Scorpio Assassin Page 2

  In the hubbub around only a few people noticed the byplay.

  A gaunt Gon at the next table said: “That was quick, dom.”

  “Aye.”

  “Either finish him now or clear off schtump.”

  The advice, given the circumstances, was good. I nodded. “You are right, dom. Remberee.”

  He nodded in reply and lifted his flagon as I walked quickly to the door. The fellow wearing the swordfish in a hoop badge might have friends. I had no desire at this juncture to brave perils unnecessarily. When I knew a great deal more about the machinations behind the scenes would be the time to sort out this bunch of rogues.

  The startlingly uncommon clouds that had darkened the city earlier in the evening persisted. The narrow streets lay in shadow. It did not rain for that would have been so startlingly uncommon as to defy belief. One of the more interesting stories of this part of the world related how a certain Naghan the Cheerful, being so much in love with Cheryl, the daughter of a prosperous jewel smith, asked for her hand and was brutally rejected by the jewel smith, Hwang Wei, who said: “My daughter will never marry a penniless sandalmaker’s son! Begone!” Naghan and Cheryl were in despair. Out of desperation they decided to elope. They unhitched Hwang Wei’s best lictrix and riding bareback with two water bottles set off to cross the desert and begin a new life. Their hoof prints lay in the sand for all to see. Hwang Wei would have no difficulty following them with his relatives in hot pursuit. Then the miracle occurred. It rained. The storyteller would pause at this dramatic point and allow his audience time to exclaim in wonder at this unheard of marvel. When all this took place is a matter for scholars.

  It did not rain on this night in Makilorn.

  The stars were already breaking through the overcast and once the twin suns, Luz and Walig, rose, the few remaining wisps of cloud would vanish as though they had never been.

  But, during this short period, the night was as dark as a night of Notor Zan, even though She of the Veils was floating high in the sky above. The Moon She of the Veils is often called She of the Blushes in Loh. As I felt my way along from torchlight to torchlight in the street I felt quite pleased that my favorite Moon’s light was cut off for the moment. I needed to get away without assassins dogging my footsteps.

  Just at the moment it was useless to try to figure out who had sent the dagger thrower. Hargon and Caran were both dead and once the people they had paid had finished that contract, nothing more would be done for Hargon or Caran. Those two were effectively out of the reckoning.

  My earlier decision to find something to eat and then turn in now seemed to me unsatisfactory. I felt restless. Well, by Krun, that is no new thing in my life!

  A flaring becketed torch over a doorway illuminated a beam from which hung a flagon. People were passing in and out. I recognized The Tavern of Lush Bonhomie. That decided me, so in I went.

  The outer walls were sheer and unpierced, the entrance leading onto a courtyard surrounded by booths, open windows, doors, all shedding golden lamplight into a wonderful brilliance. I blinked. The place hummed. I suppose other pleasure seekers in other times and places would say the place jumped. Many of the young people here enjoying themselves wore half masks, many of the women wore veils; all were well dressed, sumptuously dressed in many instances. There was wealth here, on display and openly flaunted. The scents of wine and perfume coiled and mingled. I suppose the most strange defect in that glittering display to me might seem odd to some observers: I was immediately aware of the odd effect created by the absence of rapiers swinging at the sides of the young bloods. Thinking of some of the hellions I had known on Kregen, I shook my head. By Krun! To ruffle it during an evening’s entertainment without your rapier! Unheard of! But, of course, rapiers were strange foreign weapons down in this part of Loh.

  They didn’t even have some of the stickers the Krozairs wore for a night out when they left their great longswords at home.

  There were lynxters and daggers and knives aplenty. I moved quietly in, intending to find a wet and a snack whilst I made the final decision to set off for Annorpha and Mevancy at once.

  My firm intention was to stay out of trouble.

  Ha!

  A laughing lad lurched into my path, and almost fell, and clung on to me, spluttering, saying: “My apologies, dom! I own I am grievously at fault. It is all that Leone’s doing, the wanton.”

  He wore a fashionable red half mask and his face peeped out, flushed, bright, merry. His hair stood in spiky disarray. “There!” he spluttered out. “There is my character witness!”

  His free hand pointed at the table; his other hand clung on to me with a grip of death. Another youngster and two girls sat at the table laughing at their companion. The two lads were well-dressed and daggers swung at their belts, everything smothered in gems. The two girls wore light silk and silver-tissue chemises, long skirts — one maroon, one saffron — and much jewelry. Their faces were half hidden by veils and their hair was piled high with much artifice.

  “Llahal,” I said, and I could hear the ridiculous formality in my voice. “A pleasant evening to you.” And, deftly, I foisted this youngster clinging to me onto the nearest chair. He collapsed, still spluttering his good-humored laughter.

  So, filled with good intentions, I turned away after favoring the ladies with a nod of parting each.

  Here in the Tavern of Lush Bonhomie people intended to enjoy themselves. That these folk of Tsungfaril devoutly believed that when they died they would go to Gilium, a heaven and paradise of unimaginable delights, did not alter their desire to enjoy themselves in the here and now. This was in marked contrast to many of the people I’d already met who merely drudged through this life on Kregen with every ambition and thought centered on the life to come in Gilium. I’d received the impression that the people of Tsungfaril merely tolerated this life, and had not suicide prevented them from going up to Gilium, there would be a mass holocaust as everybody slit their throats and went off to enjoy themselves for eternity.

  Naturally, the accursed, the paol-ur-bliem, who had been condemned to live a hundred lives on this world of Kregen before they would be allowed to enter the paradise of Gilium, looked at living these lives somewhat differently from other folk. If they had to spend a hundred rotten lifetimes down here, then they’d jolly well enjoy ’em! There was a great deal more to learn about the paol-ur-bliem yet.

  A shrill scream at my back brought me around, hand on sword hilt.

  The lad who’d clung onto me — his companions had called him Wink — was falling back clutching his side. Dark blood welled over his fingers. The knife that had caused that damage was wielded in the fist of a man in dark brown evening clothes. His face held a tight intent look of utter concentration. Instantly I looked at the small brooch he wore high on his left shoulder. It was not a swordfish in a hoop. It looked to be a chavonth and wersting, I couldn’t be sure. What he was was amply demonstrated by what he was doing.

  The girl called Leone screamed again as the strong and supple brown fingers of the thief hooked her necklace away in a single skilled jerk. She tried to struggle up from the table and the thief pushed her down — hard — and with his right hand grasping the necklace back-handed the other youngster across the face. The knife in the thief’s left fist made a single threatening gesture, and the lad flinched back, eyes enormous over the mask.

  This all took place within the compass of half a dozen heartbeats.

  The thief, satisfied with his booty and ignoring the rest of the jewelry on display, swung about and started to run off.

  It was perfectly clear that Wink had tried to stop the thief snatching the necklace and had been stabbed for his pains.

  At my side people were shouting, still sitting at table, and other people were setting up a racket. No one offered to stop the thief. Blood glistened thick and black-red on the knife blade.

  I picked up a thick pewter plate from the table and skimmed it backhanded. Like a discus it flew spinning through
the air. It struck the running thief clean on the nape of the neck. He stumbled forward, arms flinging wide, legs tangling, and then he fell down.

  Spilled wine scented the air with expensive perfumes. I walked forward past shouting people at table towards the prostrate thief. He was not unconscious, let alone dead, and as I reached him he was making motions like a swimmer. In a minute or two he’d be up. They make professional thieves out of tough material on Kregen.

  The knife was still clutched in his hand. So was the necklace in the other hand. Again, professional thieves of Kregen do not lightly give up either their weapons or their booty.

  I put my foot on his right wrist. I pressed. He gave a soggy gasp and his hand opened. The necklace tumbled free.

  “Thank you, dom,” I said, and bent down and picked up the bauble.

  “By Diproo the Nimble-Fingered, dom. What did you hit me with? A whole flaming table?”

  “The flagons fell off,” I said.

  “I’d never have noticed.”

  “They’re coming for you, dom. If—” I released my foot.

  Why I spoke and said this I have puzzled over. He rolled over and sat up, staring at me. His face looked like a walnut.

  “They call me the Dipensis.” He stood up, warily, like a cat. “I’m off, dom. This time I’ll catch the table and throw it back.”

  I shook the necklace. Other people had been scarcely aware of this byplay, so little time elapsed — the thief fell down, I picked up the necklace, and he ran off. I did not pursue but returned to the table where three worried young people were regarding the fourth’s bloody wound.

  I said nothing but hoicked Wink up over my shoulder and started for the exit door.

  The other young fellow, very upper-crusty, said: “Hey! Wait a minute! What are you up to?”

  “This laddie needs a doctor.” My voice was harsh.

  The girl with lighter-colored hair than normal down here said in a shushy voice: “Yes. Come with me. We’ll take him home.”

  “You have a Needleman or a Puncture Lady there?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Lead on.”

  The other young man — I gathered his name was Prang — offered to assist. I said: “I can manage, thank you. Here, give this to Leone.” I passed across the necklace that had been the cause of all this turmoil.

  Leone, she with the lighter than normal hair, grasped the necklace and stared sickly on Wink.

  “Will he die?” She fluttered alongside as I took long strides to get clear of this place. “Poor Wink! Tell me he won’t die, please!”

  I found myself saying: “So he’s not a Paol-ur-bliem, then.”

  “Oh, no. No. I am, but poor Wink isn’t.”

  The sky already showed a healthy smattering of stars and the pinkly golden light of She of the Blushes wafted down most gratefully as we sped quickly along. They led me to the narrow postern gate set in a high stucco wall. Leone had a key and she let us in. They acted in a furtive manner, so I guessed they were not supposed to be out enjoying themselves on the town in the evening. One reason for that, clearly, was what had happened to Wink. Young nobs, I surmised, all breeding and money and spirit, and as far from the workers in the irrigations as it was possible to get.

  “We’ll have to tell them,” said Prang. His voice was a strangled gasp. “Have to. Leone — you see that!”

  “I suppose so.” Her voice sharpened. “And if they want to blame anyone then I’ll take the blame—”

  “Oh, Leone!” broke in the other girl, Ching-Lee. “It wasn’t you!”

  “I won’t have them blaming poor Wink, not like this. No. I’ll take the blame. Now, Ching-Lee, hurry and fetch the Puncture Lady.”

  We went through shadowy grounds where bushes and flowers grew in an abundance that showed how rich this place was. Through a door, along corridors, up stairs, into a hall sumptuously furnished. I began to surmise this was a palace. In a small room papered with blue and white volail flowers I put Wink down in a couch smothered in gold fleur-de-lys, and so stood back, and looked at these young tearaways. Ching-Lee came back then with the Puncture Lady, so I was not called on to comment on the tears in Leone’s and Prang’s eyes.

  “Tut-tut,” said the Puncture Lady in her brisk professional way. “Now what mischief have you young scallywags been up to?” She bent at once to Wink’s injured side.

  “Oh, Mistress Lingli! You wouldn’t tell her majestrix, would you?”

  Leone’s piteous voice would have melted a granite mountain.

  Mistress Lingli, carefully cutting away Wink’s bloodstained shirt, did not look up. I heard the soft affection in her voice. “Why, Leone, would I be so cruel?”

  “We-ell — we were out—”

  “I don’t want to know.” Skilled hands inserted acupuncture needles. One thing — Wink would feel no more pain. “What you tell the queen is your business. Mine is making Master Wink well again.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lingli! You are a gem!”

  “H’mff!” sniffed the Puncture Lady, and got on with Wink.

  After that she turned on me.

  “Hold still,” she said in her no nonsense voice. Carefully she unwrapped the grubby bandage around my left arm. The mouthful of flesh ripped from my arm by Arzuriel, a most unhealthy and uncanny monster with four fanged mouths at the end of his arms I’d encountered just before the debacle of poor Mishuro’s death, would, I knew, grow back swiftly enough. This Puncture Lady could not know that. She tut-tutted again in a most aggressive fashion.

  “Playing with your pets, have you?”

  Her attitude and the conceit pleased me.

  “I’m not a cannibal on a self-catering holiday.”

  “Aha. It’s your business. Hold still!”

  She wanted to stick needles in me to ease the pain but I assured her I felt no pain now — which was not strictly true. She fixed me up in her neat way and patted the last knot of the bandage.

  “You’d better see your own doctor tomorrow.”

  “Quidang,” I said in meek agreement.

  “Lingli — you are sure Wink will be all right?”

  “Yes, Leone. Look, he is sleeping like a baby. If you do not wish to be discovered you must—”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Leone. “Prang, you must carry Wink to his bedchamber. We’ll—”

  “Call the slaves,” said Prang, off-handedly.

  “Oh, you fambly!” said Ching-Lee, looking exasperation personified.

  Patiently, Leone said: “The slaves will talk, Prang. We must carry Wink — and we must hurry.”

  Prang started up, eyebrows raised and mouth open. “Of course!”

  About to offer my services as a Wink carrier, I desisted. They could handle this between them. I’d better be off. Prang lifted Wink and Ching-Lee bustled alongside as they left this pretty room. Doctor Lingli, after a look from under lowered eyebrows at Leone and me, sniffed and followed.

  “I won’t ask,” I said, and I admit I spoke somewhat drily, “how you’ll explain away the hole in Wink’s side.”

  “I will think of a story. I am quite capable of that!”

  “Well, I’m off. Remberee.” And I made for the door.

  She caught me up as my hand fell on the latch. She looked up into my face and put her hand on my arm as she started to say: “I owe you a great deal, walfger, and no pappattu between us.”

  [1]

  She saw the expression I instantly quelled, and glanced down, and saw her hand gripping onto my bandaged arm. Brilliant blood suffused her face.

  “Oh! Oh — I am sorry! Tsung-Tan! How thoughtless—”

  “It is of no consequence. My name is Drajak.”

  “Then Lahal and Remberee, Drajak.”

  When I was once more out in the streets of Makilorn under the stars, I reflected that this Leone had more to her than the mere empty-headed chit of a thing she appeared to be. Anyway, I felt I could like her.

  Chapter three

  I, Dray Prescot, Lo
rd of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, stepped out of the palace gate like any silly woflo ripe for the snare.

  There was time to notice that a torch by the gate pillar was no longer alight. There was time to notice that the shadows fell thickly across the path. There was even time to hear a soft footfall at the side.

  Finally, there was time for me to turn swiftly to face this unseen threat.

  After that there was time only to feel a smashing great thwack on the back of my head and to pitch into the enfolding darkness.

  When I regained consciousness those famous old Bells of Beng-Kishi were ding-donging away inside my skull. As I may have previously remarked, getting hit on the head happens with distressing frequency on Kregen.

  Blearily I managed to get my eyelids to unglue themselves.

  The light from a cheap mineral oil lamp was not too bright so I could bear the brilliance of scratching illumination on my eyeballs. I blinked. Directly before me sat the thief I’d felled with the pewter plate.

  I caught a vague impression of shadows shrouding the brick walls of this small square chamber, of a table and of other men and women lounging on the edges of my vision. I tried to turn my head to see more clearly and found myself securely bound in a chair with my head between a metal vice.

  If I saw anyone wearing a badge of a swordfish in a hoop I’d know I was in for serious trouble. This fellow’s badge I could now clearly see was indeed a representation of a chavonth and a wersting, claw to paw, in a fanciful pairing. The dark serious eyes in his walnut face studied me somberly. The knife that had stabbed Wink glittered as he turned and twisted it idly between his nimble brown fingers. I eyed him stonily.

  “Well now, dom,” he said. “Now you’re awake you can tell us what your little game is. Dernun?”

  That dernun demanding to know if I understood him did not spit with the usual venom of that intolerant word. He sounded almost pensive.