Secret Scorpio (9 page)
Old, is Kregen, and yet the world is populated now by new vigorous peoples thrusting out to conquer fresh territory, waves of migrations passing across the continents and casting up new kingdoms and republics, new confederations, hurling down the old into ruination. The famed Empire of Walfarg, generally called the Empire of Loh, had fallen into a pile of dusty refuse, and now Loh slumbered, her Bowmen mercenaries in the other continents, her wizards scattered and serving other monarchs.
One day the dark continent of Loh would be opened up again and hosts would march. Perhaps a host of Vallia would penetrate that land of secret walled gardens and veiled women, hear the silver trumpets screaming, bring the Light of Opaz to the deepest darknesses.
But first we had our own stables to clean.
“But which,” I asked Delia, “which temple is it?”
“Oh,” she said with quick confidence. “It must be the chief temple. Much of it still stands, garlanded with vines and ivy, overgrown, moldy. But the sacrificial pools are still there, with water still in them. The last time I was there — you were gone off, Dray — the golden roofs still stood. Although, of course, the gold was gone long since and only the tiles remained.”
“Just the place for a secret rendezvous for a congregation of the Great Chyyan.”
“Oh, Dray! I hope not! My poor people!”
“Yes.” I was grim about it. “There is no guessing when meetings have been held, or even if any have been held so far. But one thing is sure. This devil Makfaril intends to use Delphond as a base for his Chyyanists. For all we know they are already strongly entrenched there.”
“I am not so sure.” Delia looked troubled. “My Delphondi are a lazy lot, as you know, slow to anger. They prefer the easy life, sitting in the sun, yarning, eating, singing. It would take a very clever and cunning man to rouse them against their wills.”
“Makfaril is clever and cunning. Make no mistake about that”
“Then we must go there at once.”
“Agreed. But we go carefully.”
Delia’s troubled look persisted. She shook her head.
“What a business this is! I love Delphond. I am the princess — it is an imperial province — and I am sure the people love me. Yet I must go creeping back like a spy!”
“Exactly!”
Then I paused, trying to think. “On the other hand, if you went as the princess, in all pomp, acting as you usually act — and I know the people love you — that would show them your care for their welfare persists. I feel convinced only a few may have gone over to this damned creed. You will have to work from the outside, bedazzle them, show them that Opaz is still the religion of their fathers and mothers. Yes,” I said, brisking up, seeing a cheerful glow on my mental horizons. “Yes, that’s it. You are the Princess of Delphond. The people will welcome you as they always do. But, as for me. . .”
“Yes?”
“I am not as well known there. Oh, a few of the nobles would know me. But I shall go in my own way, and creep about and ask questions, and prod and pry. I’m looking forward to it. Between us, my love, we’ll have these damned Chyyanists in the open where we can get a shot at them!”
She stuck her bottom lip out at me.
“I can put on a disguise!”
I shook my head. “As soon seek to disguise a shonage in a bowl of squishes.”
“Inch!” we both said then, and laughed, for all the thing might be serious. But life was for living and Inch was, well, Inch of Ng’groga was Inch, Kov of the Black Mountains.
“We’ll have messages sent to Inch and to Seg, apprising them of what is afoot. I know Seg was more perturbed than he said. I think Falinur smolders. Her people are still resentful over the lost coup of that dratted kov of theirs. Seg has a handful with Falinur.”
Khe-Hi indicated the other eight signs. “Where are these places? The answers must be sought, my Prince, but I will hazard a guess. We may not know what the five blank spaces are for, but is it not possible that the single central blank space is reserved for the sign for Vondium?”
Old Evold cackled. “A puffed-up Wizard of Loh you may be, San Khe-Hi. But in this you speak sense.”
It did make sense. If Makfaril intended to destroy Vallia he would have to strike at the capital. The central space meant Vondium, I was convinced. Also, I fancied that the existence of a sign indicated that a center of Chyyanism had been set up there. A blank indicated the Black Feathers had not yet opened up shop at whatever place they next intended. So we have a breathing space.
“We leave first thing in the morning,” I said. “Panshi can organize everything tonight.”
There would be a lot to do before we could leave. Didi would have to be left in good care. A message would have to go to Drak warning him. The Elders of Valka, with Tharu still in control and with Tom as his right-hand man, would carry on as they always did when their strom vanished. But this time their Stromni, the Princess Majestrix, would be absent also. . . More and more I could see that Drak was taking over here, and much though I resented it, the circumstances of my life made it inevitable and cruelly precluded me from taking any steps to halt the process of takeover. Drak was my eldest son, and he was fully entitled to look out for his inheritance.
With preparations made for an early start on the morrow we turned in. Just before she went to sleep, Delia turned over, smiling at me, her hair a torrent of bronze-gold upon the pillows. “When we get to Delphond they’ll expect me to behave like a princess. But, my grizzly graint of a husband, be very sure I shall make a journey to the Temple of Delia to find out just what deviltry you’ve been up to.”
At the Temple of Delia in Delphond
I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, hitched up the ragged brown cloak over my left shoulder and took a firmer grip on the tatty cloth bundle that held my worldly possessions.
Leaning over the bulwark of the flier, Delia handed me the bamboo stick.
“You look a mighty savage ruffian, my love. Try not to scowl so, and cast your eyes down. To act a poor wayfarer is not going to be easy for you.”
“Maybe not, my heart. But I’ve done it before and, by Vox, I’ll do it again.”
Parting with Delia is always so cruel an experience that I wondered, every time I parted from her voluntarily, why I was such a fool. To hell with Vallia! What did it matter if an evil creed overturned everything? What mattered beside life and love that meant everything with my Delia? But then I would return always to the harsh understanding that I was driven, a man doomed — perhaps by the Star Lords, perhaps by the Savanti, perhaps by Zena Iztar. For all of them I could feel anger, and yet, for Zena Iztar, who had materially helped me in ways beyond belief, I had to feel an affection that transcended my feelings for either Savanti or Star Lords. I might resist them; in fact I had worked cautiously on ways of circumventing their commands, and had succeeded and failed, yet would continue to struggle against them as I could.
But Kregen itself, the world of people, the beauty and grandeur and horror, this drove me. This made me both less and more of a man. So I could stand in the dust of a Delphondian lane with the green of orchards about and say goodbye to Delia and put a brave enough face on it.
“And do not be late for our rendezvous,” she said. So we called up the last Remberees and the flier lifted off. I waved as the voller rose and swung and swooped away into the bright morning air beneath the streaming mingled light of the Suns of Scorpio.
I was alone.
Well, that was what I wanted.
This was a decision I had made.
I tucked the bamboo stick into my belt over the old scarlet breechclout, draped a fold of the tattered brown cloak about it and with a final look around started the trudge to the Temple of Delia, about a dwabur off along the coast.
Very soon I found I could take an interest in all I saw, for the world of Kregen is always marvelous. My hand touched the bamboo stick. It was not real bamboo, of course, but it held the same deep orange glow and was ridged at intervals. Just such sticks are carried by the poor folk when they venture out from their own villages at least, just such a stick to outward appearances.
My hair was uncombed and tousled up, and my face bore the marks of grime, although this was fresh dirt newly rubbed on. I was barefoot. Well, I am still more accustomed to going barefoot than to wearing shoes or boots. So I strode on out of the orchards and over the brow of a hill and across springy turf with seabirds wheeling and calling overhead, on along the edge of the cliffs with the wind in my face.
Far out to sea a galleon of Vallia bore on, the spume breaking from her bows, her canvas all stiff and curved, a stately and gorgeous sight in the light of the suns.
And, as always, the smell of the sea wafted in to brace me up and bring the memories flooding in. By Zair! But all this wonderful display of nature — a naive but a feeling thought — deserved to be savored.
Soon I passed a small group of cottages, set in the lee of a low hill. Gray smoke wafted. I did not stop and skirted around past the fences where the bosks nosed up, squealing. The people here would be like all Delphondi, easygoing and lazy, or so I then considered, but I felt disinclined for any company since I had voluntarily debarred myself from the only company for which I care.
The Temple of Delia was set in a wide dell, a kind of lush ravine, through the center of which a narrow and rapid river helter-skeltered to the sea. No one lived hereabouts any longer. The grass and moss-covered outlines of ancient buildings, reduced to mere low mounds, told of the busy activity here when the Goddess Delia was worshiped in the land.
Now I proceeded cautiously. If this Makfaril called his freshly garnered congregations to worship here they must travel a fair way. There were towns within riding distance. Many of the richer sort might own an old airboat or two. The poor people would walk, or ride their draft animals. I kept into the side of a grassy bank and moved steadily forward until the first of the standing columns came into view. The green and emerald suns struck conflicting shadows from the flutings and ornamentation. Beyond the row of pillars a gray slate roof lifted, much worn and, as I judged, repaired within the memory of man.
The quietness seemed very peaceful, with the droning of insects to deepen the hush, but I fancied that quietness to be deceptive. Slowly I inched forward, trying to peer into the blue shadows that lay in cool swathes beyond the pillars.
Nothing moved. The suns beat down and the mellow heat lifted from the warm earth and the insects droned and the air and sky breathed a sweet stillness.
I scouted the ancient temple thoroughly. Nothing human lived within those moldering walls. The place had been surprisingly large, the shattered walls and columns and fallen roofs lushly overgrown, giving clear indication of a rich and thriving community centered around the temple. When this place had hummed with life and worship and the continual processions, on Earth the men of Sumer were considering how best to fashion bricks into the form of ziggurats to reproduce the mountains they had deserted. Well, the ziggurats of Kregen are notorious, as you shall hear, and I was doing no good mooching about here. It occurred to me that the nine sigils of the signomant might not mean nine temples for the worship of the Great Chyyan.
The thought did not depress me. That had been a guess. There would be many wrong guesses before this business was over. Far more likely was our first assumption that the signs indicated places of rendezvous. This temple stood near the coast so it could be the place where ships landed, gliding into the pebbly cove where the small river tumbled headlong into the sea, disgorging money, weapons, priests, to further the cause of the Black Feathers in Vallia. That made sense.
There had been no sign among the nine that we could make tally with the town of Autonne in Veliadrin.
Ignoring the cluster of cottages I had passed, the nearest village lay two dwaburs off. I fancied I would walk there and quaffing good Delphondian ale and eating cheese and bread and pickles, I would ask cunning questions. The villagers would most likely know if torches had been seen in the ruins, if the weird sounds of chanting had been borne on the night air.
No thought that Delia had been wrong in her identification could be entertained. Of course, she could have been deceived by some fancied resemblance of the sign to the ancient symbol for the Mother Goddess aspect of Delia, but I did not think this. What I had been half-consciously looking for I found in the same instant that I heard voices drawing near, voices engaged in the age-old complaint of the soldier performing guard duties when he would rather be off in an ale-house.
Even as I bent and from the broken angle of moldering masonry retrieved the scrap of black feather, I heard the voices.
I held the feather in my fingers, a tip of the rusty black plumage of a chyyan, the feather proved everything. If the mission on which I was engaged resembled some eerie detective story, then this was a clue of the first water.
The voices complained on and I shrank back into the shadows and listened. I put the feather down onto the moist green ferns struggling from the cracked masonry and blew it gently so that it drifted down out of sight. I marked the spot in my mind.
“That Shorten is a right bastard.” The voice rolled, rich and fruity, lubricated through the years by many a flagon of medium red. “As a hikdar he’d be a great zorcadrome attendant.”
The second voice, sharper, more intense, carried on the bitter complaints.
“We’ve been nobbled for picket duty three times in a row. By the Black feathers! I’ve a mind to appeal to Himet the Mak himself.”
“Do that, old son, and he’ll just refer you back to Shorten. That’s how they run things.”
I waited silently until the group came into sight. Four lumbering quoffa carts, bundled high and with canvas lashings protecting and concealing all, followed eight masichieri marching two abreast. Right in front and about to enter the ruins, the complaining two marched well ahead.
They were unmistakable. Fruity-voice, glowing of nose, broken-veined of cheeks, with bright protuberant eyes, marched with a rolling swagger that churned his swag belly inside his leather armor. They wore plain black tunics, with the well-oiled leather and the parrying-sticks and the thraxters. The second masichier, smaller, weasel-like, kept in step with his bulkier comrade; and both of them grumped and groused to amuse Vikatu, the Old Sweat, Vikatu the Dodger, that archetypal old soldier, that paragon of all the military vices, that legendary figure of myth and romance loved and sworn by with great vehemence by all the swods in the ranks.
