Gangs of Antares [Dray Prescot #45] Read online

  He said: “There is no need to repay the silver, Drajak—the wine alone—”

  “Is a paltry attempt to say thank you. I tell you, dom, it is most unhealthy down there in the stews.”

  He nodded in his Hytak way. We drank a little parclear. Dimpy kept a most unusual silence. The conversation was of the coronation and the earthquake. There had been no more murders of young girls, although deaths through street fights had increased.

  Presently we said the remberees and just as Dimpy and I went out, Zonder called after us: “And you will be most welcome to visit again.”

  Walking quietly along, Dimpy suddenly came out with: “You know why he wants to see you again, Drajak? It's obvious. He wants you to leave Princess Nandisha and go work for him and Strom Logan.” He cocked his head up. “Will you?”

  “Nope.”

  We walked along thereafter in a pool of silence between us.

  The disparate events that had been happening all about me were, I felt, interconnected in some mysterious way. The very absence of interference from the Star Lords pointed up the seriousness of the present situation. The long-term plans of the Everoinye must look many seasons into the future. Their concern was for the numim twins. They'd said they had little interest in who won the crown so long as the lion maid and lion lad lived.

  Just what was to be their role in the future of Kregen? As always, I had no way of knowing, and only the passage of the years would provide the answer.

  A blare of trumpets on the warm air, harsh and commanding, drawing closer, was followed by a scattering of the crowds. They flew apart like chickens in the farmyard when a horse and carriage thundered through. Dimpy and I hopped off to the side where, perched on a plinth, we saw what was toward.

  In front of the trumpeters marched armed men who made sure no one was left gawping and standing in the way. The trumpeters were gorgeously attired; over-decorated jackanapes was the thought that jumped immediately to mind. Next marched a bevy of men carrying standards and flags. Mostly the colors were red and combinations of red. My face did not move a muscle as I stared. Young boys pranced along distributing perfumed water in graceful jets, glinting rose red in the lights of the twin suns. Whatever this procession was in aid of, it had its own Perfume Patrol.

  All this grandiose display of wealth and power made me assume a long and tiresome procession would follow. Restless, I started to look about for a way to slip off out of it.

  A troop of zorca cavalry, lance-armed, glittering, trampled past guarding a palanquin. The gherimcal was ornate, laden with gilt encrustations, silk-curtained, feather decorated. The slaves carrying it were all big muscular fellows, eight to each end of the two poles. Oh, yes, it was impressive, no doubt of it, if you were witless enough to be impressed by such tawdry signs of power.

  “Who's he?” demanded Dimpy.

  A pale face was discernible at the gherimcal's silk-clothed window. A languid hand was raised in acknowledgement as many of the watching crowds fell to their knees, hands clasped before them.

  Just before our plinth a hairy Brokelsh wearing the floury clothes of a baker fell to the ground. He shook his clasped hands, mumbling prayers. A fat little Och beside Dimpy looked down in contempt. The Och waved his middle left at the gorgeous procession.

  “That, young fellow, is San Volarminanster, San Volar, the chief priest of the ridiculous cult of Tolaar.”

  Dimpy uttered what was in my mind. “I thought Tolaar was the chief religion.”

  The Och spat. “Biggest, yes. Biggest bunch of onkers. Not the best, though, oh, no.”

  The Brokelsh was trying to kneel down and express due reverence, and at the same time twist around to stare with baleful hostility at whoever was contuming his chief priest.

  I nudged Dimpy.

  “There's going to be another fight. Come on.”

  Armed men brought up the tail of the procession. As they passed people began to gather in a knot about the plinth. I pushed through, fairly dragging Dimpy along. Angry voices raised. Shouts, threats and counter threats flew thickly. We two just ran off.

  Before we'd gone a dozen paces the meaty sounds of blows and yells of pain lifted at our backs.

  “Onkers,” I said.

  We slowed to a brisk walk. That young devil Dimpy would cheerfully have gone wading in, breaking heads, even though he had no interest in the rights or wrongs of the argument. I sensed he was still wrought up, craving to see Tiri again, perhaps still a little apprehensive about the fate of his family despite all that had been promised. Without being consciously aware of his attitude, Dimpy just wanted to get into a fight to work off some of the bile.

  My plans—such as they were—called for a low profile.

  Fweygo had not balked overmuch at my continued absences. He was content, more than content, to remain in Nandisha's palace. He had not told me himself, for I'd had it from Fat Lardo, about his charming if odd romance. No names had been mentioned. But there was a stunning girl somewhere in the palace who had taken Fweygo's amorous attentions. As is the nature of these things, everyone wanted to know who the girl was, for there were, as far as I knew, no other Kildois among Nandisha's people.

  Well, whoever she was, she was damned lucky to find someone like Fweygo to care for her, that was for sure, by Vox!

  So I had no hesitation in trotting along to make the next call on my appointment list.

  Milsi the Slinky had arranged for me to see Naghan Raerdu at a middling tavern, The Flying Vosk, where we would attract no attention. I wanted to arrange a visit back to the house where I'd seen the ibmanzy. If events turned out in such a way that I could not go in person, then Naghan would detail some of his people to find out. Surely, news of the monstrous thing must be common knowledge down there? What had happened to it after we'd left it dancing in frustrated rage on the rooftop?

  Dimpy stopped suddenly. I hauled up alongside and a skinny polsim cannoned into me. He mumbled an ungracious apology, for he, too, could see why we'd stopped.

  “Not again!” Oxonium was turning into a mere bear pit.

  A mob of people were running down towards us, shrieking, waving their arms, terrified. A couple of lads of the Perfume Patrol threw down the implements of their trade and fled. Bedlam bore down on us like a bursting volcano.

  We stood aside very smartly to let the panic-stricken horde tromple on. The polsim fled with them. Dimpy cocked an eye up at me.

  “When we see—” I began.

  Dimpy yelped and pointed. “Look!”

  No wonder the people had simply fled in sheer unholy terror.

  Now—the earthquake through which I'd gone in the shrine to Cymbaro had in reality been more of a local earth tremor, a movement that had opened the chasm and subsequently closed it. There was practically no real damage to the other buildings on Grand Central. By some freak of the earth's structure, a fault line, a tremor had shaken three or four of the buildings here. Rubble lay across the street. A house had been gutted and workmen were putting back windows and doors. As usual, they were making a hell of a noise, clattering and banging, shouting and—oftentimes—singing among themselves.

  The workmen's annoying uproar stopped as though guillotined.

  One poor devil, for all his noise, fell off the scaffolding. He hit the ground head first and burst in blood.

  Others were tumbling down the ladders, shrieking. Some fell back into the building, disappearing. The workmen were utterly destroyed.

  Dimpy still stood, rigid, pointing.

  Whatever the thing was, it was not human. It may have been human once. Or even twice. It looked like a cross. One arm was that of the head of a beautiful girl, blonde hair swirling, blue eyes wide, red lips moist and full. Opposite her the head was that of a monster from nightmare, squamous, dripping with ichor, three red eyes glaring in mad passion. Its fangs lapped its lower and upper jaws to form a vice of death.

  The crosspiece's arms were those of a reptilian monstrosity with lashing barbed tail and a gigantic hairy
spider, all legs and antennae, writhing uncontrollably.

  “By Makki Grodno's maggot infested intestines—” I started to say. I stopped. Makki Grodno had stiff competition in this unwholesome and unreal chimera.

  But it was real.

  The red blood and green ichor dripping from it stained the flags of the pavement. It stank. Its putrescence fouled the air all about. It moaned. It keened. It lashed its reptile's tail and stretched and withdrew its hairy legs. The blue eyes of the beautiful blonde woman seemed to drill into me, imploring, pleading. I felt a chill thrill through me as though I stood among the Ice Floes of Sicce.

  The thing floated head high. It dribbled its puss onto the ground and drifted along leaving a trail like a snail's.

  But it was real.

  Dimpy lowered his arm. He panted. He didn't look at me.

  The thing drifted along the street and terrified uproar surrounded it. Its stench nauseated. Slowly it floated past.

  Four beings, squashed blasphemously together, joined in blood and ichor, a star of agony—oh, yes, that was one sight it were best to forget.

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  * * *

  Chapter sixteen

  If I had expected news of the ibmanzy to spread throughout the city and been disappointed, I most certainly was not in respect of the hideous four-creature object that drifted in the air and dribbled blood and slime. The news of that unholy monstrosity spread as the fires spread in the dry season among the grasses of the Pomongo Plains.

  Every religious order immediately put out statements denying any association with the thing, which folk were now dubbing the leygromak.

  No one doubted it was the work of sorcery.

  Despite the old king's laws restraining wizardry in his realms some thaumaturges still practiced the minor crafts. This was tolerated provided they did not presume too far in the arcane arts. Khon the Mak, no doubt due to his exalted position, had maintained his own private Wizard.

  One of these minor sorcerers had been employed by Naghan Raerdu the Barrel when he'd taken me out of custody in a cloud of magical smoke. Now Khon the Mak's wizard, Wocut, had gone off to Vallia, who was there in Oxonium able to fabricate such a devilish thing as the leygromak?

  The only answer was, of course, the Wizard of Loh who'd spied with so much terror on me down in the fire chasm, and who'd scryed Nandisha's palace. This meant, I was sure, the idiot had been attempting a spell, had fumbled, and wound up by creating the leygromak.

  Yes, all well and good. But what had been the import of the spell, what was he up to, and who was paying him?

  Hyr Kov Khonstanton, known as Khon the Mak, that's who, as sure as Zim and Genodras rise each day over Kregen.

  With Wocut gone to Vallia, Khon the Mak had hired himself a Wizard of Loh. He'd found himself an incompetent, that was for sure, too, by Krun.

  So, now there was another burning topic of conversation buzzing in Oxonium.

  Naghan the Barrel informed me he'd send to find out about the ibmanzy. Naghan was a fellow who liked to know everything there was to know, and relished mysteries only if he knew the answers. As to the leygromak, he shrugged his fat shoulders. Who could say as yet?

  Dimpy remained uncharacteristically quiet. He was pining for Tiri, worried over his family, unsure of what future lay ahead for him.

  Taking him off to Nandisha's salle d'armes I foined with wooden blades with him. I let him clout me over the head a couple of times with the rudis, hoping thereby to cheer him up a trifle. He was quick and nimble and I was happy to show him a few tricks of the swordsman's trade. Fweygo came in to watch us, beaming with his inner satisfaction. He, I knew, would not welcome a release from the Star Lords in our guardianship of the numim twins.

  As the day of the coronation drew nearer, Nandisha became more and more preoccupied with just what she and her children should wear for the various great occasions of the fortnight's events. As to that, the whole seething mass of the population of the hills became gripped by coronation fever. Tailors and jewelers and tradesmen of that ilk were run off their feet filling all their orders. Such a pother, such a commotion, such splendid extravagance, and all for young Tom who really didn't want to be king at all.

  When news arrived that part of one of the towers of Khon the Mak's palace had fallen down I had to laugh.

  By Zair, yes! This damned incompetent Wizard of Loh was at it again. This time he'd blown the palace roof off. It was given out that the tower's fall was a late result of the earth shock.

  Now, along the routes the coronation procession would take, stands were being erected. Workmen were everywhere. The confounded noise of banging and hammering went on from dawn to dusk—and well into the night, too. The racket made a fellow's head ache.

  Nandisha outfitted her guard with new uniforms. Of a tasteful pale blue, they were well enough. I was glad most of the color was obscured by a good quality brigandine. Not of iron but bronze, the plates were riveted to stout buff leather. We all had new helmets, too, a type of pot helm of iron with a nasal and crest. Naturally, in that crest a whole mass of floating feathers were fixed to give us the imposing impression rightful to a lady of so exalted a position as the Princess Nandisha. Well, she was a good soul, and I could not find it in me to mock her too outrageously. For all she was a princess, she had a hard enough life. And she and her children remained in peril.

  A couple of mornings later we had altogether grimmer news to chew over at the first breakfast.

  A young girl, Jenni Farlang, who worked in a jeweler's shop, had been discovered in Ruby Alley torn to pieces. Her body was ripped apart, scattered, the hideous work of a maniac.

  The murders in Oxonium had begun again.

  In one of her hands—discovered some fifty or so paces from other parts of her pitifully shredded corpse—had been found a scrap of red cloth. This had clearly been torn from the hem of the clothes worn by her murderer. This was the first clue the City Guard had. It pointed up the correctness of the theory that the murders were the work of the adherents of Dokerty.

  Having to relieve Fweygo on duty might be a nuisance, but it was entirely fair. After all, hadn't I been swanning off a great deal lately? He had, this morning, a rendezvous with his mysterious lady. I took myself off to the solarium. Two competent lads, Nath the Frogenstal and Herpato Froth, both apims, were already on duty. They greeted me cheerfully enough, for Fweygo and I had, as it were, pushed in to comfortable positions in the household guard. Paktuns all, we accepted good fortune in others.

  Presently the young prince and princess accompanied by the numim twins came in. There were servants in attendance. The glass-roofed solarium was pleasantly warm and soon the youngsters threw off most of their clothing. We guards sweated it out in our armor.

  There was nothing to do save stand and watch. I was looking forward to the end of the watch when a dark shadow abruptly hovered over the glass roof. In a rending shriek of timbers and the shattering of glass, the whole lot caved in. A lifter smashed down and settled on the floor.

  An arrow sped towards me from the bow of the first man over the side of the airboat. I swayed aside and the arrow hissed past.

  Herpato Froth was not so fast, and he was certainly unlucky, for his arrow took him clear through the eye. He went down, jerking. Nath the Frogenstal jumped and the shaft intended for him missed.

  At once he ripped out his sword and charged headlong for the men leaping from the lifter. In that action he followed me. Uproar broke out. The servants were trying to pull the children out of the room. Young Byrom had drawn a little dagger and was struggling not to be carted off. As for young Rolan, the lion boy was running forward with us, a dagger in his fist.

  “Keep out of it, Rolan!” I shrieked.

  Opaz forfend! If he was slain, now—I'd be back on Earth for how many miserable years, if not for ever.

  The fight blossomed into a red roaring insanity.

  My braxter flashed this way and that, and all my efforts were directed
to keeping Rolan's head on his shoulders and the life in his brave body. Naturally, after a few of the attackers had been knocked over my braxter snapped.

  I flung the hilt in the face of a Rapa, kicked a Fristle, whipped out the second braxter and laid to with that. Blood splashed Rolan; thank Opaz it was not his. He fought as numims fight—well.

  Yet he was not fully grown. He could not expect to stand against professional assassins, stikitches cunningly trained in the arts of murder.

  Nath the Frogenstal was wounded, a nasty gash down his thigh; but he went on battling like a leem. There was no time to take stock of the airboat or of the commanding figure in the bows gesturing his assassins on. He stayed back and did not join the men he so ardently drove on with signs and imprecations.

  Keeping Rolan out of trouble as much as possible meant that the Prince Byrom ran more risk than I liked—or that he should. Here was where the cruelty of having to choose from selfish motives made me revert to the old madcap, reckless, intemperate Dray Prescot ways of carrying on.

  The blow with which I hit a polsim was far, far too powerful. His head jumped off his shoulders, true, trailing bloody streamers. But my blessed braxter broke.

  A Fristle saw that and charged me, scimitar glittering.

  “Sink me!” I snarled. “I'll have you, catman!”

  I slid his blade and kicked him. A blur in the corner of my eye made me swing violently away. The rapier hilt was in my fist, the blade half-drawn when the blur turned into a Brokelsh, burly and hairy, mouth agape, swinging in with a rush.

  He wielded a kunsan, the short spear very like a Zulu assegai, very like the similar weapons used by my Clansmen of Felschraung. In the right hands they are more deadly than they appear. He thrust and I avoided and drew the rapier fully from the scabbard. The Brokelsh brought the butt end of his kunsan around in a vicious arc. He hit my hand with stunning force. The rapier span away across the floor.