Talons of Scorpio (14 page)

With that high-sounding and exceedingly hollow promise to myself, I went in to seek Naghan Raerdu.

“Sink me!” I said to myself as I marched along the palace corridors. “When Pompino gets back what am I to say to him when he asks me what I’ve been doing all day?”

I had the nastiest of suspicions that Pompino and Framco would return without Tilda. This was just a hunch, of course, and depended on no cerebral deductive efforts on my part. They might catch up with Twayne Gullik; they might not. Tilda might be with the Ift; she might not. All I could do was repair my fences by questioning Naghan Raerdu.

I found him superintending the broaching of barrels for the evening. He was fussy, for where ale was concerned Naghan was a connoisseur. The ripe smells in the cellars, the tang of dust, the gonging notes as the slaves worked, the lively feeling of the slaves all served to rouse me. Naghan Raerdu was of Vallia, a good man, and he had abjured slavery. Forced to conform to the customs of another country, he did what I hoped any modern Vallian would do. The slaves were well treated and they knew that this job, broaching ale barrels and bringing supplies up to the mess halls and dining rooms of the palace, would hold plenty of perks. They’d get a skinful tonight, or they weren’t smart know-it-all slaves!

“Jak.”

“Naghan.”

“You look — if you will pardon my saying so — mind that spigot, Olan the Fumble-Fingered! — as though you have had bad news. I trust I am mistaken — hammer it in soundly, you great fambly, Nodgen Nog-Ears! — for your new comrades and the cadade have not returned nor sent a message.”

“It does not concern them, Naghan. I must talk to you—”

“Assuredly, assuredly, Jak — tilt the bucket, you enormous heap of famblys! — catch the ale, the wonderful ale!”

Froth spilled across the stone floor. Naghan did not go down on his knees and lap up the spilled beer; he might well have done and no one feel surprise. He had proved loyal and wise during the affair at the Headless Zorcaman. I felt he could be trusted; that was not the reason I wished to talk to him.

Presently, the barrel chuckling itself empty into the procession of carrying buckets, Naghan could devote all his attention to me.

I gave it to him straight.

“Says you murdered the old emperor, does she? H’mm...” Here Naghan pulled a face. “One can well see why she hates you.”

“I intend to take this Zankov by the neck and choke the truth out of him, so that the Princess Dayra makes no further mistake.”

“A highly desirable ambition, Jak, if uncomfortable for Zankov.”

“You never saw him?”

“No.”

“A pity. Still, you’ll recognize him—”

Naghan Raerdu had kept half an eye on his slaves as they carried the ale away. Now he turned to face me.

“He’s here, in Port Marsilus?”

“Probably. That is what I want you to find out.”

“That, of course, I can do.”

I told him what I’d been doing and he nodded, and the tears squeezed out from under his closed lids. “They’ll take their fine fancy new army across and the Prince Majister will whip ’em, like he did last time.”

“This fellow, Tom the Nose, and he seemed your decent paktun, was mighty confident.”

“Name me a recruiting Deldar who isn’t.”

“You were Relianchun of the Phalanx, Naghan. We don’t employ mercenaries in Vallia. I am confident that Drak will whip ’em; but it’s up to us to do what we can to help him before this damned army even steps ashore in Vallia. It would be a beautiful thing if they never did so.”

“Your son, Prince Drak, saw them off at the Battle of Corvamsmot. He will do so again, if we can’t prevent the army sailing.” He looked around; we were not overheard, all the same, he leaned closer. “Majister! Brace up, brassud! You give me a queasy in the inward parts.”

Naghan Raerdu and I were old campaigners; I took no offense. Rather, I felt a quick spurt of gratitude to this short chunky barrel of a fellow with his red face and his blob of gristle for a nose. By Zair! I was not acting like your high and mighty emperor — which I was not, anyway — and I had to get the future into perspective. My own personal problems had, as always, to be pushed aside to serve greater ends.

“You’re right, Naghan, by Vox. You find Zankov for me and I’ll try to put things right with the Princess Dayra. Also, there is the kovneva Tilda to worry me—”

“Us.”

“Yes, Naghan. If we Vallians can’t stick together, then the whole wide world of Kregen will tumble down.”

“My people,” said Naghan, and I did not inquire what he meant. Any good spy will set up an apparat as soon as he can, and it was clear that Naghan had recruited people to go about spying for him. In all probability many of them just didn’t realize what they were doing for this happy laughing merry fellow who was so lavish with ale and gold. “They report the city has seen more Ifts than usual recently. I do not wish to sound negative or pessimistic; but I fear the party of Ifts and the three wagons your friends chased after do not carry the kovneva Tilda with them.”

“You do not surprise me. I felt that in my bones.”

“I am having inquiries prosecuted.”

You had to laugh when Naghan Raerdu said that. He was so unlike the chief spymaster of Vallia, Naghan Vanki. I’d set up my own inner circle of espionage, independently of Naghan Vanki, not because I mistrusted the spy chief but because I wished to have my own sources of information. The thought made me say: “What are Naghan Vanki’s people up to here?”

His laugh was a wonderful phenomenon of nature; his cheeks glistened, red as Zim, his closed lids sprayed tears. He spluttered. At last he said: “They poke and pry. One of ’em — Nath the Long — signed up with the army and they put him to peeling momolams — the great fambly. Another of ’em,Ortyg the Sko-handed,broke into the Headquarters building at night and only got away with half his trousers missing. I tell you, Jak, Naghan Vanki, for all he is a clever spymaster, needs better folk to serve him. At least, by Vox, here!”

From this it was perfectly apparent that Naghan Raerdu had a source of information within the Official Vallian spy network in Bormark. This seemed to me eminently satisfactory. I just hoped Naghan Vanki never got to find out. Loyal to Vallia, he was a dry master at his craft with whom I’d had a few run-ins before now...

An under-chamberlain clad in his fussy flunkey robes came in looking all hot and bothered.

“Naghan Raerdu!” he called. “You are to be blamed! You must keep a tighter control on the slaves, who are fit only to be beaten.”

“Now what?”

“Two of them are rolling down the half-stairs, drunk as kovs. And they spilled the buckets—”

“Pandrite rot all!” yelped Naghan. “There’s no harm in a few slaves getting a bellyful of ale like any honest fellow. But when it comes to spilling the precious fluid—” He scuttled off on his waddling legs, scarlet and snorting, and I took myself off, mightily cheered despite all.

Naghan did not work for the palace; he supplied ale and superintended its initial distribution. The under-chamberlain would no doubt get the rough edge of Constanchoin’s tongue when the grand chamberlain recovered. Who would have to pay for the spilled ale would most certainly prove an enjoyable exercise in argument and legal debate.

Suddenly discovering I had an appetite, I headed for the mess hall. The place would be practically empty; that would not worry me.

At the end of a cross corridor a woman stood looking down as I approached.

My way lay off to the right. At the time, just why I looked at her with such sudden interest did not register. I just looked. She stood completely still and composed. She wore a long pale blue gown that reached to a circle around her feet. Her hair shone a glimmering auburn. Her hands were folded before her, half-hidden in the full sleeves of the pale blue robe. Her head was bent down, shielding her face, so that I had only a suggestion of a small nose and high cheekbones. I walked on and a hurrying slave passed, getting out of the way, in the natural reflex of his daily life, and when I looked back the woman in blue had vanished.

Thinking no more, my thoughts on a choice vosk pie, or perhaps a prime cut of ordel steak, I hurried on toward the mess hall.

Just before I entered I saw the woman in the blue robe again. She stood in exactly the same posture, fixed and unmoving, her auburn hair a bronze shimmer in the lantern light. As I looked she shimmered, wavered, vanished. I blinked.

One of Framco’s guards, hurrying to get to his evening meal, almost collided with me as I hauled up.

He started to swear, saw who I was, and apologized.

I said, “Did you see that woman? In the blue robe?”

“Yes,” he said. “She went into the mess hall. I wouldn’t mind making her acquaintance.”

He went on and I followed. The woman had vanished, it seemed to me, far too quickly to admit of a normal method of going into the hall. Maybe I’d missed something, maybe I’d blinked at the wrong time. All the same, as I went in to find a seat I reflected that the woman in the pale blue robe had taken herself off mightily fast. Mighty fast!

Also — she was nowhere in the mess hall I could see...

The meal turned out to be Leavings Pie, and none too savory leavings at that. Raerdu’s ale was on the table, fine and frothing, and after a single jugful I pushed the plate of Leavings Pie away and stood up. It would be a tavern and a lash-up meal for me, this night.

The clothes I’d worn all day could do with a change, and once more I plundered Pando’s wardrobe. This time my outfit was of the refined yet adventurous sort a young blood might wear when he went on the town. If they had anywhere here in Port Marsilus to compare with Ruathytu’s Sacred Quarter, then I was dressed for the part.

The color combinations of gray and green and blue were entirely conventional. The puttah over my left shoulder in a base of apple green reeked of gold wire and embroidery. Gold and silver embellishments smothered the rest of the outfit. The low boots were soft-leather engraved and encrusted with gold, almost as fine as the leatherwork of Magdag. My hat, very dark gray, sported a dark blue feather in its jeweled clasp. Knowing Pando’s fortunes I wondered if the jewels were superior fakes; they looked genuine but I did not test them. I felt this would demean Pando and me — foolish fellow!

With this fandango of clothing draping me I ambled off to the city. If you wonder that I thus fabulated myself in phantasmagorical clothes — well, I’d done it before and was to do it again. I looked your true fop, me, who was far more used to swinging along in a scarlet breechclout wielding a two-handed Krozair longsword!

Finding a slap-up meal — that cost the better part of a golden deldy — in the Paline and Brunestaff, I washed it down with a miserly allowance of ale. When I shifted onto wine I needed to remain crystal clear. The Paline and Brunestaff was a superior establishment. Most of the patrons were senior officers of the military services. That was why I had chosen it. I tended to stick out like a coy in the arena’s kaidur pairs.

Striking up conversations was easy enough, particularly when the wine went around; discovering anything of moment was quite another venture. I found out nothing. No veiled hints, no cautious questions, elicited what I wanted to know. They started singing when the Twins rose in the night sky to shed gold and rosy light upon the cobbled street outside. The lanterns inside the tavern swamped that moonshine outside. They began singing with a Pandahem ditty: “The Song of Patoc Punji the Neemu.”

I didn’t mind that. It starts: “When I was a lad in jolly old Panj, my life it was a bore-o. Then I went for a paktun to be, and made my name in the war-o.” This is, as you will readily perceive, a poor translation; but it conveys something of the original. Patoc Punji went on his expeditions, performing incredible feats, rising from the rank of Patoc to that of Deldar, and thence to Hikdar, and — in some versions — to Jiktar before — horror! — he got himself into trouble with the lord’s lady, and found himself busted back down to Patoc again.

So, as I say, I sang along with the rest, trying to think I was accomplishing something, anything, of help to my quest. Then they started up on “The Swingeon of Drak the Devil.”

The tune was a famous old tune of Vallia. The words were, apart from being obscene, grossly contemptuous of Vallia. So I went out, fuming, helpless, and ready to go back to bed.

You could in all honesty say that the Emperor of Vallia had been bested by a song. The way I felt...

The troubling factor was that Pandahem ought to have been in alliance with Vallia, since Vallia had been instrumental in flinging out the hated Hamalese conquerors. I’d had some of this stupid nationalistic intolerance in Hamal. By Vox, I said to myself, I’ll have a few sharp questions for Pando when he gets here.

So, feeling I’d accomplished nothing and found out unwelcome facts, a day not so much wasted as unwanted, I crawled back to the Zhantil Palace.

Chapter twelve

Of the Pied Piper of Port Marsilus

The next morning I awoke and rolled over and groaned. One of the fancy tooled leather boots lay in a corner of the barracks and the other halfway along the side wall where I’d hurled them the night before. I went along to Pando’s apartments and routed out a somber kit of grays and blues, and then trundled into the mess hall where the morning porridge was not laced with red honey, and the bread was stale, the palines wilting and the tea weak. Disgruntled, I ambled along to see Naghan Raerdu.

Here was I wasting my time on bad commons, doing nothing, only finding out unwelcome facts, when my comrades were out no doubt having exciting adventures chasing rogues through the forests.

As I walked along the corridor toward Naghan’s cellar entrance a slave girl undulated up to me. She wore a gray slave breechclout and her feet were bare; but she had a flower in her hair, which was combed, and a string of beads around her neck. She pouted up most artfully, and — I swear it! — fluttered her eyelashes.

“Horter Jak—”

“Well?”

“My master requests you see him at once.”

“He does, does he,” I said, most weakly. “And who may your master be?”