy confection, a ziggurat of a cake the Kregans call annimay cake. While undoubtedly too rich, too sugary, too creamy and altogether too fattening, it is, even to a soured old forager like me, delicious.

About this time the bewildered and bothered chief steward, this overseer of the servers, woke up to the bizarre assortment of dishes we carried in so solemn a procession.

He fairly gobbled his alarm.

“What, what, what? You, there, with the bird... And you, a trifle... And is that vosk and taylyne soup?

What in the name of Llumino of the Sauces is going on?”

Pompino — he with the taylyne and vosk soup — said, “It is about time.”

“Aye.”

Murgon in his silver mask and his Brown and Silver robes sat at the head of the table, and the woman at his side must be Dafni — and she, too, wore the Brown and Silver, and the silver leem mask covered her face. Murgon’s two trusted thugs must be among that company, the Chulik, Chekumte the Fist, and the sly little apim, Dopitka the Deft, if they had not so far been slain. One or two of the silver masks angled in our direction and the lampglow glittered with inquiring menace.

“Let slip the hounds and let loose the shaft!”

Without more ado, having achieved complete surprise, we leaped into action.

The overseer of the servers had just reached the clear conclusion that all was not as it seemed with the servitors. He began to dance up and down in wrath.

“As certain as my name is Nath the Tureen, you will all be flogged—”

He went flying helter-skelter, this Nath the Tureen, as we threw the viands in all directions, tore out our weapons and leaped.

Pompino had marked Strom Murgon and for him he roared, shouting, his sword lifted. Cap’n Murkizon hurled the stuffed bird at the nearest table and followed it in a tremendous billow of outrageous clothes, smashed into the table, upending it. It crashed down on the feasters beyond.

Shrill screams sliced into the air and echoed from the ceiling. Viands crashed and splashed. The wicked silver glitter of swords rose to combat the evil glitter of silver leem masks.

The annimay cake sailed up into the air from my silver tray. It arched up and over. It descended.

Splat!

The two guards who rushed in from their position along the wall were smothered in the sugary gunk.

Without masks to protect their faces the creamy cake blinded them.

Two swift chunks with the hilt disposed of them.

It seemed very necessary to me to make sure of the folk here who carried weapons. After that the more important task of sorting out the needlewoman might be attempted.

Well, we went at it with a will. Tinker-hammering uproar filled that opulent chamber.

No one felt inclined to pull their blows, to let these miserable specimens off the hook.

Men staggered away from the tables, their blood gushing over the brown robes. Men — and women, too — screamed and fought to win free, and Pompino and Cap’n Murkizon and Quendur roared into them. Nath Kemchug and Naghan the Pellendur and his guards smashed forward.

Some of the guards in their Lemmite uniforms fought well. Quendur had a right to do until Cap’n Murkizon reared up and his new axe went around in a flat and vicious arc, chunk into the side of Quendur’s opponent.

Quendur didn’t bother to shout a thankyou — he just swiveled and slashed the legs from the wight who attempted to brain Murkizon from the blind side.

Together, the two flailed their way on.

By this time, with a few of the guards coughing up their guts on the floor, I’d spotted the woman I took to be the doctor.

She wore the Brown and Silver and a silver leem mask covered her face. But she had not leaped up, either to escape or to fight. From the corner of my eye as I raced on I caught a fleeting glimpse of Murgon dragging Dafni along, and a couple of the guards making a valiant effort to protect their lord.