Intrigue of Antares Read online

  I nodded. “Well, no need to let him know I’m here.”

  “As you say, jis.”

  Out of the haze of darkness surrounding me the fat red friendly face of Naghan the Barrel swam, as it were, like a fish in a tank before my eyes. I blinked and felt the tears run and Naghan wiped them away.

  “Now, jis, names. Are you Jak the Something? Chaadur?”

  “Drajak the Sudden.”

  “Very good, Drajak.”

  With some feeling I said: “By Vox, Naghan, it was a damned lucky co-incidence you happened to be there in Brannomar’s hall just then.”

  “Co-incidence, Drajak? Hardly. I haunt the places of power. Brannomar is the most powerful man in the kingdom after the old king. He holds the reins. He is utterly incorruptible. His wealth is fabulous.”

  “So if the old king were to die this Brannomar the Incorruptible might strike for the crown?”

  Naghan’s rubicund face, floating like a balloon before me, swayed from side to side as he shook his head. “No, Drajak, not in a million of the months of She of the Veils. He would abide by the old king’s wishes as to the successor. It could be Brannomar would become regent. In that case there is no doubt whatsoever he would hold the authority in sacred trust and relinquish power when the new king came of age. No doubt at all.”

  “You confirm what I read in him. A trifle cold, though. Austere.”

  My spymaster’s laugh bubbled up like the volcano of Muruaa. “I have enjoyed his companionship in a shbilliding that gave even me an echo of Beng Kishi’s Bells between my ears.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. It makes him a whole man.”

  We talked more then as my eyes cleared, questions and answers and information exchanged. Naghan gave me one piece of news that saddened me.

  Won Dimeholl, who was famous for his knowledge of illuminated scrolls and manuscripts, had a great interest in antiquities; his greatest fervor was for books of prophecy and prediction. He had been attacked many times but had always resisted stoutly. Now, at last, he had succumbed, and was gone from our lives. His loss distressed me grievously and I could only take what comfort there is in knowing he would have said get on with life. He was dead; we had to get on with life. Naghan’s face showed in its downdrawn grimness a reflection of the sorrow at his passing that all who had known Won Dimeholl felt.

  After a moment Naghan spoke up more forcefully than perhaps he intended. “Y’know — Drajak — you’re running a pretty desperate risk.”

  He was accustomed to the odd idea that the man he had known as the Emperor of Vallia could be found turning up at different parts of Kregen engaged in skullduggery. He accepted the same behavior in the man supposed to be the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz. Although, by Zair, that was a mere joke at the moment, despite its fulfillment being ordained by the Star Lords. As a masterspy, Naghan the Barrel was steeped in skullduggery, disguise and subterfuge. He knew I was, too.

  “The Empress Delia asked you to come out here, Naghan. But what about the official spy network of Vallia run by Naghan Vanki? Has the Emperor Drak organized anything there?”

  “Yes. Vanki sent the Voidal twins.”

  “Oh, well, I expect Drak and Vanki will sort something out.”

  “The Voidals have been concentrating on the old king. He is officially in mourning and no one has seen him for days. By the way, the Voidal twins, and Vanki for that matter, do not know I am here.”

  I found my lips moving in a smile. “They don’t even know of your existence!”

  “Pray Opaz that is the way it remains.”

  One other question I asked before, with Lingurd in the lead, we moved off into our night’s adventure.

  “This Dokerty religion, in opposition to Tolaar. Red robed priests two by two and damned great idols on poles. Is anything known? Why should they skulk about at night in ruins when they have tasteless and over-imposing temples to prance around in?”

  He rolled his bulky shoulders. “The Dokerty cultists are an unwholesome lot. I do know that. As to the rest, no, nothing is known. I’ll find out.”

  “Good.”

  I washed my face before we moved off and the bowl when I’d finished looked like black ink. Naghan had wiped my old beakhead once or twice during our conversation. During all that time he must have been busting a gut to laugh his incredible laugh at my appearance.

  The lifter touched down on a darkened slope of rubble leading from the Hill of Sturgies. A short distance away dim lights tried to pierce the runnels with wan illumination. Clouds obscured the moons. We hitched up our weapons and descended into the darkness.

  Chapter thirteen

  Torchlights flared smokily here and there along the narrow street between wooden and brick buildings which shared a common rundown appearance. What went on behind those ramshackle walls was best not dwelled on too long. People moved along the muddy way trying to steer a path between the filthy gutter in the center and the sides where any kind of evil fluids might be emptied upon their heads. As Lingurd the polsim and I moved deeper into the runnel between the hills, the torchlights grew in number and doors stood open, revealing mysterious interiors, filled with subdued lighting and shifting shadows.

  “They call them taverns,” said Lingurd, his thin polsim face twisted in contempt. “Traps for the gullible. Dopa dens. Head crunchers.”

  “Patronized, though,” I observed, for dark-cloaked figures moved in and out constantly. More than one poor wretch was thrown out to land on his nose in the gutter this early in the evening’s entertainment.

  We moved on together. “Unwholesome, they are. Yet the young lords and the bloods venture down here for excitement.” Lingurd’s attitude conveyed exactly his feelings. “They find it, Tolaar knows.”

  This place down between the lofting hills pulsed with its own dark life. At almost every corner booths with ramshackle awnings offered all manner of commodities, tidbits of food, hot drinks, roasted nuts, trashy jewelry, fortune tellers with facile stories for the guileless, young lads importuning the passers by with delectable delights to be found in dubious dark alleys and hovels. Impoverished, desperate for the next bite, rogues all, yes, these folk were all that. But down in the runnels life pumped red and raw and uninhibited.

  Our drab cloaks and floppy hats blended perfectly with the surroundings. We picked our way along, avoiding cutpurse and pickpocket and the attentions of those who wished to deprive us of money — and life, if necessary — in other less obvious ways.

  Lingurd said: “I grew up not far from here. The gangs’ territories have changed; but we’re safe up to The Brass Lily.”

  One could imagine only too readily the gang fights over territory with its various incomes of devious and unlawful nature. The polsim went on: “The Lord Nath Shivenham has treated me well and I am glad to work for him.” He referred, of course, to Naghan Raerdu. Naghan the Barrel, like me, was too canny to use his real name on desperate ventures like this.

  Shortly thereafter we reached a building of somewhat greater pretensions than its neighbors where many torchlights threw their wavering orange light across the muddy street and stained walls. Over the door a glinting brass representation of a lily told the name of the establishment.

  “Round the back,” I said, brooking no argument.

  We cut down the side alley, our shoes squelching in mud and pools of water from the recent rain. Refuse lay piled here and there. The smells had not yet resurfaced in force from the cleansing showers.

  Give Lingurd the polsim his due. Of course, he had lived here and knew well what to expect. He caught my arm and drew me into the shadows of a projecting buttress. “Quiet, dom.”

  Instantly, I stilled. I heard the tramp of ironshod boots along the main street and had no need to be told to keep still. I watched.

  With lamplights held high on metal-bound poles casting flickering illumination all about them, they passed the mouth of the alley. I knew their type. Rough, bearded, clad in a semblance of uniform and armor ta
ken from their victims, they strutted along. Their weapons were bared and glittered ominously. They were representatives of many of the races of diffs of Kregen. In the lead marched a Kataki, bulky and ferocious, the dagger blade strapped to his tail flaunting high. Damned Katakis, I said, under my breath.

  “Aye, dom,” whispered Lingurd. We waited until the band had gone. Lingurd wiped a hand down his face. “They’re bad news. And they have the authority, that’s the pity of it.”

  “Authority? A Tolaar-forsaken bunch of slavers?”

  “Oh, no, dom. Rather, yes, they deal in slaves. They’re the Watch—”

  “The Watch!” I was astounded. Katakis rarely take up any job other than slaving when they go abroad. “You mean the king has appointed that mob of masichieri — stinking bandits who call themselves mercenaries — as the Watch, to keep order down here?”

  “That’s right. He appointed Trako Ironbelly as Captain of the City Watch. A blintz of a Whiptail. Down here, in the runnels between the hills.”

  “And that indicates the regard the people on the hill have for the law and order they impose here. By Chozputz! It stinks!”

  The contrast between the City Watch down here, composed of the lowest dregs of so-called military men and officered by Katakis, and the smart and resplendent City Guard on the hills was painful.

  “In here, dom.” Lingurd indicated a narrow doorway. “You wait.” He was gone, silently, along the corridor and around the far corner. Perforce, I waited, hand on my sword hilt. When he came back his sharp-featured polsim face bore a smile. “I looked in the tavern’s main room. They’re all there, the ones we took you from in the sorcerer’s smoke. They’re waiting, pretending to be young bloods out for fun.”

  “And the Fristle?”

  “Fonnell the Fractious is as cunning as a leem. He has a private snug at the back of the premises.”

  “I just hope he’s still around. If he’s parted with the item already I’m in more trouble than I am now.” I could guess the way of it. After my disappearance Dagert of Paylen and the others, recovering, must have decided their best course was to come on to the Brass Lily. Palfrey knew the Fristle, Fonnell; none of them knew what the sword looked like. They were waiting for me to turn up, I suspected, as a forlorn hope. Failing that, Dagert would have Palfrey point out Fonnell and then they would question him. That would be a risky course of action, given the circumstances that the Fristle was on his home ground and surrounded by his olive-green clad cronies.

  “If Fonnell’s here, he’ll be in his snug.”

  “Lead on.”

  We went cautiously along the passage and turned the other way from the main room of the tavern. Lamps burned low. Closed doors either side hinted at unlawful goings on inside. We padded on. At the end a door led onto a courtyard across which a brick building showed lights at narrow windows. “That’s it.” Lingurd wet his lips.

  Silently we crept across the courtyard. A woman laughed shrilly in the night. Up against a window we cautiously peered within.

  The room was well lit and comfortably furnished. The warty-faced Fristle sat at a table. On the table rested Strom Korden’s sword. I let out a silent sigh of relief.

  Whoever he was working for had not yet arrived to take the trophy. Then a voice spoke from inside the room beside the window and I realized I was wrong. “You have done well, Fonnell. Now it is time for payment.”

  A man moved into my view. His back was turned towards me and he stepped with sinuous grace towards the Fristle who reached across the table for a goblet. Fonnell lifted the goblet and the second man thrust him clean through. He used a rapier. He used it with a skill I recognized.

  Swiftly, the man bent and snatched up Korden’s naked sword.

  Softly, I whispered to Lingurd: “That is the item.”

  Lingurd was no more moved by that sudden treacherous murder than was I. “He’s almighty quick with that rapier of his.”

  “Yes.” Well, he would be. I knew his type although, when he turned in the lamplight to leave the room by the door to the side, I did not know him. His like were to be found strutting the avenues and canal-side walks in Zenicce. He was your proper Bravo Fighter. A rapier and dagger man of exemplary skill, cunning and delicacy. He could spit you like a chicken, turn a fine phrase, and exquisitely wipe his blade clean on a shiningly white lace kerchief. Oh, yes, I sized him up. I did not know his House for on his pale gray clothes he wore no colors to distinguish him.

  Whoever had employed Fonnell the Fractious to take the sword employed also, at a much higher level, this Bravo Fighter. There would be no traces left. Korden’s sword had to be the key to a puzzle. Only — I didn’t know what that puzzle could be.

  The door made only the slightest of noise as the Bravo Fighter stepped out into the courtyard. In the next instant he took a single step forward and stopped, snatched upright before he fell by the dagger protruding from his eye. Lingurd said: “But not as quick as my dagger.”

  There was no use berating the polsim. He had seen the situation and reacted. The man from Zenicce would not now be able to tell me what I wanted to know. Swiftly I ran forward and scooped up Korden’s sword.

  About to consider the night’s work just about over I turned away. Then I stopped. “Here,” I snapped, handing the sword to Lingurd. “Hold this a moment and don’t lose it.” I bent to the dead man.

  He wore his weapons, the Jiktar and the Hikdar, on separate belts as is proper for a rapier and main gauche man. Rapidly I unbuckled the belts and strapped them about my waist, hauling them up, for he had the beginnings of a bulge. Maybe he was growing too fat and slow for Zenicce and like many another before him had sought employment and wealth in foreign lands.

  As I straightened up a tremendous racket burst out from the tavern. Yells and screams and the clash of weapons spoke eloquently of a rip-roaring fight going on in The Brass Lily. Women were screaming. A double-door a few paces along the wall from the door Lingurd and I had used broke open. A woman ran through, her hands clutched in the air, screaming and screaming. Her petticoats dragged around her waist. Following her two men ran, laughing and taunting, out for a spot of fun that had gone sour.

  Lingurd called: “Dom — the Watch!”

  I heard yet I didn’t hear. Yes, I should not have done it. I freely admit I committed a grievous error. The woman had blood on her face, bright in the lamplight from the open door beside us. What else could I, Dray Prescot, onker of onkers, do?

  I leaped forward.

  The woman saw me and shrieked. Clearly in me she saw another attacker. She stumbled away, almost falling, staggering into the far side wall. The two men howled in triumph and I ran towards the woman.

  She vanished. One moment she was there, the next she was gone, dropping into the ground.

  And so I, Dray Prescot, like any zany coy, tumbled headlong and crashed down past the flapping trapdoors of the cellar, went head over heels into the hard stone floor beneath.

  The only things in the world of Kregen were the black wings of Notor Zan enfolding me in his dark embrace.

  Chapter fourteen

  Only four prisoners died of their injuries during the night and in the morning the gaolers dragged the bodies out with iron hooks.

  Many of the rest of us were in bad case and all night the prison guards shouted at us miserable scum of the gutters to keep quiet. The place was much like an undercroft, low of arched roof, spacious and separated by massive hunched pillars. What little straw there was stank damply and verminously. I’d found a stone wall against which I propped my back and nursed my head where not only all the Bells of Beng Kishi persisted in ringing but Jen Jorah’s ice drills pierced pitilessly from temple to temple.

  Along with the other miscreants, drunks, petty thieves, and brawlers dredged from the gutters of the runnels of Oxonium I waited for my doom to be pronounced by whatever lord held my fate in his hands.

  The last thing I remembered hearing was Lingurd yelling: “Dom — the Watch!”
/>   Their acquaintance I had made. I still had a bruise or two to testify to that introduction. All my weapons and gear were gone. The dark blue shamlak I’d been given was, very very luckily, made from a cotton stuff and not silk. This part of Kregen is world famous for its silk. There were few silk garments in the prison, and those were hand-me-downs on the last frayed thread before being discarded. There was nothing, really, to mark me as being any different from any of the other fifty or so miserable wights arrested during the night. Tunics predominated over shamlaks; that was all, apart from short breeches-like nether garments in place of kilts.

  Broken-down slaves brought us a meal that might laughingly be called the first breakfast. A cracked pottery bowl of water with half-a-dozen unidentifiable lumps floating in the greasy liquid, and a hunk of bread that demanded a hacksaw to address, comprised our repast. Still, always look on the bright side. Even under the Kataki-run City Watch we had been fed. There were no women in the prison. I’d kept myself to myself, nursing my bruises and my aching head, and pondering the best way of breaking out.

  After the pottery bowls had been collected by the tame slaves the iron bars clashed open once more. A Kataki entered, whip coiling and curling and looking for targets. He was backed up by a formidable collection of so-called City Guards, unshaven, grimy, flamboyantly dressed with a deal of tatty embroidery and lace. The prisoners scrambled away, some on all fours, some gibbering in fear, all dreadfully aware of the doom that awaited them.

  A most incongruous note was struck by the young, naive Relt stylor with them. He wore a clean white shamlak and kilt, with the belt of pouches containing the quills and ink and papers of his profession. His pointy-beaked face and his bright eyes were quite at variance with the horrors of this place. He kept putting a scented handkerchief to his beak.

  “The Brass Lily?” growled the Kataki. “We’ll soon sort them for you, stylor.”

  The guards moved in among us, ungently. They knew who their captives were and where they’d been picked up. I was hauled out with a dozen or so men and pushed and shoved into a double rank. The whip cracked.