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Legions of Antares [Dray Prescot #25]
by Alan Burt Akers
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Science Fiction/Fantasy

Mushroom eBooks
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

Copyright ©1981 by Kenneth Bulmer

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Legions of Antares

Alan Burt Akers

Mushroom eBooks

Copyright © 1981, Kenneth Bulmer

Alan Burt Akers has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.

First published in USA in 1981 by Daw Books, Inc..

Originally published as by Dray Prescot, as told to Alan Burt Akers.

This Edition published in 2007 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom www.mushroom-ebooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 1843196212

Dray Prescot

To survive on the savage and unpredictable world of Kregen Dray Prescot needed to be strong, resourceful, cunning and courageous. Prescot not only survived his headlong adventures on that exotic world orbiting the double star Antares, he has built there a life that has meaning, filled with the love of Delia and the friendship of his blade comrades. Yet his character is far more complex than mere savage survival would require.

Dray Prescot is a man above middle height with brown hair and eyes and a physique of exceptional power, and he moves like a giant hunting cat. He was educated in the harsh environment of Nelson's Navy, and by the Savanti nal Aphrasöe, the well-meaning superhuman but mortal men of the Swinging City who brought Prescot first to Kregen. Although he describes his face as “an ugly old beakhead,” other sources state that his face is “noble and fierce.” Expert with weapons and a master swordsman, he is aware of his own limitations. That he so often transcends them is a testament to his attitude toward life.

The Everoinye—the Star Lords—have employed Prescot over the years in pursuance of their own schemes for the world and he is now gaining insights into their objectives. Prescot has acquired titles and estates over the seasons of his adventuring. The people of Vallia called him to be their emperor in times of troubles, and now the dawn appears to be breaking for that island empire. The hostile Empire of Hamal, ruled by the Empress Thyllis, is now markedly on the defensive. The Wizard of Loh Phu-Si-Yantong, who cherishes schemes equally as ambitious and insane as those of Thyllis, is now confined to the island of Pandahem. Now, as a fresh set of adventures begins, Prescot knows he must say good-bye to Delia in Hyrklana, an island of which their son Jaidur is the new king. With the dawn as the twin Suns of Scorpio rise, Dray Prescot knows he will be hurled into unknown perils...

Chapter one

Concerns What Followed an Arrangement with the Star Lords

You don't argue with the Star Lords. At least, if you make the attempt you'll regret it and that may exclude your chance of living to regret it. All the same, I've hurled some hard words at the Star Lords from time to time, and as for their messenger and spy, the scarlet- and golden-feathered bird of prey, he and I, the Gdoinye and I, have indulged in a few scathing slanging matches.

There can't be a winner from the ranks of mortal men, as I then believed, in any contest with the Star Lords, and I had learned caution.

The spangled stars of Kregen sparkled still in the night sky and the quietness of waiting in those moments before dawn cast an expectant hush over all the rolling world. Delia half-rose in the bed, leaning on an elbow. The sheets slipped down to her waist as she regarded me. Her hair lay in shadow from the bedpost and her face looked upon me woefully.

“When the twin suns rise, my heart,” I said.

“I hate the Star Lords!"

“As well hate the storms bursting around your head, or the thunder and lightning. They are not affected by our feelings or what we do. Although,” I said, bending to pick up the scarlet breechclout, “although I fancy what we do may have some small effect on the Star Lords. Their man in Hamal has failed and they need me urgently, yet they gave us this night together."

“And I am supposed to love them for that?"

Determination in Delia is a live force. What she knows she knows, what she holds she holds.

“No, you cannot be expected to love the Everoinye. I believe they are beyond love or hate, although once they were mortal human beings like us.” I threw down the scarlet breechclout. “I shall not need that."

“I think, my heart—there is light. There ... On the window frame..."

The windows of this sumptuous bedchamber high in the fortress of the Hakal in the city of Huringa in Hyrklana were deeply set into the masonry. Rich damask clothed the harsh stone. I looked. A strigicaw embroidered in bright silks shone more clearly than he had before, his snarling muzzle lifted, his ears pricked. Yes, there was light. The red sun and the green sun, Far and Havil, were lifting into the dawn skies over Kregen and it was the time appointed.

Useless to try to stumble out words to say what I felt: Delia saw all that in me as I looked upon her, standing drinking her in, feeling, feeling ... She smiled. She made herself smile for me and she stretched out her arms.

I leaped for the bed and clasped her, warm and soft and firm and glorious, glorious. Then, with the feeling of the tormentors in their black hoods at work on me, I released her and stepped back.

All naked, staring forlornly upon Delia, I waited for the Summons of the Scorpion.

“Remberee, Dray, my heart—"

“Remberee, Delia, my love. Remember always, I love you and only you—"

Blue radiance dropped about me, blotting out the world and all I loved, and the bloated shining form of the Scorpion beckoned and whirled me up in the maelstrom of supernatural forces.

As I swirled up in the all-encompassing blueness I realized that, at the least, this time I had not lived with the doomed sense of insecurity, of unsettling expectancy that at any moment, at any damned inconvenient moment, I would be called on by the Star Lords to be flung miles away and dumped down into some barbaric spot on Kregen and hurled headlong into downright unhealthy action. That was like living on one of those half-forgotten islands of the Shrouded Sea, plagued with volcanoes and earthquakes, there one minute and blown up the next, and reappearing somewhere else a few years later.

“Delia!” I bellowed as I went up head over heels. She would not hear me. She would see—what would she have seen? I'd ask her when I got out of this little lot. If I did. If, this time, I managed to scrape through and once more win my way back to my Delia, my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains.

The blueness roared about me. I felt the supernal chill. Somewhere in Hamal, the Everoinye had said they needed my help. Well that suited our plans. This time, I vowed, the parting from Delia would not be long. This time I'd do what the Everoinye required in double-quick time, and then I'd take the foul empire of Hamal to pieces and deal with mad Empress Thyllis as we had dealt with fat Queen Fahia. Those were the plans, simple and straightforward. Ha!

Anybody who didn't have a skull as thick as mine would by now have realized that on Kregen, that beautiful and terrible world four hundred light-years from the planet of my birth, nothing was ever simple and straightforward. There was to be a deal of skipping and jumping and skull-bashing before this imbroglio was anywhere near settled.

Naked and weaponless, I landed with a bone-jarring crash. The Star Lords had really flung me hard, picking me up from Hyrklana, that island realm off the east coast of the southern continent of Havilfar, and slamming me down in Hamal in the northeast of the continent. Gritty rock scratched under my hands and knees. I stood up. My head hit rock. All the famous bells of Beng Kishi clamored in my skull. Damned Everoinye!

Putting out a hand as the blue radiance died, I touched rock. I was in darkness so positively pitchy I could see nothing, nothing except the flakes of light floating in my own eyeballs.

Rock under foot, rock over head. Rock at my sides, and rocky grittiness in front. Turning around cautiously and shuffling like an old gaffer in carpet slippers I tested the air. Only one way lay unblocked. I sniffed. Stale air, flat and dusty and in it a taint of some indefinable odor, gave me no clue to where I was. Slowly, testing every inch, I started to shuffle along this inky warren. The rocky sides of the tunnel narrowed and I started to feel a lively interest, and then—thankfully—they opened and widened so that I walked along with one hand trailing on stone and the other held up into emptiness to protect my head.

The bells of Beng Kishi donged away to silence. I shook my head. It did not fall off, so that was all right.

Slowly, as my eyes adjusted, I began to see tiny spots of radiance festooning the walls. Peering closer, squinting, I made out little clumps of the phosphorescent lichen the Kregans call estilux growing clamped to the rock in crevices and folds. As I stumbled along, the light strengthened, both from the dilation of my pupils and the thickening clumps of estilux. By the time I reached the first carved cavern I could see reasonably well.

Not that there was much to see down here.

“Sink me!” I burst out. “Where's this hell-spawned kregoinye I'm supposed to bale out?"

Although I'd once refused to be called a kregoinye, I was in fact one of those men and women selected by the Everoinye to serve their mysterious purposes on Kregen. Whether I liked it or not.

As though in answer to my rumbled bad temper, a figure rose from a bundle of rocks ahead.

A thin stream trickled along there and he'd been filling a pottery bowl. He saw me. He was not a member of Homo-sapiens, having a beaked birdlike face with fluffy yellow feathers and goggling eyes. He was a Relt, one of those races of diffs on Kregen renowned for their gentleness and when slave more often used as stylors and domestics. The pottery bowl flew up in the air. The Relt let out a frightened squeak and ran stumbling and slipping away across the stream and into the shadows past a rocky outcrop.

I fumed.

The bowl was smashed so there was no use picking it up to return it. And, truth to tell, I suppose, I must have looked a most demonic figure, abruptly appearing all naked and hairy from the shadows. He must have thought me some demon from a Herrelldrin Hell.

Now my face has often been called an ugly old beakhead. In truth, when I look at people at times when I am feeling a little intemperate, I—again—am told that my scowl will stop a dinosaur in its tracks. So I consciously put into use the technique taught me by a master Wizard of Loh, who are a pretty scary bunch of sorcerers, old Deb-Lu-Quienyin, among the most renowned of all Wizards of Loh, and changed my expression. I put on a benign look. No—do not scoff. Dray Prescot, the rascal and ruffian, brawler, Bladesman, Bravo Fighter and much else, including reiver and mercenary, can assume a face that masks all that violent energy. Mind you, a very different face if held for too long exacts punishment, for my face feels as though a million bees have been stinging away happily all night.

So, with a cheerful, friendly expression, I blundered on, shouting: “Hai! Relt! I mean you no harm! Where away are we?"

Only the echo of a squeak floated back.

Still wearing that silly grinning physiognomy, I rounded the outcrop. Fifty paces on, torchlights threw orange streaks from a buttress that soared into shadows.

This looked promising. I did not think the Relt with his soft ways and timid life-style would be the man I was looking for. The Star Lords use tougher material than that. Even so, he might be, for I was becoming more and more aware that the Everoinye's plans for Kregen were far different from those I might once have envisioned.

A rumble began in the ground. The rock all about me shook. Dust drifted down from high overhead and within the dust, chips and shards of razor-edged stone. The noise boomed and buffeted so that, staggering, choking in the dust, I put my hands to my ears. The earthquake roared on, filling the world with haze, rending at my senses, wrenching away at my primeval feelings of solidity with this land I loved. Perhaps only a dozen heartbeats the quake reverberated in that cavern; it seemed like a couple of lifetimes and more.

Dust stung in my nostrils and inflamed my eyes. I squinted, and took my hands away from my ears, and tried to hear and see again. I swallowed. A scrabble, barely heard, down by my right foot, attracted instant attention.

From a rocky crevice newly widened crept a thing like two soup plates jammed together, top and bottom, with a pair of stalked eyes and a long rapierlike proboscis twitching angrily. At the tip of that three-foot-long spiny shaft glittered a drop of poison, green and thick and evil.

This yenalk made a stab at my bare foot.

With a yelp I dodged away.

It trundled after me hungrily, rolling along on a multitude of thin short legs. It moved damned fast. There was only one thing to do, for it would persist in keeping after me until it sank its poisoned proboscis into me, and settled down to eating.

Leaping to the side, I put a foot down on a flat shard of stone. It started to spin around like a loco on a turntable ... Without halting the movement I leaped clean over it. On its other side I bent, got my fingers under the lip of its shell and heaved it over onto its back.

It rolled like a dummy figure for a moment. All its legs waved like a forest lashed by a gale. I stared down.

“Rest there a space, yenalk, and if I am minded to come back for you, don't go away."

It rocked slowly to stillness, and its legs writhed helplessly.

Drifting dust still fell in patterns across the torchlights and as I walked up to the buttress I saw that this drifting light-irradiated dust was very beautiful. An odd, irrational thought, perhaps, but for all my uncouthness and barbarity I have, as I think you will understand, an eye for beauty found in places where beauty is not expected to be discovered.

A bunch of people huddled on the hard stones in the light and they were in bad case. Here, I said to myself, is where my labors begin.

The first thing I noticed as I walked among them was their cowed and beaten-down appearance. They were all of races that people on Kregen regard as the delicate and refined ones, the weak and unaggressive diffs. There were Relts and Xaffers, those remote and distant diffs, and Lamnias, shrewd merchants, and others like Lun'elshes[i] with soft black body hair, and Dunders, squat, thick-hewed, flat-headed men universally employed as carriers. A number of Ennschafften, whom folk normally call Syblians, huddled together, the men bundles of muscles, the women very beautiful, and all with simple naive baby-faces. I stood for a moment staring at this collection of the deprived of Kregen. Even then, Lamnias are not deprived in the sense of worldly goods, for they are wily merchants with the highest reputations.

As I stood thus looking about, a bull voice broke in a roar.

“A damned apim! Well, apim, and what kept you?"

Lying back on a spread cloak of black and yellow lozenges a numim bellowed at me. The lion-man's head was wrapped in a clumsy bandage ripped from the hem of the cloak, and the black and yellow interweavings, like the hide of a sanjit, were stained with blood. In his right fist he gripped a sword whose blade had snapped off a foot from the hilt. He looked to be in the most ferocious of bad tempers. His hide was so dark a brown as to appear black, and his bristling lion mane was a tawny umber. He was not of the golden numims.

“By Numi-Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor! You've been lollygagging around, and here I lie waiting for you! This is not to be born. And have the Everoinye then sunk so low as to send a naked unarmed apim?” His wrathful lion face grimaced then and he put his left hand to the bandage. “My head rings with all the bells of Beng Kishi, and you stand there like a cretin! Jump to it, onker, and fetch me water! I parch!"

About to bark out a choice remark that would cut this supercilious lion-man down to size, I checked myself. I still wore that foolish grinning face. Before I could speak he was ranting on again, acting merely as he usually acted.

“Onker! Why do you stand there? I am Strom Irvil of Pine Mountain. You jump when I speak to you, as any respectable body slave should jump when his master speaks. That fool Zaydo got himself crushed when the roof caved in and I am all alone and—"

“But—” I began.

In Strom Irvil's book that was a serious mistake.

“You never argue with your master, Zaydo! Onker! Nulsh! Get me water or I will stripe you most cruelly."

“My name is not Zaydo—"

“All my body slaves are called Zaydo.” He tried to rise, forcing himself up with the broken sword as a crutch. He gasped. He fell back onto the spread cloak. “Water,” he said. “Fetch water, Zaydo, and you escape the flogging triangle."

I saw his lion lips were dry and cracked. Without another word I cast about and found a pottery bowl and so went to the stream where I had startled the Relt, and fetched back water for Strom Irvil of Pine Mountain. One Pine Mountain I had heard of lay in Thothangir, in the far south of the continent.

I put the bowl to his lips and he drank, distressedly. I went to lift the bandage to look at his wound, but he knocked my hand away.

“Leave it, Zaydo. I will mend. But the Everoinye will not be pleased if I fail them. You must get us all out of here."

“What happened?"

He glared up at me, the water shining among the cracks of his lips.

“You call me master, Zaydo, and speak with civility and humility, else it is the flogging triangle. I am a great lord, and you are my body slave, sent by the Everoinye. Remember this."

A strom, which is roughly equivalent to an Earthly count, is indeed a title of great nobility in some lands, if of a lesser stature in others. The notion grew in me like a moon-bloom opening to the kiss of the suns’ rays after a night of Notor Zan when no moons shine in Kregen's sky. Just why this affair amused me is difficult to say. I knew I would not act the poltroon in Hamal. But looking at this blowhard numim strom as he lay there, gasping, the bloody bandage incongruous on his head, I suppose I half-reasoned out that no good would come of browbeating him now. We had a job to do. If he labored under the delusion I was his body slave Zaydo, what difference would that make? I wanted to finish this thing off, and then get about wrecking Empress Thyllis's crazy ambitions. And, into the bargain, I could do with a good laugh, and this numim appeared to me to be able to furnish mirth aplenty.

So ... “Yes, master, no master, very good master, and what has happened here that you are in such poor case and Zaydo is crushed to death?"

He blew his whiskers out and glared up at me.

“You are an onker! The roof fell in, that's what. And when I led these people out through the old mining tunnels, the earthquake brought more down, and so trapped us all again and knocked a damned great hole in my head. Vosk skull!"

“Mayhap, master, a vosk skull, being exceedingly thick, is a good thing to have down here."

“Do you mock me, ingrate?"

“Mock you, master? Why should a humble body slave do that?"

“I labor mightily for the good of the Everoinye. Why they should burden me with an imbecile like you I cannot imagine."

Now this Strom Irvil was only the second kregoinye I had so far met. The first, Pompino, was no doubt either safely at home in Pandahem with his wife, or jaunting about Kregen derring-doing on an errand for the Everoinye. I'd have preferred Pompino here with me now. But as I set about finding a way out for the trapped people, I had to put up with Strom Irvil breathing down my neck.

The truth of our predicament was brought home to me quickly and its brutality made me ponder. We were trapped. We were trapped. These people, representatives of the weaker races of Kregen, had crept here secretly to hold a meeting and listen to the wise words of a wandering preacher. This man, this Pundhri the Serene, sat on a rock higher than the rest, his fist supporting his bearded chin, his face bent down, talking quietly to a group of people gathered about him. His voice came to me as a mellifluous burble whose individual words were lost. He was a diff of that race of ahlnims whose members have for century after century produced mystics and wise men. He looked the part, for his hair, like a Gon's, was chalk white. He did not, like a Gon, shave his head bald and polish it up with butter. His face bore that intent, concentrated look of a man absorbed with the import of what he was saying, determined to make his listeners understand and share his vision. He wore a simple dark-blue tunic, and he held a thick staff, unadorned, although with a stout knob at each end.

Strom Irvil said, “Yes, Zaydo. He is the man the Everoinye wish saved. He is our charge—and me with a damned great hole in my head and a stupid thick-skulled onker of a body slave! It is enough to make a man turn to drink."

“We are trapped—master—but mayhap we can dig a way out. If—"

“We! You mean you will dig a way out, Zaydo! And there are monsters in the tunnels. The old mine workings were abandoned seasons ago. The shrine where the meeting was held has not been used in the memory of living man. But Pundhri the Serene called the meeting there out of the prying eyes of those who would destroy him and his work."

“And what work is that? Master."

He glared and winced. “You see what a miserable band these folk are. Not a fighting man among them..."

“The ahlnims fight, on occasion—"

“Aye! And by thus doing break the tenets of their faith."

I eyed Pundhri's knobbed stick. They call that kind of dual-skull-basher a dwablatter. I surmised that Pundhri had used it often enough before he was dubbed the Serene.

“And you say there are monsters, master?” I almost mocked, beginning to feel the need of opening my shoulders. “I suppose there are flame-spouting risslacas, and giant spiders, and—"

“The giant spiders are as big as two dinner plates and they can snap your leg off like a rotten twig."

That sobered me, I can tell you.

He threw the broken sword at me.

“Get on with it, get on with it, then, Zaydo, you useless lazy hound!"

“Yes, master.” I stared about, a trifle vacantly. “Where shall I begin?” After all, if he was the master and I the slave then let him sort out the brainwork.

“Over there where the first tunnel starts, onker!"

The stone chipped away fairly easily at first as I dug the broken blade in and twisted and scraped. A couple of jolly Sybli girls held torches. They had a fair supply of these, being cautious folk. But they would not last forever. There were lanterns, cheap mineral-oil lamps, and these were being saved. Then, after about two arms’ lengths, the rock firmed up into mother bedrock. The steel chimed.

I crawled back and stood up, my head and chest covered with rock dust.

“What are you stopping for?” The lion-man roar burst out. “Get on with it."

“No way through here. Master."

“Fool! Then try somewhere else."

“Yes, master.” I didn't bother about any more fun and frolic. A careful look around in the uncertain illumination revealed the way the cavern sloped down at one end, with arching rockfalls fanning out from ancient subsidences. One or two of the dark slots looked promising. I marched across to the nearest. I passed near the group listening respectfully to Pundhri the Serene. At the rock face the slot proved too narrow for my shoulders and I turned, intending to go on to the next.

A small ahlnim woman approached, carrying a length of brown cloth. Her hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, as I saw as she bowed her head. Her robe was torn and smeared with dust, and I fancied that was unusual for her. She looked calm and competent and capable of running a household.

“The master offers you this, and all his prayers are for your success."

I took the cloth. “Thank you, hortera,” I said, giving her the courtesy title of lady.

She ducked her head and went back to sit comfortably on a flat rock just to the side and rear of Pundhri. I wound the brown cloth about my nakedness and, spitting on my hands, set to work with the broken sword.

At that, I did not fail to complain that the Star Lords habitually sent me off to do their dirty work for them stark naked and weaponless. For this high and mighty Strom Irvil, they supplied clothes and weapons—and a personal body slave!

Some of the Dunders came across and began helping to shift the chips and chunks of rock I flaked off. Squat knots of muscle, short in stubby leg, thick of arm, the Dunders have been blessed—or cursed—by nature or the meddling hand of genetic manipulation with heads as flat across the top as billiard tables. Do not imagine they can be brilliantly intellectual; but they do think, they do suffer from emotions and they are men. Carriers of burdens, the Dunders, and there had been a number of them with us down the Moder before the monsters finished their work forever.

Pausing for a breather, I said to the nearest flat-headed Dunder: “Is the San a healer, dom?"

He shook that strange head. “No, dom, no. I do not think so.” Then he added in perfect explanation of his race's outlook: “No one told me he is a healer."

San Pundhri the Serene continued to talk. The title of san, which means master, dominie, sage, was accorded him as by right. He held a magnetic attraction for these poor folk. Not many were slaves, and this, presumably, because slaves of other slave-owners would have been unable to get away to the meeting, and the free folk here could afford few slaves. I went back to rock bashing.

The way opened after considerable effort and a torch, thrust through the first chink to appear onto the rocks tumbled into the tunnel, revealed an empty openness.

“A cavern,” I said. “Once we're into that we'll be well away."

The rocky fall was cleared and it was time to try to rouse these people to movement. With a barrage of groans and snorts and burstings of bad temper, Strom Irvil got himself up. He swayed on those dark-furred legs. I gave him an arm for support and he brushed it away, pettishly.

“I can stand, Zaydo, you onker!"

I went across to Pundhri.

“San,” I said with due formality. “Will you help to move the people? They are frightened—"

He stared at me and I saw his eyes resting on me with calculation. He grasped his knobbed stick and stood up.

“They have reason to be frightened. You are Zaydo?"

In for a zorca, in for a vove. “Yes, San."

“We have no weapons against the monsters."

I shook rock dust off the broken sword.

He moved off his flat rock. “I will help these people, of course. You need not have asked. But I do not think your broken sword will avail us here."

“It has opened the way. It may yet serve."

He stopped and bent his brows on me. “And you are slave?"

I did not answer but went bashing back to a group of silly Xaffers who wanted to go the wrong way in the confusing torchlit darkness. When we were sorted out and moving through the gap broken in the fall and into the next cavern, I fancied Pundhri might have other things to occupy him besides the character of the slave called Zaydo.

The next cavern echoed hollowly to our voices. The torches, held high, showed the craggy rock at our backs and an empty darkness ahead. Everyone stopped. There was no doubt at all that this place held an eerie atmosphere that worked on the susceptibilities. People spoke in low tones. A subdued apprehension made movements awkward. At any moment horror could burst upon us from the darkness.

“Zaydo!” brayed the lion voice. “Get on, get on! And give me my sword. Slaves do not carry swords."

“There are some countries where slaves carry swords, master."

“If I had my strength I'd knock you flat on your back! Impudent tapo! Insolent yetch!"

Handing the broken sword across, I said: “You will not stripe me, master?"

“I don't see why I should not. My head! You are an ingrate and I am too kind to my slaves. Now get on, and go that way, for I feel a draught there."

There was a draught, a tiny current of air, and so this Strom Irvil wasn't as incapacitated as he wanted to think. Off we went, stumbling and clattering over the uneven floor. The torches lost the rocky wall at our backs, and showed nothing ahead. In darkness, rock underfoot, the torches flaring their orange hair, we staggered on.

Eventually we reached the far wall and squeezed through a crack where air flowed, and came into another cavern, and crossed that. We might spend a dozen lifetimes down there, creeping through the tunnels and struggling across caverns.

“Up!” growled Strom Irvil. “We must go up!"

San Pundhri glanced up, not squinting. Irvil bellowed.

“Zaydo, you useless yetch! Find a way up! By Havil the Green, what a straw scarecrow I'm lumbered with in you, brainless onker!"

I was about to let out a fluent torrent of abuse, when Pundhri cut in quickly.

“You use hard words on your slave, strom. He has done well so far. Can we not—"

“No! Not until we are out of this infernal hellhole."

I walked across to the wall and a Sybli maiden carried a torch, which was near to expiring, and we looked at the fissures within the rock. One or two looked promising. Once we had broken our way back into the mine workings we ought to find it easier going. I reached back for the torch. The Sybli handed it to me, smiling her silly, naïve, endearing Sybli smile, and I eased sideways along the gray stone, the torch picking out veins and spiracles of crystal. Along I went, the torch thrust ahead. The flames flickered, so there was some kind of draught here. The rock pressed against my back. There was barely room before my chest to move my arms. The way tended up.

The ground shook.

The walls moved.

The solid rock groaned as though the very stone labored in agony from unimaginable pressure. Chips of stone flaked off and fell, unheard in that world-shaking rumble. The walls closed together. Arm up holding the torch, arm down levering on, one leg flexed, the other contorted awkwardly, I stopped moving, pinned. Fast fixed within the vise of stone, I could not budge. The jaws of the world snapped on me, closer and closer. I felt my ribcage bending. The torch glared full upon a single glittering drop of green. The drop of poison at the tip of a thin proboscis oozed from the slot beside my head. The yenalk showed as a flat outline, the dust glittering upon his shell. It inched forward along its fissure, aiming at me, aiming that poison-tipped sword straight at my eye.

Chapter two

Strom Irvil Berates Zaydo

The pantheons of Kregen contain many and many an imp and devil, ghastly each in its own fashion. In that moment trapped in the slot, with the world collapsing around me, unable to move, and with a poison-tipped sting hovering before my eye, I fancy I felt more than a few of those devils gibbering and clawing at me.

“By Makki-Grodno's disgusting diseased left eyeball!” I said. I did not move. I dare not move. I could not move. And I, Dray Prescot, was like to have my own personal disgusting diseased left eyeball, and damned quick, at that.

The rumbling subterranean convulsions of the earthquake persisted. The strongest desire to run obsessed me, and I could not move. All around me the stone trembled. I daresay it did not tremble as much as did I.

Sweat rolled off me. I blinked. That single blink might be enough to trigger the yenalk into an attack, into a savage lunged thrust of his sting clear through my eyeball...

He did not move.

I felt the sweat chill on me. The damned thing was as jammed fast as was I!

The world convulsed again and the rock squeezed.

The yenalk squashed. His two soup-plate shells crunched together. His insides squeezed out.

I could not turn my head fully away, and I did not shut my eyes. The disgusting mess slipped and slithered over the face of the wall trapping me. The yenalk was squashed as flat as a bug under a boot heel. Was it my turn next?

The stink in there, highly unpleasant, was no worse than that of some of the slave bagnios I've inhabited from time to time.

Whatever seismological disturbance was going on, whatever planetary gut-rumbling encompassed me, I could not know; its effects I could know and experience. The rock's slipping movement pressed on me. I felt my ribs crunching. My eyes must have been standing out on stalks. I felt all the blood in me clashing and colliding, and I breathed small, and there came one last pressure which pressed the last gasp from me—and the walls folded back. A hand's-breadth, they moved away, shrieking as rock splintered. Dust and debris rained on me. A chunk of sharp-edged stone cracked against my shoulder. And then I was free.

I felt my knees giving way.

The torch shook and orange lights quivered, shadows pirouetted like the encroaching demons of darkness.

By Zair! That had been a narrow one!

A narrow one ... No, believe me, I didn't laugh; not just then, anyway.

After that a few more crashings and hangings, with the passageway splitting asunder with a shriek of a banshee, all came as anticlimaxes. I hauled myself around to go back to the others and bumped into Strom Irvil.

His bandage hung all lopsided. He was panting and his lion face was flushed with high blood pressure and consummate anger.

“What are you coming back for, you rascal! Running for it, are you! Get on. The ceiling nearly fell on us out there while you were safe in here."

There was nothing to say. I'd have my laugh later.

Creeping along and following the heaven-sent draught of air, we wormed our way through the passageways and so came out into the ancient mine workings. Here many thick pillars upheld the roof. The lanterns were lit and we pressed on as fast as we could. The people babbled away, scenting escape from these dolorous caverns. Two more earth tremors hit; but they caused us no damage, only alarm that the pillars might collapse and the ceiling fall in. Nothing like that happened and, passing a toppled statue of Havil the Green, smothered in dust and gouged by falling rocks, we began the ascent to the surface.

“I do not think that shrine will ever be used again,” observed Pundhri, toiling along near me.

Much as this sage interested me, because the Star Lords wished him preserved, this was not the time or place to prosecute inquiries. So I just said: “There are many shrines on the surface of the world better suited than those stuffed away in dark holes in the ground."

We jostled along, climbing, and Pundhri looked back as Strom Irvil bellowed in his impatient way for me to give him assistance over a patch of splintered rocks. His bandage was unwinding. Putting a hand under his left armpit I hoisted him up. His booted feet scrabbled on rocks. He pitched forward and I held him from falling. The bandage slid down over an ear and eye.

He roared.

“Fool! Onker! Useless ninny! Oh, why am I plagued with rubbish like you? May Numi-Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor look down in mercy upon me. Onker!"

Pundhri started to say, “The slave Zaydo does not merit—"

Strom Irvil thrashed around, trying to shove the black and yellow bandage straight, trying to shrug away from my grip, trying to get his boots onto a flat space in the splinters. “I know what he merits! I know! By all the Devils of the Pines! And I'll give it to him when we're out of this infernal hellhole!"

When I let him go he did not fall down. In truth, I had assisted him, as was patently obvious. I said nothing.

We all wended on, and Irvil breathed his stertorous lion-man snorts, and every now and again he would favor me with a baleful glare. At the time I was quite looking forward to getting out of here myself. I would enjoy being given my just merits from Strom Irvil, as I might return his...

His tawny mane was dark-tipped, his body of a deep brown, quite unlike the golden mane and hide of Rees, who was the Trylon of the Golden Wind, aptly named estates. The wind blew Rees's land away into that deadly golden wind, and I wondered if he was still as rich as he had been, if he still lived, he and Chido, who were boon companions, Bladesmen, rufflers of the Sacred Quarter in Ruathytu, capital of this enemy Empire of Hamal.

My thoughts took a somber turn. When I dealt with mad Empress Thyllis, as I would, and knocked over her foul and insane ambitions to extend the conquests of Hamal far beyond the country's logical limits, would I encounter Rees and Chido? They were touchy on matters of honor. They fought for Hamal. I fought for Vallia, and the two empires were locked in mortal combat. I could never slay Rees or Chido, even though they were supposed to be enemies, because they were comrades, valued friends, a part of the joy of life.

And, even more than Rees and Chido, what of Tyfar? Prince Tyfar of Hamal, who was a blade comrade, and who did not know that I was a Vallian—and because our two countries were at war was his foeman—what of Tyfar? My daughter Jaezila and Tyfar, for all their buffoonery and slanging matches, were deeply in love. I knew that. If Tyfar declared for Thyllis, could I fight him? Could I go up against him with naked steel in my fist? Of course not.

Then I tripped over an outcrop of rock and fell on my nose, and Strom Irvil bellowed out, and I was back in these damned caverns. I sneezed as the dust bit, and stood up, and bashed the dust off, and so stumbled on. If Irvil went up against me fighting for Hamal, I might yet joy in teaching him that Vallians had learned the arts of soldiering.

Then I checked my wandering thoughts. Irvil said he came from Thothangir, right in the south of the continent of Havilfar. He was a kregoinye and worked for the Star Lords. There was no reason why he should fight for Hamal.

Then the confounded giant spiders descended on us.

On glistering lines they dropped from the shadows, bulbous, hairy, many-legged, a nightmare rain of heavy bodies and spindled serrated legs.

“What?” Irvil's lion face charged with passion. “What?"

“Pundhri!” I yelled. The people panicked. They ran screaming every which way, falling staggering into one another, flailing uselessly with weak arms. The moment was ugly and horrific and fraught with greater peril for us than even these monstrous spiders could bring. If Pundhri died ... Thothangir at least was on Kregen. I would be banished back to Earth, sent packing through the gulfs between the stars and left to moulder away in a despair far more horrible than that caused by any stupid giant spiders.

Directly ahead and some twenty paces off the jagged round opening of a tunnel offered some protection. People were running for the opening, crying and screaming. Some fell and the bodies of the spiders descended on them, bloating, stingers driving deep, legs folding and closing in.

“Pundhri!” I shouted again. Irvil glared madly at me. Snatching up a chunk of rock I poised and hurled. The missile smashed into the fat body of a spider about to drop onto Pundhri's head. The bloated thing burst. Pundhri moved away, not shouting, his bearded face still calm, still serene. No doubt what happened to him, he believed, happened because it was ordained. That might be so. But the Star Lords thought differently.

“Get him into the tunnel!"

Irvil had the sense to grab at the sage who allowed himself to be led off. Irvil, at that, showed up well, for his bandage at last tumbled off. The wound in his head looked a mess. It was genuine. The blood had caked around the gash and no doubt some of his scalp was pulled off with the bandage. He took no notice now he was in action and there was work to do. He hauled Pundhri off, and his free hand flailed the stump of sword over their heads. The Star Lords do not choose lightly when they select kregoinyes to work for them; this blowhard strom was a fighting man.

Also, he was damned uncivil to his servants.

Spiders swung on their threads, slicing into the rabble. They were, of course, no concern of mine. All the same, there was no question of running off and leaving them. Hurled rocks proved effective, if the aim was good, and ahlnim lads joined in, joyful to expand their chests and knowing they did not break the tenets of their race. I saw a Dunder grab a spider and squash it in his arms, between his arms and chest, before the sting had time to pierce him.

“Well done! Keep them off! Into the tunnel!"

Of course, there might be more spiders, other horrors, in this tunnel...

“Zaydo! Onker!"

Irvil stood in the opening of the tunnel and although he for the moment blocked ingress of anybody else, that did not discommode him. “Catch!"

The flung sword spun end over end toward me.

Pundhri stood close to Irvil and just before they moved back to allow the press to run, crying and wailing, into safety, they watched me. There was no time to lose, no time to playact. The spiders were now crowding in, and rocks were proving useless. The stump sword spun through the air. I took it cleanly by the hilt, slapped it across and then hacked a swinging spider in half. All those motions were merely one continuous flow of action.

Shadows deepened as the lanterns and torches were carried toward the tunnel. A few people were dead and past help; but we dragged more away and so, angrily, we backed up to the tunnel mouth. The broken sword reeked with spider ichor. One or two of the stronger men with me were all for staying and bashing spiders flat with rocks. They were accustomed to being humiliated and maltreated in ordinary life; now they tasted a little of the other side, albeit against hairy giant spiders, and it got into their blood. I had to stop this, stop it cleanly, for it displeased me. Not for these poor folk, not for the spiders, no, not for those reasons...

“The tunnel is clear,” shouted Irvil above the din. “Come on, Zaydo, do! Move yourself!"

“Notor,” said Pundhri, which is the Hamalese way of addressing a lord. “Notor, the slave fought well with the broken sword."

“Well, and why not? It was my sword, was it not?"

You had to laugh at old Strom Irvil. Everything was perfectly logical to him in his universe.

Shouts rose from the people who had gone ahead along the tunnel, telling us they had broken a way through. Irvil glared at me. “And mind you clean the sword properly, Zaydo. There is one thing I will not abide in my body slaves, dirty habits."

There was nothing to be done for the unfortunate folk who had fallen victim to the spiders. No one could watch the grief of relatives who had survived unmoved; but no good could come from allowing oneself to break down. In one person's death the whole world shares. Also, after the ordeal in the slot when the living rock closed up on me, and the poison-tipped sting aimed for my eye, I was still in overwrought condition.

We all welcomed the sight of daylight. We broke from a shaggily overgrown hole in the side of the mountain, and many a one fell to his knees to give thanks for safe deliverance. I took a long, deep and expansive lungful of the glorious Kregan air. By Vox! What it is to be alive!

The land spread out before us, wide and rolling, yellowish-brown with dust and blued with heat haze. By the position of the suns I saw we faced eastwards. And that brought up my words to that Relt who had received such a shock at the stream. Whereaway were we in Opaz-forsaken Hamal?

Pundhri was blessing the people, and already many of them were hurrying away, skipping and jumping down the slopes. Smoke rose into the air from villages down there. The land looked sparse, but there were herds of cattle, and no doubt chores to be done and absences to be explained.

Pundhri turned to me.

“I give you thanks, Zaydo—"

Strom Irvil blossomed. He shook the bloody bandage at me.

“Thanks to a damned dim-witted slave! You are reputed a wise man, Pundhri the Serene. In this, I think your wits wander. It is to me, Strom Irvil of Pine Mountain, the thanks are due."

Only a few folk were left now, and the ahlnim woman with Pundhri kissed a woman who might have been her twin, and watched her take her children and go down the mountain. I said nothing. Pundhri smiled. The whole cast of his features changed. He looked jolly and mischievous, and as I had thought about his dwablatter and how he must have used that knobby stick before he acquired his name of Serene, so now I thought how he must have laughed and joked before the mysticism took him up.

He looked meaningfully at me. “And is it now you trim the leem's claws, Zaydo the slave?"

The Kregish saying, something like “to cut him down to size,” amused me. The leem is an eight-legged devilish hunting animal of incredible ferocity and vicious cunning, and often have I been dubbed both a leem-hunter and a cunning old leem. I thought Pundhri used that particular saying for that reason; seeing in me something foreign to a slave, something of the leem.

“Give me the bandage, strom,” I said. “I will do up your head, for you have had a knock."

Now slaves do not usually address lords by their titles. Irvil started to explode, whiskers bristling, and I took the bandage and slapped it on his head so that an end flapped down over his face. His roar abruptly snuffled on bloody cloth.

I sorted him out, and got the bandage neatly tied, and then he started in on me. Pundhri stared with a nicety of expression very exhilarating.

So, knowing what I was doing, I said, “No, san. No, I think not. It amused me at the time, and it amuses me more, now, that Strom Irvil remain as he is. It would be a pity to trim even a single paring from the leem's claws in this."

Irvil bellowed, “I'll have the skin off your back! I'll gastronomate you! You'll be flogged jikaider! So help me—if I had my strength! If my head wasn't broke in two!"

He took a whooping breath and saw his broken sword where I had dropped it on the grass to see about his bandage.

“And you haven't cleaned my sword! Oh, why do I suffer so? What have I done to deserve such an oaf, such an ingrate?"

The woman with Pundhri, whom he called his dear Puhlshi, tugged his sleeve gently. “It is time to go. We should be in Hernsmot already by now."

“Yes, my dear Puhlshi. But we must give our thanks first."

“Hernsmot,” I said. “Over by the Mountains of the West."

“A poor place, but there is a meeting there."

“Well, I am for Thothangir as soon as possible.” Irvil pushed fretfully at his bandage. “I suppose I shall have to endure you, you useless oaf, Zaydo, until we reach a place where I can hire a flier."

“That will not be easy,” Pundhri pointed out. “With the war. The army and the air services—"

“Yes, yes. You Hamalese are in a fine old state with your stupid war."

Puhlshi's ahlnim face turned a dark plum color.

“We detest the war! We speak against it—"

“Ah!” I said, and when they all looked at me in surprise at this intelligent comment, I coughed and looked at the grass. Still and all, that did explain a lot. Perhaps the Star Lords were no longer quite so anxious about Hamal as I had thought? Perhaps my own brave country of Vallia had entered the reckoning? Saying good-bye and calling the remberees, we watched Pundhri and his ahlnim party making their way down the hill. Irvil shook himself, winced, and blamed me for that.

“You are supposed to be a kregoinye,” he said. “Although why the Everoinye should choose a stupid apim, and send him to me naked and weaponless, I cannot imagine."

“Do you always arrive where the Everoinye send you with clothes and weapons, master?"

He stared. “If I thought you were serious..."

“Have you been a kregoinye long, master?"

He glowered. “You should address me as master before you speak. You are damned insolent, Zaydo, and this displeases me.” He stretched, and, again, he winced. “We will have to find shelter and food. I starve. If you have to carry me on your back—"

“Surely the Everoinye will take care of you?"

“Of course!” He brayed that out. But I saw he was not at all sure. Then he started to shake, and after that he sat down on a boulder on the hillside, and for a space I left him to his own devices.

Presently, he called across: “Zaydo! You are an onker and a hulu. But you fought well down there in the earth's guts. I have been a kregoinye for ten seasons. I was chosen, so they told me, because I am a fighting man with intelligence and a high moral code."

I did not laugh. As though a high moral code would weigh in the scales of the Star Lords!

He went on: “But I was wounded. I think the Everoinye no longer cared for me when I could not do their bidding."

“Yes. But you still live."

“Just, you onker."

A harsh croak floated down from the sky. We both looked up. I, for one, knew what—or who—floated up there on wide pinions, and I guessed Irvil knew, also.

The Gdoinye, the scarlet- and golden-feathered raptor of the Star Lords, circled over us. He turned his bright head and a beady eye surveyed us. I did not, as was my wont, shake my fist at that glorious bird and hurl abuse at him. Instead, I looked to see what Irvil would do. He stood up. He stood up and he stood to attention, smartly, as though on emperor's parade.

“What are your commands, Notor Gdoinye?"

Well, perhaps the only other kregoinye I had known, Pompino, might have spoken thus, and certainly he stood in great awe of this splendid bird; but, all the same, it was extraordinarily difficult for me to keep a straight face and not to burst out with a series of choice epithets to express what I thought of this nurdling great loon of a bird.

Perhaps the Gdoinye saw or sensed those irreverent feelings in me. He winged lower, the suns glisten vanishing from his body and wings as he ruffled his feathers in the draught. Low over our heads he volplaned, swishing down, hurtling over us and then soaring up and up and dwindling to a vanishing dot. As he passed so he let rip one contemptuous squawk.

On this occasion the messenger of the Star Lords had delivered no verbal message. As he was a supernatural creature serving beings with awesome powers, there was no doubt of his opinion of us. Also, there was no doubt his report had gone in. No doubt at all.

Strom Irvil let his body slump. He did not relax, for he looked uneasy. His scowl appeared shifty. “I wanted to complain about the trash they sent me as a body slave, Zaydo, you fambly. But I did not. I do not know why I did not.” He picked up his broken sword and hefted it. He was going to throw it to me—at me more likely.

“Get this cleaned up!” His big lion-man bellow broke about my ears, brashly reasserting self-confidence.

A puff of dust lifted about him. Instantly it was apparent that dust was no natural phenomenon. Blue radiance glowed. For the space of two heartbeats the dust flowed and lifted and irradiated by the blue fire formed itself into the semblance of a living lion man. The sapphire statue swirled up in an expanding dissipating cloud.

Strom Irvil no longer stood with me on the mountainside in western Hamal.

Chapter three

A Length of Lumber Instructs Flutsmen

The task was to defeat the Empire of Hamal.

No. No, that was not strictly true. The task was not so much to defeat Hamal as to encourage the people to see the errors in their ways of carrying on. They had to see that instead of trying to conquer and subdue the people around them—and people like Vallians who lived at a considerable distance, by Vox!—they should join with them in a mutual defense against the weird Fishheaded folk who raided all our coasts.

I tasted the wind, looked around the heat-hazed land, remembered a few things, and started off walking.

I headed north.

If it seems ludicrous that a single, unarmed and almost naked man should thus set off to topple a proud empire—well, yes, it may seem passing strange. But it was a task laid on me. Also, and this warmed me as I trudged along, I was not really alone. There were many good friends on Kregen who stood at my side in battle. My country of Vallia would be joined by other nations desirous of ridding themselves of the yoke of Hamal. Together, we would make a mighty flood that would sweep away mad Empress Thyllis.

To return at once to Vallia was a strong and almost overpowering temptation. It had to be resisted.

We in Vallia had suffered devastating invasions and great humiliations from Hamal. Now we planned to gather an army and invade in our turn. But my people at home could deal with all these purely military matters. Much as I wanted to return at once to my capital of Vondium, picking up Delia from Huringa en route, I knew I could be of more use here. Here in Hamal I could work from within, the worm in the bud. Here was the scene of my labors.

So, with joy that I was about the business that obsessed me, and with despair that this duty deprived me of all that I loved, I set off for Paline Valley.

Before that, though, I hankered after going down to the village and seeking Pundhri the Serene. Dressed as I was, in a sober brown loincloth, I could pass easily enough as a free working man. By exercising a little carpentry skill I could pass as a gul, one of the artisans and craftsmen and small shopkeepers of Hamal, rather than as a clum, the festering mass of poor—free but little better than slave.

The village grew clearer as I scrambled down the slope. It looked a dead and alive hole. There would be guls and clums there, possibly; most of them tended to congregate in the towns and cities. One worrying factor was that the military might of Hamal, being strained, was now prepared to accept clums into the army. Along with the mercenaries Hamalian gold could hire, the clums would constitute a new and major threat. They'd take time to train and they'd desert as fast as they could; but the laws of Hamal are as of steel. Once the Hamalian military machine gained control of an individual clum, that once-free man would turn into just another cog in the iron legions of Hamal.

Not a pretty prospect, and yet just one of the hundreds of problems that beset me. There was much to ponder as I walked into the end of the main and only street of the village. Pundhri the Serene was not there. He had taken his little party off at once, riding preysanys, a common form of saddle animal among the less wealthy. I looked at the gaffer who told me this, and shook my head, and went away from that village. I had not cared for their looks.

And this made me even more keenly aware of the strangest part of this whole business.

I was unarmed.

On Kregen, a man does not care to be parted from his arsenal of weapons.

Now I do not wish to impugn the honesty of that village, or the gaffer to whom I had spoken, or his headman. But my surmise is, and I apologize to those unknown Hamalese if I am wrong, my surmise is the gaffer ran off at once to his headman, robe flapping around his ankles, slippers flicking dust, and the headman, fondling his chain of office, nodded sagely and ordered a signal fire lit. It would be a small signal fire. I saw the plume of smoke rise, tall and straight, and I frowned.

Directly ahead a stream crossed my path with a stand of trees from which the village would have been invisible. They were so damned anxious they hadn't even waited until their signal smoke would not be seen by the potential victim.

The smoke rose, thin and unwavering. A one-man signal, that, I guessed.

I splashed across the stream and looked around in the little copse. Finding a length of wood in a forest is not as easy as it sounds. Oh, yes, there is wood aplenty, lumber by the yard. I wanted a stick of a certain thickness, length and shape, and I took perhaps a little longer than circumspection might suggest was advisable. I found the stick. Barehanded, freeing it from its parent involved a deal of grunting and twisting and straining, and I used my teeth to trim up the ends to a rough symmetry. Some three feet long—some meter long, I suppose you latter-day folk would say—it snugged firmly in my fists, spread apart to give leverage. I swung the stick about. It was not a simple cudgel or bludgeon or shillelagh, admirable though they are in the right hands. This length of simple wood held the feel and balance of a Krozair longsword, and with that potent and terrible brand of destruction a man might go up against devils.

So, swinging my pseudo-longsword, I marched off out of the wood and I kept screwing my head around and staring aloft.

They were not long in making their evil appearance.

The piece of wood stopped its circling motions as I loosened up the old muscles. The end where it had ripped away from its parent glistened yellow and clean and sharp, very sharp, a wooden splinter like a fang.

Dots against the brightness of the sky, stringing along in a skein, oh, yes, there they were...

On the exotic and cruel world of Kregen there are many men who make a fat living from the enslavement of other men. There are many varieties of slavers, slavemasters: Aragorn, Katakis, Makansos, and their ilk. From the way these four up there flew they proclaimed themselves flutsmen, reiving mercenaries of the skies. Four would be considered ample to snare up a lone man. They'd flown from their camp, somewhere in a fold of the hills, summoned by the signal smoke. Crossbows would be pouched to their saddles; but they wouldn't want to damage the merchandise and so wouldn't choose to feather me unless they had to.

No doubt my lips ricked back and my ugly old beakhead turned into that devil's visage, destroying the placid look I adopted as a mere common-sense precaution. Well, by Krun! They'd have cause to—good cause!

They spotted me and circled. There seemed no reason to make it easy for them. A few straggly bushes at the side of the path might prove amusing. This land in the rain shadow of the mountains will sprout green crops if watered, as evidenced by the bounteous plenty of the fields around Paline Valley; here beyond the village's stream the land dusted and grew a sparse grass and thorn bush. I did not take up my position in an ordinary bush; rather I hollowed a space beneath a thorn bush. The flutsmen finished circling and dived steeply down.

These four nasty specimens who wanted to sell me off into slavery annoyed me. The feeling swept over me in an uncontrollable burst of animosity. I had to get to Paline Valley and find out if I could move freely in Hamal, and these four flutsmen detained me. Also, I did not want to use the pit under the thorn bush except as a last resort. I marched out into the open and stared up, shading my eyes.

The flutsmen whooped as they dived, high thin shrieks of ferocious intent. This is a familiar and dreadful sight in many parts of Kregen, this headlong attack from the air by flutsmen who care for no one and nothing besides their own greed.

The first two swung down with a net stretched between them. Like a giant scoop the net swished toward me.

The wing tips of the saddle birds swept scurries of dust into the air. Their beaks extended forward and their eyes fastened on me. Fluttrells, they were, powerful if unsubtle saddle birds with that ridiculous aft vane at the back of their heads. The flutsmen leaned in their saddles, pulling the net taut, guiding themselves one each side of me so that the net would snatch me up as though a giant hand from the sky had reached down to return me to the velvet-lined balass box.

Hard yellow fibers formed the net, bristly and tough; even if I'd had a knife it would have been a chancy business to cut a way free before I was swirled up into the sky.

“Hai! Rast!” screeched the left-hand flutsman. His right fist brandished his long polearm, a sword blade mounted on a shaft to give him reaching effect aloft. His comrade hauled the net as the bight sagged, spouting dust and debris of dead grass. The fluttrells inclined outward a fraction. The net lifted from the ground.

Straight forward I dived. Down flat on my nose and with the wooden stick angled above my head. I felt the sliding hiss of the net as it whipped up across the stick, sliding on and away. Instantly I was on my feet, not looking back but at the next pair of devils.

They wouldn't shoot me yet.

If I knew flutsmen they'd be pleasantly surprised. Someone was not to be snapped up meekly. So—there was sport to be had here! They'd have me in the end, so they would think, and enjoy themselves in the doing of it. I would provide a spot of fun for them.

This little encounter was merely a hindrance to my plans. It was quite unimportant. All the same, a fellow could get himself killed in just this kind of insignificant encounter.

As the first pair of fluttrells winged around in a wide careful bank so as not to rupture the net, I caught sight of them. I ignored them. The second pair alighted in flurries of wingbeats and the riders hopped off. They came for me in a rush, swirling their swords. They'd knock a simple country bumpkin over the head with the flat and pop him into the net. Easy.

Two metal swords, the straight cut and thrusters of Havilfar called thraxters, against a length of lumber. Well, the length of lumber was wielded by a Krozair of Zy who understood the Disciplines of the Sword of the Krozairs. The two came on together, which made it more interesting.

They did exactly as I had surmised. Left hand took a welting great swipe at my head, and right hand slashed at my legs. A sideways lean, a little jump, the wood swirling around as my wrists went over and a neat one, two, thunk, thunk. The wood gonged against helmets. They wore brave clumps of feathers in their helmets, and their flying leathers glistened in the red and green radiance all about, and they went over on their backsides. Blood gushed from right hand's nose and mouth. Left hand could not see, for his helmet jammed down over his face. They both lay on the dusty ground and they did not offer to rise. They did not move at all. Terrible is a Krozair longsword, and terrible even when merely a length of wood, in the hands of a Krozair brother.

A giant rustling of feathers through the air warned me. I skipped sideways very smartly, and went flat down again and rolled and the net skittered past flailing dust and dead grasses.

I stood up. Two metal swords lay fallen from nerveless hands. The fluttrells waited twenty or so paces off. The pair with the net circled again. Two polearms, which the flutsmen call ukras, lay in the dust. There were crossbows pouched on the waiting birds. I kept my grip on my length of wood...

Clearly not fully understanding what had befallen their comrades, the pair with the net tired of trying to snare me. They landed and, together, charged.

When the dust settled I was in possession of the complete equipment of four flutsmen, including their mounts.

One of the sky reivers was not quite dead. I bent to him. Blood dribbled from his ears. His eyes were unfocused. I loosened his flying scarf and eased him, finding water in a bottle strapped to a bird's saddle. Moistening his lips gave him a dying spurt of energy.

“Who—who are you?” He croaked the words.

“Rather, dom, who are you? Your band is near?"

“We gather—in the hills."

Whether or not he knew he was dying, I could not say. But he wanted to talk, and he spent his last few moments on Kregen telling me that an army gathered, here in the sparse land by the Mountains of the West. There were mercenaries from all over, and the flutsmen were hired out to join the army as aerial cavalry. He did not know the numbers involved; but he said the army was large—"Many tents, many totrix cavalry and regiments of paktuns—"

“Not all mercenaries are paktuns,” I said. “Have they all then won so much renown as to be dubbed paktun and wear the silver mortilhead on its silken ribbons at their throats?"

“You mock me, dom. But there are many hyrpaktuns with them who wear the golden zhantilhead, the pakzhan, at their throats. You will not—I think—mock them."

“I do not mock you. But the trade of mercenary has sadly fallen away in these evil times."

I was not about to tell him I had been a flutsman and mercenary myself; he was dying, and so, discovering he worshipped his god, Geasan the Opulent, with some fervor, I was able to administer the last rites he desired. He was lucky. Many and many a man dies on Kregen without that comfort simply because his god is unknown in the place of his death.

Better to be like me, who acknowledges Zair and Opaz—and Djan!—who need no flummery of that kind, being of the spirit.

After he was dead I left him and his comrades to be buried by the birds of the air.

A disturbing and puzzling fact he had mentioned in his dying ramblings was that this army being gathered here was not for use in the west. There were constant incursions of reivers and other unhealthy fighting creatures from the wild lands to the west, and Hamal's borders here had to be kept tight. So where was this army headed?

When I was ready to fly off, riding one bird and the other three in trail on halters, I looked down. I saluted gravely; not the Jikai, certainly not that! His name had been Olan the Stux. His bird carried in a stuxcal eight of the heavy javelins. They might be useful. If he hadn't been so damned anxious about the merchandise—me—and had shot me or stuxed me, he might still be alive. All passes under the hand of Opaz.

With that sobering thought to remind me of the murkiness of the future, crowded with perils, I took off for Paline Valley.

Chapter four

Of a Spark in the Cells

To carry out nefarious undertakings in Hamal was a mite trickier than in most of the lands of Paz, the grouping of continents and islands on our side of Kregen. The iron-hard laws of the Empire of Hamal saw to that.

Flying due north and resting the fluttrells from time to time, feasting from the food in the saddlebags, I headed for Paline Valley. This place, if any in Hamal, I could consider home. The possession of a cover name that was perfectly genuine had proved of inestimable value. The way of it had been simple and touching, for when the wild men from over the mountains slew the old Lord, Naghan, and his son Hamun, I had fought for them and Naghan, dreadfully wounded, had with his dying breath commended Paline Valley to me. He implored me, he demanded from me, he exulted in his plan to make me his son, and faced with this barrage I had accepted the rank of Amak and the name of Hamun ham Farthytu.

I was Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley.

Palines, the lusciously delectable berries that grow just about everywhere on Kregen, it seems, were certainly not growing on the parched land beneath. The ground looked like a rhinoceros's hide before his daily dip. Dust devils whirled. Not a sight of humanity, not a single solitary sight, greeted the eyes of the wayfarer on this route. So it was that the importance of the valleys folded into the foothills would be difficult to overestimate. Here cultivation thrived. Paline Valley was, in my biased opinion, the most beautiful and delightful of them all.

Up here, in the far northwest of Hamal, squeezed in between the Mountains of the West and Skull Bay to the north, Paline Valley was remote and cut off from the rest of the empire. All the same, signs of activity grew as I slanted in.

Lest the sight of four fluttrells winging should be mistaken for a prowling flutsman outflyer force, I was circumspect in landing. Palines grew in riotous profusion about me as I jumped off the lead fluttrell and quietened the others down. They had accepted me readily enough. Their beaks gaped and they twisted those silly head vanes about; they were thirsty.

The people who congregated gaped at me. They were slaves.

I felt a furious anger. I felt dismay. As the Amak here I had given my comrade Nulty strict instructions; no slaves were to be handled in the valley. Nulty knew my name was Dray Prescot. He had served the old Amak loyally, and now he served the new. I'd paid a few quick visits here, from time to time; but the last, because of all the unpleasant happenings in Vallia at the Time of Troubles and what followed, had been some time in the past. Even so, I couldn't believe barrel-body, husky, cheerful Nulty would have taken on slaves. Perhaps he was dead? I sincerely hoped not, for he still had a goodly span of his better than two hundred years of life left yet.

The slaves took care of the fluttrells. Clad in flying leathers, yet left loose and open for the heat, and wearing the best of the captured swords strapped to my belt, I walked along toward the gated entrance of the compound. Paline Valley's main village had been burned to the ground in that dread encounter, and Nulty had rebuilt. Now the oval-shaped area with all the houses facing inward so their backs formed a protective wall was of a greater size than it had been, and there were two protected ovals, joined like an hourglass. The shade trees, the well, the people and dogs and calsanys and all the scuttle and bustle of a busy estate brought back the memories.

Two hefty fellows carrying exceedingly knobby sticks walked down and accosted me. Their hairlines and their eyebrows were on nodding acquaintance. They were apim, like me.

“Haiu, dom, and what do you want?"

“No Llahal?” I said, calling their attention to their lack of courtesy in not using the universal form of greeting for a stranger. “And who, dom, are you?"

“You are a Havil-forsaken yetch of a flutsman."

“No. Where is the Crebent?"

Nulty was the Crebent, a kind of bailiff and majordomo and chief troubleshooter rolled into one, and I trusted him.

“There is no Crebent, dom. But there are two of us. You'd best come along quietly, for all you wear a sword. We are used to swords. The Amak will want a word with you."

“The Amak?"

This so much surprised and amused me I allowed myself to be escorted along to the imposing four-story house at the end of the compound. A lot was going on. A few soldiers lounged around the well, laughing and joking. They did not look particularly bright specimens of swods, the ordinary soldiers, and their uniforms were more raggedy than was seemly for representatives of the iron legions of Hamal.

One of my escorts, the one whose nostrils bristled hair, snorted. “Useless onkers."

His companion, who was missing his left ear, spat into the dust. “Line of Supply. They eat us out of house and home. The quicker they go the better."

“But,” I said. “Do they not protect you against the wild men from over the mountains?"

Both escorts laughed, showing black snaggly teeth.

“The Amak has the mirvols, beautiful flyers all, and powerful men to fly them. And you speak small when the Amak addresses you."

The mirvol perching towers, indeed, were loaded with splendid flying animals. The two-story house nearby was the barracks for the Amak's personal force. In the old days they had been volunteers from Paline Valley. This new Amak, whoever he was, would have hired mercenaries, I did not doubt.

The house struck cool. Rush mats covered the floor and walls. The light of the twin suns was muted. Water tinkled.

Whoever this fellow was who called himself the Amak, he'd built a splendid house. As I was the Amak, I rather fancied I would enjoy living here.

Although I had removed most of the flaunting marks and feathers and streamers from the flying leathers, the supple clothing was still enough to brand me a flutsman. The four fluttrells also would give this impression. There had seemed no reason not to fly straight to the valley. How I erred in this! After all these seasons, I could still make the most elementary mistake in life on Kregen. The seriousness of this mistake bore in on me only slowly—two stout overseers with cudgels, well, they had not amounted to much. The talk of some resident Amak would be straightened out. But the rank of paktuns who waited for us in the hall and who stuck to me like glue were quite another matter.

“Keep silent. March with us. If you run you will be cut down."

The words slapped out crisp and yet, somehow, flat. The Deldar in command possessed a face much worn away by drink. We marched along the corridor to see that the Amak and the two overseers, their duty done, went back to their work. They could be going up to the paline fields or out onto the dusty grasslands to see that the cattle were herded properly. I confess, I am still enthralled at the sight of vast herds of cattle being handled not by men riding animals on the ground, but flying saddle birds of the air. To see the swift flight, the swerve, and the way the cattle instinctively obey—that is a sight, by Krun!

We marched out under a curved tile roof and the suns blinded down. I blinked. This small open space, after the fashion of an atrium, contained besides the expected fountain and pool and green plants and flowers, the ugly blot of a flogging frame.

Four men, backs bare, were strung up and being flogged.

They were all unconscious. Their heads lolled. The stylor at the side with his slate chalked off the lashes as the Deldars of the Whip struck. I felt that foolish expression on my face tightening and I had to force myself to remain composed. This needed explanation—and perhaps the four men deserved punishment? Although even devoted Nulty would not hand out so vicious a punishment unless the crime was horrendous.

The Deldar commanding the detail marching me along called across. He sounded right jovial.

“Hey, Manchi—save a place for this rast!"

The stylor glanced up, his chalk poised. His lips were very red. “They're all the same to me, Deldar Hruntag. Wheel ‘em up and I'll jikaider ‘em."

The paktuns sniggered and on we marched under the opposite roof and along a corridor where crossbowmen and spearmen stood guard and so to the anteroom of the Amak. Here I was halted and we waited. As Deldar Hruntag said: “You may be a miserable spy for the flutsmen; but the Amak has duties. You wait."

Now, despite all that I had witnessed, and although I could not believe it of Nulty, I was prepared in the deepest recesses of my ugly thoughts to perceive Nulty waiting in judgment. I could not believe it of him; but I was prepared for him to have taken over as Amak.

So that when we wheeled in and I noticed the hall as a place of color and some provincial magnificence, I looked at the man sitting in his chair raised on a dais and felt a profound and grateful sense of relief.

And, immediately thereafter, a profound and alarmed sense of concern for Nulty.

The Amak of Paline Valley looked to be on the younger side of his first half-century, a nervous, intense, dark man, with a leanness to nose and chin and a thinness to lips I found displeasing—and then corrected my prejudiced thoughts. His hair, very dark, lay plastered to his scalp so that he looked like a weasel. He stared at me. He was not at first sight at all a nice kind of person.

“So this is the flutsman spy."

I waited, looking around. I was not bound. I wore my sword. The fellow in his chair, which was done up in gilts and ivories and smothered in a truly magnificent zhantil pelt, a blaze of gold, rested his narrow chin on his fist, which looked all bone, and glowered at me.

I waited no longer.

“I am not a flutsman. Where is Nulty, the Crebent of Paline Valley?"

The command Deldar gave me a backhander across the face. He would have done, except that I moved and he stumbled past. I let him topple on, merely contenting myself with tripping him.

“Answer me, usurper! What have you done with Nulty?"

As you see, I was just as stupid as ever I'd been on Kregen.

All kinds of clever stratagems occurred to me when I woke up in the cells.

The place was dimly lit by a torch mounted just outside the bars. Filthy straw half-covered the stone floor. The walls were bare. Iron chains lay here and there stapled to the walls. No skeletons lay in grotesque bone-yellow contortions within the chains; so I gathered that the Amak killed his prisoners off sharply. A bundle stirred and moaned in the shadows, and another rolled over. A voice spoke from the other side.

“Lie still, Nath. Give your back time to ease."

I knew the voice.

I said, “Nulty!"

The voice whispered. “Is it you—the Amak—is it...?"

A squat form shambled forward to the end of the chain's tether. Torchlight fell across the filthy, bearded, exhausted face of my comrade Nulty, Crebent of Paline Valley.

“When we get out of here, Nulty,” I said. “We will let this fellow who calls himself the Amak test these chains."

Nulty sank to his knees. He had been a laughing, barrel-bodied man, constantly in scrapes of which I knew I never learned the quarter. Then I saw his hands. They were knotted into useless lumps, so I knew the cramps that had troubled him had finally destroyed his dexterity.

“Nulty! Brace up. We've been in trouble before—"

“Aye, master. But not like this. And he was my son, my adopted son, and this is his reward for love."

So the story came out when Nulty got over his amazement at my appearance here. It was not clever. Responsible for the whole management of the valley, Nulty had looked around for someone to train up to replace him when he died. Having no family of his own, he had selected a bright and promising lad from a distant cousin's union with a rapscallion of a paktun. The lad was called Hardil the Mak for his black hair. He had promised much and Nulty loved him. Then it all turned sour and Hardil had proclaimed himself Amak, hired his bully boys, ousted Nulty and those faithful to me, and set about making it all legal in the law courts at Ruathytu, the capital.

I said, “I blame myself. Absentee landlords are a sin; but sometimes are unavoidable."

“Not you, notor, not you. Me. I should have descried his character. Bad blood."

“Your hands?"

He was over the first wonderment, now, and so he said matter-of-factly, “Nothing could cure them. They curled up on me and remain curled, useless. It is a judgment."

“Nonsense! We'll find a cure."

I was thinking of the sacred pool of baptism in far Aphrasöe, the Swinging City of the Savanti. A cup of that milky fluid would cure Nulty. That was on my personal agenda for the future.

I said, “I do not have a great deal of time. There are affairs I must manage in Ruathytu."

“Making sure Hardil is ejected as Amak?"

“That, too. The laws are strict. Possession is a great deal; but not all. I am the Amak—as you witnessed, Nulty—and so if this Hardil the Mak is not slain he will stand condemned."

A voice croaked from the straw.

“I believe you to be the real Amak, notor. But Hardil holds the power."

Nulty barked roughly. “Hold still, Nath! You do not know the notor. He will sort this out. I give thanks to all the gods he has returned."

The sinking sensation this kind of faith produced had to be brushed aside. I said, “What support has Hardil apart from his hired paktuns? Can you rely on our people? Tell me the whole situation, Nulty."

Truth to tell, I was anxious to press on to such an extent I was in danger of minimizing the peril here. I just did not want to waste a lot of time. But events forced me to the understanding that I had to take care of these people, who had vowed allegiance to me as their Amak, before I could think of leaving them. This Hardil, following along the road of many a usurper, had instituted a reign of terror to seat himself securely. What was needed to topple him was some way of dealing with his bully boys. His coup had taken place when men of Paline Valley, forming part of an aerial cavalry regiment, had been badly beaten in some sky skirmish. The histories of the wars would not mention that little affray; it had denuded Paline Valley of many stout fighting men.

Again, as is in the nature of these affairs, the survivors were undecided how best to deal with Hardil and divided in their councils. Hardil flogged, maimed and killed. So far he had not killed Nulty, which that tough man attributed to a lingering regard on the part of the usurping Amak for his old foster father. I did not mention that more probably it was a matter of policy. Nulty could do nothing chained in the cells; dead he might become a martyr. That was not certain, but it had its precedents.

“But, master, I could have done something, chained though I am. But my hands, and the ingratitude, and—something died in me."

“We will do it now, Nulty, old friend, and we will do it together."

The bundle of misery on the straw grunted disbelief. So I set myself to kindling the spark here, in the cells. That, it seemed to me, was not only a good place to start, it was the only damned place, by Krun.

The need for speed impelled me to shortcuts. Away in Vallia and in Hyrklana armies were being gathered to invade Hamal. I had to do my part. Perhaps the presence of Train of Supply troops in the valley aided me, for they were sloppy and generally not actively fit men, and their attitudes infected the paktuns hired by Hardil. Slackness spreads insidiously.

The food—awful gunk in pottery bowls—was brought by a bent-over Och crone. The only thing of interest was the spoon. This was wooden. So the first and most simple plan was dashed.

Nulty said, “The guard commander—?"

“Right, Nulty, you old devil. You're coming back to life already."

Had the guard Deldar been up to his job he would never have obliged us. My own instructions to my lads back home covered this kind of unpleasant contingency. He was not foolish enough actually to enter our cell carrying the keys. He glowered down, very bulky, sweating, his leather creaking.

“You cramph,” he said, using the insult with relish. “You'd better have something to say. I am not summoned lightly. What do you want?"

I reached over.

“This."

I took his throat between my fists and choked a little, enough to take his mind off going for his sword. He fell down. We got his sword out and the point only broke off when the second staple was free. I threw the chains on the straw and started in on Nulty.

“Hurry, master. One of his men will be along..."

“Don't feel sorry for him, Nulty."

And Nulty laughed. “Oh, no! Not at all."

Nulty's staples came out more easily, for he'd been working on them, the cunning old leem. He could not hold a sword. I looked down on the miserable bundles on the straw, and one of them, the one called Nath, showed the whites of his eyes.

“Free me, notor, please!"

“And you will help against this rast Hardil?"

“Aye!"

He was one arm freed when the guard wandered along to see what had happened to his Deldar. The slackness had, indeed, spread. Had it not, we would not have gained our freedom so easily. The guard collapsed and we had a second sword. This I preserved, for it possessed a point.

When the bundle of misery called Nath stood up, he said, “Give me the guard's dagger, notor."

I handed it across. We had ourselves a recruit.

Chapter five

Concerning Nulty's Sword Arm

We stood in the guardroom and surveyed the five unconscious mercenaries. Nulty's hands prevented him from helping us tie up the guards. Nath and his companion in misery, Lardo—the other two had died on the flogging frames—were not up to taking part in heavy fighting. Refusing to kill the mercenaries in cold blood, I made sure they were bound and gagged securely. Had I wished them slain they'd have died when we burst in here.

“We've made a start,” said Nulty, with a considerable return of his husky manner.

“We'll never—” began Lardo. He was a squat, bushy man with a bulbous nose.

“Not if you do not believe it,” I said. “We must contact the people loyal to Nulty—"

“Loyal to you, master,” interrupted Nulty, a heinous sin in retainers but one in which Nulty had tended to indulge himself freely.

“Loyal to proper management of the valley. From what you tell me, Hardil is a tyrant."

“And unpleasant with it, notor,” said Nath.

It seemed to me, what with Nulty's crippled hands and Nath and Lardo walking like crabs with their injured backs, any heavy fighting would devolve on me. Well, and wasn't that what being the Amak was about—in part, at any rate?

Whatever day it was in Kregen's Havilfarian calendar was dying. I was not clear how much time had clasped since I'd been thrown into the cells. We slunk out into the twinned shadows of the compound. A few lights were already going on, and the smells of one of the evening meals wafted in mouth-wateringly. A parcel of guards came along to relieve their comrades, and they had to be knocked on the head and put to sleep. Only two died.

Nulty had found himself a length of rope, and he made Nath and Lardo tie a sword hilt to his wrist and crippled right hand. The blade was reasonably firm, and he it was who cut one of the reliefs down, smiting furiously, unable to judge the exact strength of the blow with the strapped-up sword.

“I did not mean to slay him, master. But his god must have turned his face away from him. The rast."

I did not laugh, for Nulty would not expect that. Grim and horrible though the circumstances were, they were fit subjects for humor, considering what we attempted and the means at our disposal.

All the same, there were men and women loyal to Nulty because he was the Crebent and a just man, and not merely willing to fight for him against Hardil because Hardil was a usurping rast.

“You'll have to keep out of it if we engage in any heavy fighting, Nulty. That contraption strapped to your arm is all very well, but—"

“I'll fight, master. You'll see."

“And,” I said as he swung the strapped steel about, gesticulating, “you'll have to be a damned sight more careful with it. You'll have our eyes out or our heads off."

He let rip a snort of amused disgust, compounded of anger at his predicament and delight in the return of hope and the conceit of his friends’ heads a-rolling on the straw.

“I'll be careful, master."

We had to move with energy and speed. The first house Nulty selected proved to contain a family who would dearly love to string Hardil high and toast his soles. The head of the household, a hard grainy man with a scarred face, spread his hands.

“We are all overjoyed that the true Amak has returned. But we are without weapons, for the Amak—Hardil the Mak—has taken them all away."

This was not the poser it might have seemed. Nath and Lardo unrolled the blanket in which we had wrapped the guards’ gear. “Take your pick."

That put a very different complexion on the whole affair.

“There are more where those came from,” I said.

From a silly raggle-taggle group trying to topple a lord in power, we slowly grew in strength to a tidy little force. The hired mercenaries would prove the chief problem. Maybe they were slack and not on the top line; for all that they remained men whose trade was killing. I confess I hesitated; it would have been easy for me, now that I was free, to seize a flying beast and simply leave Paline Valley and head for Ruathytu. In a sober assessment of the situation that is probably what I should have done. Life was just bearable for the people here with Hardil in charge. He was vicious and cruel; but his time would pass. Was it only my own self-esteem that made me persevere? Was it a lust for power? All I needed from the valley was a name; Nulty could run the place admirably. Why should men risk their lives just for an Amak who was hardly ever around?

And then one of the people who had taken up a captured sword said, “Notor! We bless the day you return to us, for now we shall be free from a burden on our minds."

Perhaps that was the turning point. A burden on their bodies was expected; but a burden on their minds ... ?

So we went up against Hardil the Mak and his bought blades and we fought them.

We had to be clever. We had to use all the advantages that people fighting in their own village possess over intruders. Young lads, whooping with joy, flung lassos from rooftops and snared up the mercenaries. Nets dropped from the shadows and entangled fighting men so that they might be stuxed where they struggled. The mercenaries quickly tired of earning their hire, for they were of middling quality only, and they attempted to strike bargains with the people. At that time I was having a merry little ding-dong with a group of the guards who had escorted me into Hardil's imposing house. They were being bested, and starting to fall away, and run, when Nulty ran up, shouting that the mercenaries had surrendered, crying quarter, and would enter the service of the old Amak.

“The new Amak is done for, his power forfeit, his charade at an end,” I said, for the benefit of the listening paktuns. “The old Amak has returned to his home."

They got the message.

I left the elders to sort out the details, and accompanied by Nulty and a group of my people with swords in their fists went off to find out about Hardil the Mak. He was discovered cowering in a chest stuffed with silks and sensils, shaking, and yet very ready to damn and blast us all. What he expected at our hands must remain a mystery. Nulty stepped forward to speak to him, and a woman—little more than a slip of a girl with wild brown hair and blank eyes—leaped. The dagger in her fist flamed. She plunged the blade into Hardil's throat, above his tunic and jerkin, dragged it out stained with blood, and so drove it in, again and again, screaming, until she was pulled away. She stood, blood-splashed, quivering, straining to get at Hardil.

He needed no further ministrations on Kregen.

“Lalli,” said Nulty in a reproving voice. He knelt at Hardil's side, and I remembered he had adopted the black-haired boy as his son. Nulty bowed his head and we stood respectfully.

Presently, Nulty stood up. The sword strapped to his arm scraped on the floor.

“He was misguided, poor lad, and turned into a monster. But he promised well, at the beginning. I am sad it turned out like this."

Lalli screeched.

“Yes, yes,” said Nulty. And, “Help Lalli to her bed, someone. She'll be better when the child is born."

Well, there is no guarantee of that, on Kregen as on Earth.

“It was no plan of mine that Hardil should die,” I told Nulty.

“I know you, master, and I know you speak the truth. Mayhap it was better that he did, after all."

Everyone gathered in the main compound under the light of Kregen's first moon, the Maiden with the Many Smiles, and the mercenaries were discharged. They would find employment very quickly and remain tazll for only a short time in Hamal where armies were being formed for projects unknown. I asked after the army of whose structure I remained ignorant, and the soldiers here, who had remained strictly aloof from the fighting, knew nothing beyond their orders, which required them to provide food and provender. An army demands enormous quantities of supplies and mad Empress Thyllis was not choosy about how she obtained the sinews of war.

The Hikdar in command of this supply detachment said to me, “So, notor, you are the real Amak. But it is all one to us. We collect supplies for the army, and you or the other Amak will provide them."

He was a lean man with a tic in his left eye, and a shriveled left arm. I refused to allow myself to think that I was providing supplies for the enemy.

“You will take what your requisitions call for, Hikdar, and not a single sack more."

“Oh, aye, notor. We'll take what the law allows."

And that was a lot, a voracious lot, by Krun.

To Nulty, privily, I said, “We must arrange to depress the figures next season, so that we appear poorer than we are."

“Aye, master. I do not relish growing crops for these leeches to take away."

“Well, every little helps..."

“And we can leave the cattle in the high pastures for a little longer."

“You will risk the wild men—"

“Our young men not in the army can care for the cattle. You will see."

Nulty had striven hard to rebuild the valley and had attracted fresh settlers. Paline Valley was resuming the importance it had once held in the surrounding valleys. Paline was the center one of the Three Valleys—Hammarat, Paline and Thyriodon—and they were all remote and isolated from the current of events in Hamal. Now that I was certain I might travel the empire using my name of Hamun ham Farthytu the urgency to be off obsessed me. Yet much had to be done here for humanity's sake before I could leave.

When I saw Nulty after he had himself cleaned up I gaped. His shock of wild hair was trimmed, his bulbous nose looked respectable, and his walk was not the shambling progression of a hairy graint. Only his twisted hands struck an incongruous note. He wore a neat white tunic cinctured by a plain leather belt—plain but for two plaques of bronze showing, one a chavonth, the other a zorca. He looked spick and span.

“And you will be leaving us soon, master?"

“I must. But Paline Valley can now look forward to a period of prosperity again.” I frowned. “You had best show me the treasure young Hardil amassed."

Nulty's face expressed amazement only for two heartbeats; then he sighed and lifted a hand.

“I should have remembered, master, you are as cunning as a leem. Yes, Hardil kept treasure hoarded up for himself."

“It must be returned to its owners—"

“Most of them are dead."

“Then, as the Amak, I will take a tithe. The balance goes to the valley. That is understood?"

“Understood, master."

“Make it so."

The box of tough lenken wood bound in black iron stood under Hardil's bed. Some of Nulty's people dragged the chest out and smashed the locks. They threw the lid back. We all stared in. Treasure ... Ah, treasure! This was the muck men fought and killed for, this was the wonder women schemed for...

There was a fair old quantity of gold and silver, some boxes of gems. Kregans are aware of the magic inherent in a gem if it is cut and faceted, unlike the Ancients of our own world. We hauled the stuff out and Nulty appointed a young stylor to make a reckoning, with elders standing by to oversee. The stylor Manchi was not available. Privately, Nulty told me he thought someone had chopped the stylor's head off and stuffed him into a crack in the mountains. The Whip Deldars, too, suffered a similar fate. Deprecate the bestiality as much as we may, we must also face human nature. So the stylor carefully wrote down an account. I picked up a fine sword. It was a thraxter, but of a fineness that had caused it to be regarded as a treasure rather than a weapon. I hefted it. I bent the blade and it twanged back sweetly.

“Yes, master?” said Nulty.

“Write this among my share,” I said.

No one argued.

Perhaps that was as it should be, too. I know I was aware of the amusement that a Hamalian treasure store had yielded a superb sword for an enemy of Hamal. On the blade the etched magical brudstern in its usual open flower shape showed the blade to be of value. Folk tend to whisper rather than proclaim the magic properties inherent in the brudstern. To me it meant simply the blade had been valued by someone enough to make me accept it as a brand of quality.

Outside, in the sweet air of Kregen, Nulty cocked a fishy eye up at me. “When, notor?"

“I grieve to say it, old friend. But as soon as possible."

“I feared so."

“Then do not fear. You know I repose complete trust in you. You have made of Paline Valley a paradise among the hills. The people love and respect you. I shall be back again to drink a stoup of ale with you and talk over the old days."

“Make it sooner rather than later."

“I will, as Havil is my witness."

A week, I decided, would not be too much of a crime against my people of Vallia. A sennight I would spend with my people of Paline Valley, who were at war with Vallia. As Nulty said, screwing up his eyes against sunglare as the drums rolled from the watchtowers: “We may be cut off and isolated here, but we try to keep abreast of the news. Pandahem island is all ours now, and parts of Vallia. I have heard little from the south, from the Dawn Lands recently.” Then he snorted one of his barking laughs. “I heard precious little, stuck in the cells."

The drum beat brought the people out of the houses. We all stared up. Wide-winged shapes drifted down among the streaming mingled rays of the Suns of Scorpio. Caught by Nulty's appraisal of Hamal's situation, for if anybody could, he represented grass-roots opinion, I stared at those shapes drifting down. I was surprised. More—I was flabbergasted.

“What—?” I said.

“Aye, master. The new flying ships of the air. Do not ask me why the Air Service uses them, although it is whispered they run short of essential commodities in voller manufacture."

Hamal was never a great seafaring nation; they control airboats, which they call vollers. Together with Hyrklana and other countries of the Dawn Lands—and in Balintol or eastwards, we now believed—they had supplied Paz with vollers, always refusing to sell to old enemies. The secrets of voller manufacture were jealously guarded. We in Vallia had developed flying ships which could rise in the air and grip onto etheric-magnetic lines of force and so sail the skies, tacking and making boards against the wind. It had not seemed Hamal with her sky-spanning fleets of enormous ships would need to descend to mere vessels powered by wind and sails. But, clearly, they had. As the ships of the Train of Supply furled their sails and made bumpy landings, I saw only one true voller, swinging high as tail guard.

Also, I observed that the Hamalese made unhandy sailors.

“They have come to take our produce from us.” Nulty was grumpy, bowing under the inevitability of taxation. “Vultures."

“The empire needs supplies, Nulty."

“Oh, yes. We must needs feed and clothe our armies and provender their animals. But we have to defend ourselves against the wild men from the Mountains of the West. And our soldiers are away in the Dawn Lands, or Vallia.” He cocked an eye up at me. “They say your namesake there, Dray Prescot, who is the Emperor of Vallia, is a devil spawned from hell and should be stuffed and roasted to a cinder."

“So they say."

Then Nulty surprised me. We walked slowly in the suns light toward the grounded sailing ships of the sky. Nulty said: “Now if the Dray Prescot who is Hamun ham Farthytu could be the Dray Prescot who is Emperor of Vallia, I think he would run things very differently, very differently, by Havil the Green!"

I digested this. If you understand that I felt very small you will not be far from the truth. Difficult to feel ashamed, though, damned difficult, when I was just a simple ordinary sailor man trying to run an empire and chuck out the slavers and the aragorn and the thieving flutsmen and reiving mercenaries, and then trying to join all the lands of Paz into a friendship that was genuine and would last, so that we might together turn our attention to the Opaz-forsaken Shanks who raided us all with fire and blood and misery. Damned difficult.

“Well, Nulty, old friend. I'm just the Amak of Paline Valley here, and have work to do in Ruathytu."

The officers in charge of the supply position were barely polite. I saw they were annoyed at being forced to fly sailing ships of the air, which the Hamalese called famblehoys, instead of queening it through the upper levels aboard vollers. We in Vallia sometimes called our flying sailing ships vorlcas, and as you will see, the two names reflect the respective worth in which the countries held their sky sailers. No doubts at all afflicted me that I must take a very careful look at these aerial vessels. The officers bore down, and although second line troops, the uniforms blazed bullion and lace and flaunted feathers. Nulty pulled a face, and then we were busy trying to keep as much of our produce as we could for ourselves.

Eventually I could leave Nulty and the elders to handle this end of affairs—they'd been doing it and would continue to do it while I was away—and could saunter over to the famblehoys. The aerial ships were large, bulky, deep-keeled, cobbled together and ugly, deuced ugly. The pattern from which they had been copied, it was plain, had come from Vallia.

Good sound timber had been used in their construction, and iron, plenty of iron to act as knees and brackets and generally to hold things together. The masts were solid, somewhat on the short side, and the yards were mere stumps when compared with those gracing galleons or vorlcas of Vallia. This fitted with the Hamalese ideas of seamanship.

Putting on my inane face I puttered around, studying the ships, and drew a number of amused or contemptuous looks from the voswods on the decks, who, being aerial soldiers, would not sully their hands with shipwork or lading. There were precious few soldiers for a convoy of this size, some fifty famblehoys. The produce the fleet could fit into the holds would be enormous. In the name of the Invisible Twins! Where was it going? West against the wild men? Unlikely. South to that mysterious army forming in the sparse land there? Possibly. North—north to Vallia? This, in my frame of mind, seemed the most likely, and raging and cursing at myself, feeling the anxieties crowding on me, I thought how splendid it would be to burn this whole fleet.

By Zair! That would crimp mad Thyllis's ambitions!

But, then—a single supply train of the air, fifty huge ships, well, they would carry a dismayingly small part of all the supplies Hamal had on the move. Still—it would be a start.

The tragedy was, I'd have to burn the supplies, also.

Maybe something might be arranged...

My fondness for Paline Valley was overcoming my sworn duty. Hateful though it would be, and no matter how onerous the task, this must be done.

Barging my way back to see Nulty, I recalled that he had said that Dray Prescot would handle things differently from Dray Prescot. Well, by the Black Chunkrah! now was his chance to see how Dray Prescot, Krozair of Zy, Emperor of Vallia, would handle it!

Chapter six

Of Freedom, Fires and Flyers

“The hospitality of Paline Valley is at your disposal, Jiktar,” I said to the officer commanding this Train of Supply. “Wine, food, music, all are yours to command. As to girls, you must pay in blood, if you wish, in that department."

He took my meaning.

All the same, during the festivities in which Nulty raised his eyebrows at the lavishness of ale and wine and dopa I insisted be poured out, a couple of half-drunken voswods attempted young Pansi, who cared for the chickens in the smaller compound. The two were apprehended before much mischief had been done, although Pansi, bleeding from a bruised mouth and her dress ripped, continued to cry out of shock. I said to the Jiktar, a bulky man with a gut and a half, who squinted most dreadfully, “I am not minded to be merciful in this."

“It is an army matter—"

“Not so. I am a noble of Hamal, and you are under my jurisdiction here. There will be a trial."

The laws of Hamal, being tighter than those of the Medes and Persians, lay down observances in all likely situations. I brought the full weight to bear, the full weight carried by a noble, which weight has been used against me enough times, to be sure. A court was set up in the outer room of the Amak's house, a defending counsel was appointed from the supply train's officers, our young bokkerim, that is to say lawyer, Danghandi the Quill, prosecuted, and I presided. I wanted to make it fast.

There was no doubt as to the accuseds’ guilt, for they had been seen by dour Honglo the Surly, and Pansi swore through her tears they were the two. Defense pleaded in mitigation that the girl was unharmed. Danghandi made Pansi turn her face to the samphron oil lamps’ gleam.

“See the bruise! See the blood!” She had not washed it off. “Harm! Who can say what her ib has suffered?"

I said, “The case is proved. Sentence alone remains."

And there was the rub.

The two voswods looked appalled, frightened, dejected. Damned fools. They deserved all they got. But, all the same, what punishment fitted this crime? The laws of Hamal had it all written out fair and square, and there was nothing I could do but endorse what the book said. The men were led off to be flogged.

Not nice, not nice at all. I bent my head to Nulty.

“This augurs ill."

“Aye, master. The soldiers drink us dry."

I did not say, “So much the better.” It was in my mind.

That nasty little business kept the soldiers steadfastly at their drinking instead of roving for other pleasures. So, in Opaz's good time, it worked to my advantage.

I said, “In order to prevent further molestation, make sure a squad of your best young men stay alert and do not drink. They may be needed."

“Yes, master."

“I will retire now. See I am not disturbed on any pretext."

“Yes, master."

A little wind gusted the dust in the light of the torches. I entered the inner rooms and chased out the people who wanted to fuss. We were already manumitting the slaves and arranging for their future welfare as free men and women. I had taken the precaution of finding out Hardil's secret escape hole, and, stripping off the white robe, I wound the scarlet cloth about me and took up a cheap mineral oil lamp. Only a dagger would be needed. I crept out through the secret hole and, running fleetly in the night, reached the far windward end of the ship lines. I looked about.

Each ship slumbered like a stricken behemoth. They might not in truth be stricken yet; very soon they would be. And when that happened I must be safely back in my chambers. The first ship caught at once, the dry wood crackling up in a flare and taking cordage and tarred wood and painted wood and all the gimcrack finery the Hamalians had spared to their despised flying sailers. The flames streamed in the wind. Three ships I fired, one after the other, and then the night watch started in yelling.

Scurries of wind bore the flames down on the next ships in line. That would have to do. The succeeding ships would burn as readily as the first, and the wind would roar the flames on. I hurtled back to the secret hole and ducked in. A hammering on the door indicated Nulty considered the emergency of sufficient importance to wake me despite my instructions. I'd counted on that, knowing Nulty of old.

The scarlet cloth went under the bed. The mineral oil lamp, out but still warm, went with it. I grabbed a simple green wraparound and opened the door. Lights and faces glared in.

“Fire, notor! The ships burn!"

I shouted. I shouted so that they would understand over the hubbub. “If the ships are doomed, then save the cargo! Unload our supplies and see they are safe! Bratch!"

At the command bratch, they bratched, jumping as though I had branded them with words.

Well, our people started in unloading the ships that were still unburned, hurling the bales and boxes out, ferrying the sacks, working like fiends. My orders had been to see the stuff was safe. I had said: Our supplies. See they are safe.

You do not need two good eyes to guide a donkey.

Just how many supplies would be yielded up to the supply officers I could not judge. Precious little, I suspected. And every sack, every bale my folk spirited away was another item to add to the loss suffered by the Hamalian armed forces.

Capital!

Criminal, illegal, horrible—maybe. Gallant conduct in battle—no. But warfare—ah, yes!

If a general is the best tactician and strategist in two worlds and does not understand logistics, he is doomed.

Of the fifty ships the flames spared only five. The neatly mathematical mooring arrangements, inherent in Hamalian military techniques, simply provided the fires with fresh fuel, ship after ship. The five were successfully sailed off before the flames reached them. Afterwards there was a certain amount of difficulty over the supplies removed; but we straightened it all out. I walked down to the heaps of black refuse, shining and cindery, still smoking, smelling of charred hopes. These had once been ships. The memory of the way the fires leaped eagerly up, the crack and sizzle of the flames, the colors and the heat, burned in my brain. The whole episode had not been pleasant, except a blow had been struck against Hamal.

“At least, we won't starve next season,” remarked Nulty. And then he kept his own counsel.

In a petty kind of revenge against his bad fortune, the Jiktar of the Supply Train had a shot at requisitioning our saddle flyers. The mirvols on the perching towers were a fine crop that season. I quickly disabused the man of that idea.

“We need the saddle flyers to withstand the raids of the wild men from over the mountains. When the soldiers provide us with protection, then, mayhap, you may take our mirvols."

He tried to bluster and saw, by the laws, he was in the wrong. Oh, he threatened to return with a requisitioning warrant. If he did so, Nulty would know what to do with our mirvols. As though to underline the significance of this incident a patrol of Hamalian army flyers settled with a rush of wings. They had been descried by our lookouts at a distance and authenticated. They flew pale blue and white fluttlanns, smallish birds and a trifle slow, who are willing up to a point and do not eat overmuch. They can barely carry two riders. But they breed phenomenally and are cheap. The patrol leader, a Deldar who would never rise in rank to Hikdar now, walked up to me, saluting with gauntleted hand. He wore a full beard, the lines around his eyes were caked with grime pouching pits of tiredness. His blue uniform was ragged and faded; but his weapons were clean and sharp. The matoc was bellowing at the patrol, some twenty flyers, and keeping them in order while their Deldar sorted out lodgings and food. I gave orders that the Deldar and his men should be treated well.

“And, master, that is all the army can provide the Three Valleys, and Folding Mountain and High-Trail Forks, to give us protection.” Nulty spoke as much to the Jiktar of the supply service as to me.

“I suppose they fly from valley to valley on patrol,” I said. And, then, in a mean spirit, I added, “I would guess they pray each night that they do not meet wild men on a raid."

Nulty put a hand to his mouth. The Jiktar's brows drew down. But I waved a hand, very much your high and mighty Hamalian lord, acting the part of one of those hateful abusers of authority. “You will be leaving us soon, Jiktar? Good. We have the valley to make flourish again ready for your return. It is not for us to go around collecting food; we have to grow it."

He spluttered.

I went on: “And the hides. Our hides are of the finest. Our people have to grow the animals, and skin the hides, and we tan with birch-bark and emboss a beautiful grain with cunning rollers, and then the hides are bundled ready for you to come and collect—and you burn them all up."

“There is going to be an inquiry, notor.” He could hardly get the words out. His face was the color of bruised plum. “A strict inquiry—"

“And very proper, too. Someone was damned lax. As for me, I was asleep at the time. And my people were abed. By themselves.” The meaning about the two idiots and Pansi did not escape him. “The laws require me or my Crebent to make full reports of any trials held under our jurisdiction here."

He didn't like that.

As soon as he could he collected his swods and they trooped silently into the five remaining famblehoys. When they took off and spread their canvas into a tidy breeze, we all breathed easier.

The incident had given me hope. And the sight of tough flutswods of the Hamalian army flying brave but inferior little fluttlanns also gave me a lift. Thyllis was really scraping the barrel to continue her wars. And this reminded me that as the man responsible for Vallia I ought to be commanding armies and maneuvering fleets instead of fiddling about burning a few flying sailers. Ruathytu beckoned. I now knew I could move about Hamal freely using my name of Hamun ham Farthytu. There, in the capital city, I could do more good than here in Paline Valley, and, perhaps, if the gods smiled, more even than commanding those armies and maneuvering those fleets.

A last few duties had to be discharged.

Pansi had to be reassured and I made sure that all we could do was done for her. Lalli, too, had to receive the best attention. Sundry other folk were dealt with according to their desserts. The slaves were integrated. This was not easy, it never is; but Nulty and I showed what we intended and the people who had been slave responded. The valley was not overcrowded yet, and fresh settlers were still welcome. The sennight I had promised myself passed, six busy days, and then I selected a middling quality mirvol from the perching towers.

“But, master!” protested Nulty. “You should take the best."

“No so, old friend. Where I am going he is likely to be stolen as quick as my purse. By the government if nobody else. He will fly me to Ruathytu, never fear."

Amid a dust-blowing threshing of wings the mirvol took off, and the shouts of “Remberee!” shrilled into the morning air. Middling quality this mirvol might have been; he was a superb flying animal, strong and limber, hurling me on through the sky headlong to Ruathytu and perils I could not imagine.

Buckling up the straps of the clerketer tightly I leaned forward along his neck and we pelted into the windrush. A sack of provisions and a sack of coins balanced each other at his sides, for I had taken plenty of food and a share of gold. The fine thraxter snugged in the scabbard. I had a knife at my belt and a crossbow pouched by my knee. That had belonged to an Opaz-forsaken flutsman. The four fluttrells I had left with Nulty, for he had plans for them for the future.

So, whirling across the sky, I flew for Ruathytu, capital city of the empire at war with my own country.

There remained one adventure at least before I reached the brilliant and decadent city at the fork of the rivers, and it began unspectacularly enough as I slanted in to a landing in the square of a small town toward evening. This was Thalansen, two temples, a fortress, a scattering of industry, mostly cattle and mining, huddled houses of brick and enough taverns and inns to make it not worthwhile to count them. The lingering radiance of the twin suns of Antares flooded the town with jade and ruby and cast twinned shadows long and umber. I sent Bluenose, the mirvol, to the perching tower before the inn called The Fluttrell Feather and with my sacks over my shoulder pushed open the door.

Fingers grabbed the sacks and someone hit me over the head with an exceedingly knobby stick.

Chapter seven

Some Artists of Kregen

Had those fingers not grabbed for the sacks first, there was every chance the very knobby stick would have hit me four square. That scrabbling slide of warning gave me time enough to lunge sideways. The confoundedly knobby stick only hit me over the head with sufficient force to drive me headlong into the capacious stomach of a large man and start around half the bells of Beng Kishi clanging in my skull.

The large-stomached man said, “Whoof!"

I fell over him, already starting to pitch onto a shoulder so as to roll and come up snarling. The tap room blurred in a haze and three fierce and deliberate blinks barely cleared the mist in my eyes. Stomach belched and leaned down.

“I'll forgive you the onslaught on my stomach, young man, seeing Black Sadrap hit you.” He took a breath. His eyes were large and round and blue, and his cheeks were large and round and red, and his stomach was large and round and being rubbed by a heavy hairy hand. “Best stay still. ‘Tis no fight of yours."

The fight was one of your ding-dong knock-down drag-out affairs. There were knobby sticks in evidence, and short straight blatterers, and bludgeons and cudgels of curious expertise. Fists and boots lashed and kicked. But there was not one pointed or edged weapon being used in all the mayhem.

So, feeling my head jumping up and down, I sat back next to the man of the stomach, and we watched the fight, exchanging knowledgeable comments, and oohs and aahs at a particularly clever dirty trick or a spectacular exit from the inn.

The two sacks were still gripped in my left hand, and the man of stomach, who introduced himself with a Llahal as Rollo the Circle, advised me that no one had been attempting to steal them. They had just wanted them out of the way as they knocked me down. And I sat there, and essayed one of my inane smiles, and said nothing. The fight had nothing to do with me. Ergo, I would have nothing to do with it.

The taproom looked to be just another pleasant inn room with a low ceiling, sanded floor, a long bar, and with wooden tables and chairs. A few booths beside the windows had their curtains closed. Against the fall of night the lamps had been brought in, but their mineral oil glow was not yet necessary in the suffusing radiance of Zim and Genodras.

Rollo the Circle told me he was not a fighting man, and kept out of it. He said, “That Black Sadrap will look after our interests for us. We sleep here this night and Horparth Hansh the Perspective must look elsewhere for lodgings."

“I am dry, Rollo the Circle,” I said. “A stoup of ale before the meal will set me up nicely."

“Whisht, dom! Careful—"

Two struggling men fell alongside us. Both hit and kicked in an unscientific abandon, very energetically. One had tapped the claret of the other, and he had popped the eye of his assailant. “Which one is yours?"

He looked down over his treble chins thoughtfully. “The one with paint still in his ears. Naghan the Brush. A marvel with red ochre when it comes to sunsets.” And Rollo laughed. “And something of a marvel with red, too, when it flows from his nose."

Dodging aside and easing my way to the bar I looked over and as I expected saw a fellow cowering on the floor. I spoke in a conversational tone, pitched just above the din of breaking chairs and grunting fighters. “Two stoups of your best ale, dom."

He glared up at me, half-hiding his face under his green-striped apron.

“Are you bereft of your wits! If you think I'm standing up to fetch you ale—"

I regarded him. “Very well. I will fetch the—” I moved sideways and the fellow who tried to bash me with a length of lumber staggered past. I kicked him up the stern to assist him, and finished: “—two stoups of ale."

Out here the ale was kept as wine, in amphorae, and I decided to carry an amphora along so that Rollo and I might sup in comfort without worrying over refills. I judged him a devotee of Beng Dikkane, the patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz.

Only three struggling men had to be cleared out of the way back to Rollo. We settled down comfortably under a sturdy table backed against the wall and started in on sharing the amphora. I had taken his cognomen to be an euphemistic reference to his stomach, but as we talked I saw I was mistaken, indeed, that I had misjudged this rotund Rollo the Circle.

“Right hand or left, Zaydo,” he said. “And when I'm a trifle merry, both hands at once."

He fished around inside his tunic, which was a bright patchwork of various complementary colors, and produced a stick of chalk. He stared up at the table over our heads, for we half-reclined to fit in. Then—and it was a marvel—he drew a perfect circle on the rough wood. Judging circles is not a profession in which I have taken any degrees; to me the round was perfect.

“It is, it is,” said Rollo. He supped ale. “Find the center and stick in a nail and run your string around. Perfect."

“And both hands at once?"

“When I've finished the amphora."

“It is a great gift."

A man fell under our table, his upside down face most comical, his eyes crossed. Rollo pushed him out. He rolled under trampling feet and other bodies crashed down.

“Black Sadrap is taking his time.” Rollo cocked an eye and instantly withdrew as a flung tankard clanged against the table edge. “We need our sleep tonight. We are for Ruathytu and must start early."

“You have a commission there?"

“The temple of Werl-am-Nardith by the Hirrume Gate in the old walls. A small edifice and in need of embellishment. Perhaps you know it?"

“Indeed, although I have not patronized it. I've been through the Hirrume Gate and along the Boulevard of Hamando enough times."

Hamando's Boulevard, named after an ancient king of Hamal, led to the Kyro of the Horters. “When the Games are on in the Jikhorkdun and there are races in the merezo,” said Rollo, “you get weird sound effects along there.” He moved his bulky body to allow a broken chair to smash to further destruction against our table bulwark. “But, of course, we shall be working in the temple inside the old walls."

“In the Sacred Quarter,” I said.

He completely mistook my tone. I had some vivid and blustery memories of fights and brawls and general raffish behavior in the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu, and, for all that the life was essentially decadent and the city an enemy city, there remained an undeniable fascination with that way of life. Strong affinities with my ambivalent attitude to the Arena in the Jikhorkdun, in Huringa and here in Hamal, were only too plain. But Rollo took my attitude to be the awed respect of your ordinary working fellow for the brilliant lords of the Sacred Quarter.

Yet he made no attempt to preen himself on his access to the Sacred Quarter. He did say, “My company are known as first class. We travel where the commissions are, of course; but we have had our share in the Sacred Quarter.” He started to tell me of the decorations he'd put up in a sumptuous establishment of the Baths of the Nine, and as the fight bellowed on in smashings and crashings, I gained an insight into the way of life of these traveling artists. He made it sound most attractive.

A knobby stick thumped onto the floor beside our table and a flushed face adorned with a quantity of jet black hair in various positions looked in. “You are safe, master?"

“Perfectly safe, Sadrap. But for the sake of Kaerlan the Merciful, throw Horparth Hansh the Perspective out speedily. I need my meal and bed."

Black Sadrap's bristly face grimaced at me. “Not long now, master.” To me he said, “You have a thick skull."

I said, “Do not mention your little mistake again, Sadrap."

“No. Only that I mistook you for Handal the Pigment coming in. He wears just such a silly grin on his face."

Then Black Sadrap went away to bash a few more skulls and earn his hire.

“A useful man,” said Rollo. He drank and wiped his mouth. “He is good with his knobby stick."

Now Hamal is a civilized country, and was at this time, but when wars ferment the blood in men's veins and normal values seem pushed aside, all manner of mischiefs break out like diseases. This fight for accommodation at the inn was a simple rambunctious knock-down between rival groups of artists. On the morrow they might nurse sore heads; but that would be the end of it. Or so I judged. So I was unprepared for what followed.

The quietness gradually came back to The Fluttrell Feather and when Rollo and I crawled out Sadrap was helping the company belonging to Horparth Hansh the Perspective out of the door. He used his knobby stick or his boot indifferently for the task.

Rollo stretched. Indeed, his stomach was a glory. We moved away from our table across the windows and past the curtained booths. Here Rollo bent down and picked up a blatterer, the cunning bludgeon. You have to know how to use one of those skull-indenters. They are short, very short, scarce six inches of solid wood past the handgrip. They are sprung here, with leather or a coiled spring, and that gives them their power. But you have to be exceedingly sharp to get in, for you have to get inside, get in close, to deliver the knockout blow.

“That's it, then, fanshos!” called Black Sadrap.

He finished dealing with the fellow he hurled out of the door and swung back. Nath the Brash, the backs of his hands sticky with blood from his nose, bent to a man sprawled on the floor.

“Hup, Hondo, you rascal. Next time—"

The man on the floor unwound. His arm in a split sleeve lifted, drew back, hurled, quicker than Nath the Brush could follow. The blatterer this Hondo threw streaked like a dart for Rollo. Rollo just stood, his mouth agape, gripping the bludgeon he had just picked up.

The blatterer missed him by the thickness of a dying man's last breath.

It slammed into the curtain at our backs, bulging the material in and then rebounding and falling to the floor to roll away under the next curtain. The sound of a glass smashing and a woman's startled cry from the curtained booth was followed immediately by the curtains being swished back. A man's face glared out, enraged, the veins purple on his forehead, his cheeks with their redness almost breaking through the skin. He saw Rollo standing there with the little bludgeon in his hand.

“Rast! We have endured your brawling without complaint. But now you have gone too far."

The woman with him wore a white dress, very décolleté, and sleeveless. Red wine splashed her and the dress from neck to waist. She had that silly vapid kind of face that goes with fluffy fair hair and protuberant blue eyes and thick red lips; but she was just a girl, and some hulking great boor had smashed her wineglass and soaked her dress. She looked most upset.

The man escorting her leaped from the booth. He wore a blue tunic and trousers and around his waist was wound a sash of brown threaded with silver. At his sides on jeweled lockets swung a rapier and main gauche.

In a twinkling he ripped his rapier free and flourished the point under Rollo's three chins.

“You scum have no respect! I shall cut you up and serve you diced to the fluttrells! Cramph, call on your gods of the stews!"

The innocent blatterer fell from Rollo's hand. He took a step back, his stomach quivering, and sweat started up all over his round face.

I said, “Your pardon, horter—"

I got no further in what was intended to be a placating remark. The fellow with the brown and silver sash flicked his blade at my face. He said, “Stand off, rast.” The quick flicking strike was intended to cut my cheek. I saw he knew how to use a rapier and main gauche, these weapons having gained a strong foothold in the arsenals of the Hamalese nobility. I moved my head aside.

“This man has done you no wrong,” I said, as the rapier switched back. “I will gladly pay for the lady's gown."

The lady sniffed back a sob.

“Cramph! You will pay with your hides! Both of you!"

Black Sadrap started across the floor, knobby stick dangling. He looked worried. He would not tangle with this sword-wielding noble, for Sadrap would be out of his class.

I said, quickly, jerking my head away again from the slice of the rapier: “Stand back, Sadrap. This yetch is no horter.” That, I judged, was a suitable insult, for horter, being the name given to a Hamalese gentleman, is highly prized. Also, I called him a yetch, which is not polite at all.

He gobbled in his fury. I wondered if he thought to question why his two—and now three!—quick slashes at my face had failed to strike.

From being just a roughhouse over accommodation, this incident had blown up into what could turn into an ugly and terminal scene. It seemed to me, although this affair was none of my business, that the world of Kregen had need of artists.

As always when I enter a fight I am aware it may be my last. Always, there may be another Prince Mefto the Kazzur to best me, in some if not all of the arts of the sword. I would not fight this stupid red-faced idiot, and I judged from what I had seen of his skill so far he was only of middling proficiency with the rapier and dagger, the Jiktar and the Hikdar. I would not draw my thraxter against him. There was a surer way.

Now he turned his full attention on me, for I wore a sword.

“I shall teach you foul infestations to respect your betters? I am a noble of Hamal, and you—what are you? Lower than rasts that infest dunghills!"

This is, of course, no new attitude for the high and mighty of any land, not just Hamal, and not excepting Vallia.

Now, in earnest, he slashed. I stepped aside, moved in—quickly, of course—and with a juicy little hold the Krozairs of Zy teach their students the first or second day of training, took his forearm into the grips. I did not throw him away. I held him, hard enough to make him feel, and to see the pain lines slash quick agony across his gross features. He dropped the rapier. It was a jeweled, expensive weapon out of Zenicce.

“If I do not break your arm, nulsh, it is not out of concern for you.” He gobbled at me, the veins of his forehead near bursting. “It is out of concern for the poor damned needleman you will abuse as he tries to patch you up."

He tried to speak, and I jerked, and he writhed like a hooked fish.

“Let me finish, offal of the fish stews in Lowest Ruathytu. You call yourself a noble of Hamal. You disgrace that claim. You are not fit to hold office. Now take the lady and leave this inn.” With a last sudden pressure that made him scream out, I let him go. I would not let him annoy me. I dug out three golden deldys. These I handed to the woman as her escort moaned and gripped his aching arm with his other hand.

“Here, my lady. For the dress and with our deepest apologies."

She took the money, dazed and sobbing; but not too dazed to stow the gold away neatly, in one of those secret pockets women have sewn into their dresses. I bent and picked up the rapier. It felt a handy weapon. Extending it, hilt first, I said, “Here, take your rapier and go. Ruathytu can do without the likes of you."

Here I ventured a long bow, at chance, and by the way he reacted to those words, through the ache in his arm, told me I had scored at least an inner. I guessed he was a country nobleman traveling to Ruathytu on business. Then, as he took the rapier, very gingerly, and thought about trying to use it again, I shook my head. “Not unless you wish to die this time."

He managed to splutter out: “Who the devil are you?"

“Who are you?"

As we spoke, I marveled at his fine coarse way of making pappattu and exchanging the Llahals!

“I am a Trylon.” There is a way of talking that may be described as grinding out the words. This Trylon ground out what he had to say as though his jaws hurt. “You are no nobleman, I can see that. Be very sure I shall know you again—"

“Next time we meet, Trylon unknown, I hope your manners will have improved, as I trust nothing will occur to give you just cause for offense. Your stupidity was in carrying it too far.” I had, all the time, not once felt the need for that old devil Dray Prescot look to flame onto my features, and I was composed, wonderfully composed. “Now, Trylon unknown, you had better go."

He went with bad grace, swishing his rapier as though decapitating flowers along a path through a field. The woman trotted along, trying to hold her dress away from her body, looking distastefully at herself. There was room in all this to feel sorry for her.

Black Sadrap drew a breath. “He will have retainers, slaves, possibly paktuns in his pay. It will not be healthy here."

“I think not, Sadrap. I think he flew here with the woman illicitly, and that was probably a great cause for his foolish actions."

“Not foolish,” said Rollo, shaking himself, abruptly returning to life. “Not foolish if you had not been here, Zaydo! He'd have sliced my hide, jikaidered it with his damned sword."

“All the same,” I said, casually drifting to the doorway. “I will take a look at the perching towers."

The Trylon was dealing with his saddle flyer himself, so that strengthened my supposition he was here alone with the girl. He flew a zhyan, and the superb white bird flicked his four wings and carried this unnamed Trylon and his lady away and high, flying fast toward the east, toward Ruathytu.

The twin suns, Zim and Genodras, were gone by the time I turned back to the cheery comfort of The Fluttrell Feather.

Chapter eight

In Ruathytu

The first person I bumped into in Ruathytu was Nath Tolfeyr, a Bladesman of exceptional skill, a roisterer and idler, habitué of all the riskiest spots in the Sacred Quarter, and the man who had inducted me into the evil and diabolical cult of Lem the Silver Leem.

He was not wearing a brown sash with silver threads; he was not wearing a single item of brown at all, except his own tanned skin. A silver buckle glittered in the afternoon lights of the suns. He looked at me, all his youthful indolence of manner returning, his long arms and legs most graceful as he strolled across toward the mirvol perching tower in fashionable Screetztyg Kyro. Being a Bladesman and a man of fashion, Nath Tolfeyr would not care to be seen to bustle, even to greet an old drinking friend.

“Now may Havil take it,” he observed, halting before me and tipping his hard round Spanish-style hat back. “Hamun! As I live and breathe, Hamun ham Farthytu! Lahal, old fellow.” He extended his hand in the Hamalian fashion.

As we shook I felt a passing impression that he did not look overly surprised, and put that down to his languid posing.

“I've just arrived, Nath, and am heartily glad to see a friendly face. You must tell me all the news."

“It's been a long time.” He sounded guarded.

I chanced my arm. “Not in the eyes of the Silver Wonder."

“Ah!” he said. He perked up. “So you remember."

I did not want to tell Nath Tolfeyr that if I had my way all the blasphemous temples to Lem the Silver Leem would be burned out, and all the devotees of that cult, who sacrificed babies in their rituals, should be purged in whatever way would best exorcise the evil. Any oblique reference to Silver, to my sorrow and annoyance, might carry undertones of Lem the Silver Abhorrence.

We walked along toward the nearest inn, for they stand cheek by jowl all over most parts of the Sacred Quarter, mingled with private practice rings and dopa dens, and dubious haunts where games never mentioned in polite society are played. The villas of the atrociously wealthy are also to be found in the Sacred Quarter. Paline Valley did not keep up a villa in the capital.

“You have a fine mirvol there, Hamun."

“Bluenose. Aye, very strong and willing."

Most often the different breeds of saddle flyers find their perching places where their masters direct; I had chosen to leave Bluenose in the care of an establishment dealing only in mirvols. I had a good idea the government would snap him up; but there was no way of keeping him out of sight. Not with his appetite.

I asked what I burned to hear.

“What of Rees and Chido? How do they fare?"

For a space as we pushed through the throngs toward the inn, Nath did not answer. We waited as a string of calsanys passed, each animal laden to the ground, it seemed, and then Nath said, “I could do with tea, at the moment. There's the Urn and Spoon, strong henshall tea, if you care for that? Chido does well, very well. He has flowered since his father died and he is the Vad."

“That is good.” We entered the tavern next to the inn and looked for a table where we could talk. “Is he here?"

“We expect him any day. He now holds the rank of Chuktar in the army, and has been commanding in the Dawn Lands."

My wonderment at this item of news—burbling chinless Chido ham Thafey now a Vad, which is but one step below a kov, and a high-ranking officer in the army, to boot—changed to pleasure; it could not dissipate my immediate concern over Rees.

“Yes, Hamun. The news of Rees is not good."

“Tell me.” We sat down and a curly-headed shishi came to take our order. There were no diffs that I could see in the tea place; everyone was apim like Nath and myself. “Is the trouble very bad?"

“Pretty bad. You know Rees. As proud as anyone you'll ever meet. He refuses all offers of assistance."

“Rees ham Harshur,” I said. “Trylon of the Golden Wind. And those damned golden winds have blown his estates away, blown away the topsoil, ruined his agriculture. Is he then so poor?"

“As an archer with one arm."

I made a face. This ancient Kregan saying summed it all up.

Then I said, “But the army? Rees raised a regiment?” Now it was Nath's turn to make a face. “The new laws, Hamun. They are logical and appear just and eminently practical.” He watched as the shishi placed the tea things on the table, her arms bare to the elbow rosy and rounded, her movements deft. When she had gone to fetch the pot itself, he went on: “The new laws require substantial levels of wealth to achieve command. Money is the key to everything. Also there is a new spirit abroad, subdued, half-spoken, understood. It makes life difficult for diffs."

“But,” I said, shaking my head, “Hamal has no racial prejudice."

“Had none."

Well, I had long since gone through my xenophobic period when I called the array of splendid diffs of Kregen by names like beast-man, and man-beast, and halfling. They were diffs as we belonging to Homo sapiens were apims. Some races of diffs were so different from others that they could not be lumped together for a general judgment. The shishi came back with the tea, and when Nath had poured and we were drinking the first cup of that superb Kregan tea, he said, “They have closed the Jikhorkduns of the Ghat and Thoth. Money and supplies are tight. The army demands continual sacrifice. Hamal does not do well, in these latter days."

I noticed Nath said Hamal and not we. I let that pass. This news was, to the Emperor of Vallia, exhilarating. To thefriend and blade comrade of Rees ham Harshur, it was distressing.

“Rees is a numim and therefore..."

Nath nodded and broke in: “He lost his estates, for the wind blew them away, golden and shining. He lost his regiment."

“By Krun! No!"

“Yes. Relatives of his wife took his family in. Now, Rees trains up hordes of clums from the shanty towns. They're taking anyone into the army now. They let him retain a rank of Jiktar, ob-Jiktar."

I placed the teacup down carefully. I did not wish to spill the tea. I glared at Nath Tolfeyr. He would not meet my eyes.

“And this is how Hamal repays her loyal servants! You know when Empress Thyllis overthrew the old emperor, Rees played a great part, was a devoted adherent to her cause?"

“I know."

“It seems to me Hamal has lost the spirit of greatness."

Nath glanced around, casually. He lowered his voice.

“Best not prattle on so, old fellow. At least, not so loudly in a public place."

“Yes, you are right. When do I get to see Rees? Where is he?"

“Over by the mountains of the west, somewhere. I hear they're raising an army. Another army. It will go the same way all the rest went, swallowed up in the Dawn Lands, or Vallia."

This prosaic view of military affairs added nothing to my concerns. Of course armies were being formed. Nath knew as much about them as any idler and gossip, and I still could not say outright to him: “Why is it, Nath Tolfeyr, you are not in the army?"

He could be a spy, a secret agent, working for Thyllis. Why not? She had agents everywhere. That was well known. And Nath Tolfeyr had the habit of turning up unexpectedly.

When we had finished the second cup, I said, “People talk of Prince Tyfar of Hamal. They say he has been on strange travels.” Then, cursing my runaway tongue, I said with what I hoped was a casual Sacred Quarter Bladesman's languid poise, “And his father, Prince Nedfar, has been away. Together, I trust."

Nath laughed. “Yes, they've been out of the city. But they are back now and busy with the Air Service.” He stared over the rim of his cup. “When you say that people are talking about Prince Tyfar, Hamun, what, precisely, do you have in mind?"

My runaway tongue had led to an interesting avenue, by Krun! Of course I was wrapped up in the fortunes of Tyfar, for he was a blade comrade, a fine companion, and he and my daughter Lela, whom he knew as Jaezila, were deeply in love and unable or unwilling to admit that, one to the other. And Tyfar thought we were Hamalese and labored for Thyllis and his country. Oh, yes, this was a pretty tangle. Tyfar had no idea Jaezila was my daughter, as I had not, by Vox, when we'd adventured and sang and fought our way together across the Dawn Lands. And, now, Nath Tolfeyr looked decidedly warm for a languid wastrel of the Sacred Quarter. Most interesting!

“Oh, the usual, Nath. He is always spoken of as a bookish lad, always with a scroll under his arm and a book to his nose. In these dark days we need fighters."

“I recall he was a studious young prince as a youth. But I understand—I am told, for I do not move in the royal and imperial circles here—that he has some skill with an axe."

“Really?” I said, drinking tea with a fine elegant twirl. “How amusing."

By Krun! But Tyfar had skill with an axe! I'd seen him take two nasty Chuliks apart with two supple sweeps, and then turn to me with an academic quote that fitted the situation marvelously. Oh, yes, I had a very great deal of time for Tyfar, who would, if the gods and this infernally stupid war between our two countries allowed, become my son-in-law. So I passed on in the conversation, asking about Casmas the Deldy and other scamps.

“Casmas?” Nath shoved back in his chair, crumbling a miscil cake between his fingers. “An odd case. He married his widow and became a Rango and lent his money to the empress. But he is—shrunken, in these latter days."

“Casmas? Shrunken? As soon believe that as the Ice Floes of Sicce have gone up in steam!"

He smiled. “I agree. It is true, scatheless."

“There are more unpleasant people to inquire after."

“I notice you did not ask about Strom Rosil Yasi—"

I put my cup down. Strom Rosil, that bastard Kataki, and his equally evil twin brother were raising hell in Vallia. Mywits must be wandering. Of course I should have inquired of them, when talking of Rees, against whom they had worked their devil-designs at the instigation of Vad Garnath, one of the biggest evil-doers unhanged. I said, “I trust that crew is all dead?"

“Unfortunately, no. Garnath is with the Air Service. The Rosil twins are in Vallia. Katakis are one race of diffs I am not sorry the new laws bear down on, not sorry at all."

We talked more and I learned how old Nath the Crafty who had always detested diffs had been slain by a Chulik in a brawl, and how much this incident had contributed to the growing distrust of non-apims among the apim ruling classes. Those diffs who were nobles in Hamal, and there were many of them, had become more and more isolated. These were developments I had to ponder, for I had the uneasy conviction—not so much uneasy as panicky, and not so much a conviction as a doubting belief—that in this the Star Lords were interfering. Either them or the Savanti nal Aphrasöe. Times were changing with dramatic speed on Kregen. I felt like the proverbial leaf in a dust storm.

Nath Tolfeyr said he had an afternoon appointment at the Dancing Rostrum, for that riotous if circumspect establishment did better business than ever. People wanted to dance a few burs away and forget their cares. We said the remberees politely, engaging to meet later at a new tavern Nath had discovered, The Blue Zhyan, in Ohmlad's Alley, off the Street of Thalanns. The pace and bustle of the city engulfed us as we emerged from the Urn and Spoon and went our separate ways. I had learned a great deal, painlessly—well, almost painlessly. There was a very great deal more I must learn to earn my hire as a spy for Vallia and the friends of Vallia against Hamal. The bonus of being able to move about freely in this enemy city as Hamun ham Farthytu had proved itself, and I knew I would have to push that bonus to squeaking point.

The Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu is essentially a higgledy-piggledy collection of narrow streets and tiny alleys and claustrophobic courts ruthlessly slashed through by the wider avenues, after the fashion of Baron Haussmann, which in the strange way of Kregen's architecture, do not always coincide with the new boulevards of the city beyond the old walls to the west. To the north the River Havilthytus flows eastward and joining it from the southwest comes the River Mak. The Sacred Quarter is contained in this triangle. The black waters of the River Mak do not mingle with the ochre waters of the Havilthytus for a considerable distance downstream, and this is one of the remarkable attractions of the place to visitors.

The twin Suns of Scorpio reflected glitteringly from every projection and gable and spire as I sauntered along. People moved everywhere, idling, gaping, with many a hurrying slave slipping quickly through the throngs. And, of course, there were soldiers everywhere, here on leave before departing for any of the fronts mad Empress Thyllis had opened in her senseless wars.

Deeming it a good idea to wander along to The Blue Zhyan and discover what the inn had to offer in the way of accommodation, I reflected on the curious fact that Nath Tolfeyr had not once asked me where I had been or what I'd been up to. He must just have assumed I'd been at Paline Valley, or else serving with the army. The Blue Zhyan, in Ohmlad's Alley, turned out to be a snug little place, angled of roof, with flowers banked around the narrow windows, and with at least two convenient trees for shinnying down and up, if, as I fully intended, I had to go on nefarious expeditions into the city. The landlord rubbed his hands, wine-stained, on his blue-striped apron and frowned and then smiled at sight of the golden deldys that appeared in my hand.

“Of course, Amak. There is a room. We are honored to have you here."

The room was narrow, cramped, and the view looked out onto a shadowed courtyard and a blank wall above the totrix stables where those fractious six-legged saddle animals were kicking up a din anxious to be fed. I looked around, punched the bed, checked the water supply, and nodded.

“Very well, Nodgen the Apron.” That was his name, a fat and oily man showing signs of care over continuing supplies wherewith to satisfy his patrons. “I have been traveling and would rest now. See that I am not disturbed."

“No, notor, of course not, notor.” He bowed himself out.

I flopped on the bed. If I was going flying through the city tonight I needed to catch up on my sleep. A phantasmal apparition glimmered against the paneled wall opposite the window. The spectral form wavered, and coalesced. I sat up, watchful, cautious. The arch-devil, Phu-Si-Yantong, had spied on me by sending an occult manifestation of himself to descry what I was doing. His kharrna was very great, his capacity to exert supernatural—as we believed—forces that flew in the face of nature. Khe-Hi-Bjanching, who was a Wizard of Loh as well as a friend, had set up defensive barriers against this spying. His arcane arts had been materially assisted and increased by Deb-Lu-Quienyin, who was a Wizard of Loh with a character and a history. He said, himself, that he was not as powerful in the thaumaturgical arts as Phu-Si-Yantong; but I believed Deb-Lu to be equally as powerful, if not more so. He and I had gone through enough adventures together to make me absolutely confident in him, to make me trust implicitly the old Wizard of Loh, who was a comrade and friend.

The wavering form moved as undersea fronds move in the tidal flow. The gaseous outlines thickened. The simple robes, the absence of runes, told me this was Deb-Lu, and then I saw his face, smiling at me in the old way, and I relaxed, and let out a breath.

“You look—perturbed,” he said. “I am in lupu and send my projection to talk to you. It is no new thing for you. Why does it affect you so?"

“I'll tell you, Deb-Lu, I'll tell you. I thought it might be that bastard—"

“Hush, majister!” The voice cracked in indisputable command. “Do not speak the name."

I nodded. “Very well."

“Khe-Hi-Bjanching and I have surmounted the problems strewn before us. Our communication is now clear. It was a Daunting Task.” I did not mistake his use of Capital Letters, and smiled.

“You are well? How goes it at home?"

“We prosper in most areas; but there is a Blight. Kov Turko has almost succeeded in bringing his kovnate of Falinur into the fold. Soon he will, as you say, hook left against Layco Jhansi. Your son Drak and the Presidio rule Vallia well. I will tell you—"

“The Blight?"

“Ah, yes. It is small at present, and concerns the Southwest."

“Drak said he had a problem down there."

“The man you sent in command of the army to liberate the Southwest has done so. But he raises the standard in his own name, and calls himself the King of Thothclef Vallia."

“The devil he does! I'll have a few strong words to say toKov Vodun Alloran, believe me. I'd better come home right away, although this is a damned nuisance, just as I've arrived here."

The apparition raised a hand. I waited for Deb-Lu to speak, speak to me down here in Hamal all the live-long way from Vallia. But he let the hand drop, and for a moment a silence lay between us.

“Well, Deb-Lu? Why should I not go home and sort out this problem? Kov Vodun was the Kov of Kaldi at the hands of the old emperor, Delia's father. I confirmed him in those rights and sent him off with a goodly army. If this is how he behaves we will have to teach him otherwise. Vallia is a united country—well, it will be once we've chucked all the leeches out."

“I think, majister—” When he called me that I knew he was up to mischief. “Prince Drak is handling the affair. I have great affection for Prince Drak, and trust in him. It may be..."

Drak was the sober, grim, intense one of my lads. Yes, yes, I could see what Deb-Lu was saying. I'd left Drak in charge, and I meant to hand over all Vallia and this stupid emperor part of it to him as soon as the country was back in one piece. If I went haring back the moment there was trouble—how would he feel? How would he look in the eyes of those to whom he gave orders? No, it was simple stuff, naïve, really—but Drak could and would handle this.

“Quidang, Deb-Lu! Give Drak my warmest wishes for a speedily concluded successful campaign."

Now it was Deb-Lu-Quienyin's turn to say: “Quidang!” in acknowledgment.

Then he said, “On the other matter. The great devil is active in Pandahem. There have been rebellions, which have been put down with much bloodshed. Some people here think that an invasion of Hamal is premature. We should clear Pandahem first."

“You are sure, Deb-Lu, that that cramph of a Wizard of Loh is not eavesdropping on us?"

“Quite sure. Khe-Hi monitors the conversation."

“Hm. In that case—no, leave it. Let me think on this."

I did not want to say, even like this, that the island of Pandahem between Vallia and Hamal would fall like that fabulous rotten fruit once we invaded Hamal. Go for the bold stroke—that was the way. Allies from the Dawn Lands to the south, allies from Hyrklana in the east, and we from the north, we'd hit Hamal and crush the empire between us. I did not want my Vallian lads tangled up and trapped in Pandahem.

“One thing, majister. The Fifth Army that went with Kov Kaldi to the southwest—the mercenaries declared for him, of course. The Phalanx and many regiments of our army refused and returned to Vondium. The Southwest crawls with mercenaries and flutsmen—but I thought you would like to know the army remained loyal."

“Thank you, Deb-Lu. That is a bright spot."

“Remberee, Jak. My kindest regards to Tyfar when you see him."

“Remberee, Deb-Lu."

The ghostly apparition faded. The paneling showed brown and grained where Deb-Lu-Quienyin, Wizard of Loh, had stood and spoken to me. What he had not said openly was the crux of this situation. The evil Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, was on the move and actively plotting fresh mischief against us. That was sure...

Chapter nine

Blades of Spikatur

By the time the suns had set and the Twins, the two second moons of Kregen eternally revolving one about the other and casting down their fuzzy pink light, rose above the pinnacles and rooftops, Nath Tolfeyr had still not put in an appearance at The Blue Zhyan.

It was in my mind to make a round of some of the more insalubrious nightspots of Ruathytu. Nath would have gone with me, for he enjoyed a good carouse as well as the next fellow. Well, if the Bladesman had not shown up by the time the ob-bur clepsydra drained through, I'd be off without him.

What Deb-Lu-Quienyin had both said and not said remained troubling me. He'd called me Jak, as my daughter Jaezila did, and this comforted me. I'd been using the name Jak a great deal just lately, and this new nonsense of Zaydo afforded me amusement. A lot of people knew me as Jak the this or Jak the that; just now I wanted to be Hamun ham Farthytu. The thought also brought up the problem of Deb-Lu's strange lack of progress in tracing down further details on Spikatur Hunting Sword. We knew in broad outline what had happened, although not why, and we were totally in the dark about what the Spikatur Conspiracy intended. Men had claimed there were no leaders, only local chapters, devoted to hunting. They swore by Sasco, whoever he was. Torture had been applied by Hamalese tormentors in the dungeons of the ghastly fortress of Hanitcha the Harrower on its spit of land extended downriver from the Sacred Quarter, ochre water to the left, black water to the right. Men called that castle of horror the Hanitchik. Before they died, after assassinating Hamalese nobles, the followers of Spikatur Hunting Sword had confessed nothing beyond their deeds.

From this unwholesome fact I had pieced together the notion that the Spikatur Conspiracy was directed against Hamal. We knew they burned voller factories. Anybody who was against Hamal in these parlous times bid fair to be an ally. But these people, whoever and wherever they might be, remained vague and unapproachable.

The very last drop of water splashed in the clepsydra. The water was stained a pleasant apple green color. I turned the clepsydra and picked up my evening cape. This was a natty blue affair with golden cords. If Nath Tolfeyr was not coming, I was going to wait no longer.

The wardrobe I'd taken from Paline Valley contained enough foppish clothes to outfit me as a real dandy, from the hard round stiff-brimmed Spanish-style hat to the blue and gray trousers and polished boots. The cape settled over my left shoulder and I did up the golden clasps. With a rapier and main gauche scabbarded at my sides, I sallied out to partake of the raffish nightlife of Ruathytu's Sacred Quarters. In any other time, this would have been the life by Krun!

Perhaps I should mention that my jacket was stiff with gold braid, and that foolish finery almost concealed the brilliance of the green-dyed material. Well, times change, and we all march on into the future that all too soon becomes the past. Green jackets were all the rage in Hamal. I looked, in fine, your true indolent, high-tempered, mettlesome Bladesman to the life.

Dressing up in fancy clothes is easy enough and does not demand overmuch imagination. Adopting a fresh name also does not demand great cogitation. But a face ... Ah, now!

Deb-Lu-Quienyin had taught me the art of so altering my features that I could pass friends unrecognized. The trick was damned painful for faces largely remote from my own arrogant physiognomy; I'd always been able to adopt a foolish sort of face, and had done so in establishing the weak character of Hamun ham Farthytu. So, now, I adopted a face that would be recalled as that of Hamun's, although by subtle touches I removed it from the face that would be remembered as that of Dray Prescot—or Jak or any of the many names I have used on Kregen.

A fat lot of good that did me in the first emergency I encountered.

The idling crowds were out. The taverns and inns were wide open. What was going on in the private rings and arenas of the great ones was not to be dwelled on. I skirted the high brick wall of nobles’ villas, for not all the lords rented out small shops fronting the streets. The avenues were brilliantly lit; the streets illuminated passing well, and the alleys pits of darkness and deviltry.

The heady scent of moon blooms hung on the evening air.

Only one attempt was made to rob me as I passed a gloomy alley mouth, and the fellows slunk off when I whipped out the rapier and flourished it at them, meanwhile detailing what portions of their several anatomies would first be sliced up for mincemeat.

Slamming the blade back into the scabbard, I hurried on into the light of cressets bracketed to a high wall where vegetation spilled and moon blooms opened wondrously to She of the Veils, golden and pink, floating high above. I passed a narrow gate above which a lantern dispelled the shadows. The door was open and men laughed and joked inside, their boots loud on the graveled path. A party of gallants out for the night's entertainments, obviously; I wanted no part of that and quickened my pace.

Beyond the end of the wall, where another wall began hiding off the villa of another lord, the alley between looked shadowed and uninviting. I looked hard, hand on hilt, but the little alley between the villas remained silent. I went on.

Up ahead lay a small tree-bowered square where six taverns stood cheek by jowl surrounding the square and the well at its center. Here, during the day, the gossips from this section congregated. This was Veilmon Kyronik, from the name of the graceful, sweet-scented trees. If you wanted a fight after dark, go to Veilmon Kyronik. Someone would always oblige you.

The silly abortive attack on me by those chicken-brained would-be robbers, and the thought that I would have to avoid a fight ahead must have combined to do the trick. People hurried past, and we kept to the left-hand side of the pathway, as was natural, to keep our sword arms free. I barely looked at them, swathed in their clownish fancy-dress and their capes. I moved on and—

A hand clapped me on the shoulder.

“Jak! By Krun! Jak the Sturr, as I live and breathe!"

Emotions of furious anger, thoughts of courses of action, clashed and collided in my skull and through my blood. Instinct almost undid me. My sword was halfway out of the scabbard, I was half-turned, ready to run this brash newcomer through the guts, before I hauled myself up, shivering, as though taken in irons. By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki-Grodno! Here I was, being myself, being Hamun ham Farthytu, and some idiot had recognized me as Jak the Sturr!

I swung about, slamming the rapier back, and there was Lobur the Dagger, beaming away, his merry face alive with laughter, chuckling and shaking his head where the dark curls danced in his long hair. He still wore the silver belt of interlinked leaping chavonths. He was dressed, as was I, in the height of fashion.

“Lobur the Dagger!” I said. And, then, recovering: “Lahal! Well met."

“Lahal, Jak. And well met. I did not think ever to see you again, even though Prince Ty relieved my mind when he recounted his adventures down the Moder. You and he—you had a fine time of it after we got out."

His face clouded.

So, quickly, I said, “There was nothing you could have done, Lobur. We know that. Your duty was to Prince Nedfar and Princess Thefi. You had to see them out safely."

“That is true, Jak the Sturr, and you are a true horter for so saying.” He laughed, delighted. “And Prince Ty tells me Sturr was a use name, that you are Jak the Shot."

I brushed that aside. I'd been the Jak the lot, it seemed to me. “And Princess Thefi?"

He smiled and frowned at the same time, a useful trick.

“I am still—and she is—and there is no real hope. And, Kov Thrangulf hovers like a damned black crowbird. Damn him!"

That was a triangle of the classical persuasion, and one I had then, as I say, no inkling of solution or of relevance to me beyond a sympathetic feeling for lovelorn Lobur the Dagger.

“And what are you doing in Ruathytu, Jak?"

Boldly, without hesitation, I said: “I thought to join the Air Service."

“Ah! A very wise ambition. You are a fighting man, that I know from what I've seen with my own eyes and what Prince Ty told me of the Moder. We'll be delighted to enroll you."

“Well—"

“Capital! That's settled. Now, old fellow, I can't delay. Kov Thrangulf, confound him—I'm on the way to his villa now with a message from Prince Ty to Prince Nedfar. I shan't be long, then we can crack a few amphorae and talk of that dark, doomed bloody Moder."

He took my arm and we started back the way I'd come. He rattled on, nothing like dear Chido, of course, but very merry and free and good-hearted. The small group of people I'd heard on the graveled path now appeared on the pathway, still laughing. The lights shone on jewels and gold and lace. The air hung heavy with the scent of night flowers, the sound of laughter rose and singing reached us from the nearest tavern in Veilmon Kyronik. She of the Veils shed her diffuse golden light.

A screech of pure hatred ripped through that leisurely scene.

“Spikatur! Spikatur Hunting Sword! Kill!"

Dark forms leaped from the narrow slot of blackness between the walls. Feral bodies hurtled down on the startled group of Hamalese nobles. Steel glittered like icy fire in the pits of hell.

As one, Lobur and I drew our rapiers and launched ourselves forward. Affrays continually burst into the jollity of the Sacred Quarter and no one paid much heed to a fracas here and there if it was no business of his. As the blades screeched with that horrid scrape of steel on steel and we smashed into the dark-clad forms attacking Prince Nedfar and his party, it was clear this was no ordinary flare-up among Bladesmen. The cries of “Spikatur” told us that. The blood lust smoked into the night air.

“Get that big bastard, Jak!” and: “Your back, Hallam!” and: “By Krun, I'm stuck through the leg like a vosk!"

But, all too soon, the cheerful yells of Bladesmen in combat died away as the party with Nedfar fought for their lives.

We were out matched in numbers; but Lobur proved a fine swordsman, and Prince Nedfar stood like a rock, unmoved, and I did a mite of skipping and leaping. But the killers bore in. Screaming forms staggered from the fight. Men with slashed faces and guts pierced through, men with eyes suddenly blotted out, men who hobbled off to collapse and vomit up their lives, men reeled shrieking away from the knot of combat.

It was nip and tuck, as it so often is; I had a persistent fellow who wanted to drive past me and sink his brand into Prince Nedfar. I caught his blade, twirled, and the sword nicked up into the air. He panted, thick coarse gasping under the bronze mask. The attackers wore nondescript clothes, but each one wore a bronze mask over his face. Their gray floppy-brimmed hats, without feathers or ornamentation, were pulled low.

I grabbed a wight by the neck and jerked him to me.

“I do not want to kill you.” The yells resounded about us, the stamp of feet, the slither of steel. I put on a face that bore the mark of Cottmer's Caverns; a devil face with upflung eyebrows and outthrust jaw, and the deep grooves beside the mouth counterpointing that devil-vee above. I bent close. “By Sasco!” I said, with meaning. “You make a mistake to attack Nedfar. He is of value to the foes of Hamal, you onker. Draw your people off. I do not wish to see friends of Spikatur slain."

“You—!” He choked as I eased my grip.

“Get off, fambly. Or you will all be dead."

My face pained me as if I'd been galloped over by a squadron of cataphracts. I couldn't keep that devil mask going much longer.

Someone tried to hit me over the head with his thraxter and I swerved and kicked him, and shook the fellow in my grip. “Call them off! By Sasco! Are you witless!"

“You—strive for Spikatur?"

“Of course! Now—go, or you'll drink steel."

A man pitched into me and coughed bright blood, red in the torchlights. I dodged away and threw the fellow I'd been gripping off. I kicked him up the rump as he staggered.

“Run!” he shrieked. Then he let rip a wild ululating scream that would have frozen the blood in a bullfighter. His companions—who had been taking a severe hammering—checked their onslaughts. “Run, brothers! Flee!"

Lobur's face expressed the utmost fury.

“By Krun! They'll not escape my vengeance!"

He stood hard by Nedfar as he shouted, and I judged Lobur spoke thus not only out of honest anger. The attackers picked themselves up, gathered themselves together, panted. But—they ran. Lobur flourished his rapier after them.

“Come on, Jak—let's crop a few ears."

I did not wish to kill folk who fought against Hamal.

“I'm with you, Lobur!” I hollered. I dissimulated, remembered to put away that devil face and that silly face, and wearing the face of Jak the Shot, I galloped off after Lobur. We lost the hunting party of Spikatur Hunting Sword in a maze of warrens past Veilmon Kyronik. They just vanished. The place was potholed with dopa dens and kaff pits, and an army could hide in there and escape detection. Lobur panted, dashing sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand which gripped his sword.

“Well, we showed them what Hamalese can do, the rasts."

“Aye,” I said. “Did you understand any of it? Who were they?"

“Cramphs who swear on Spikatur. They have caused us much injury. By Krun! I'd like to spit ‘em all!"

“A worthy ambition, Lobur. If you can find them."

He didn't like that, and we trailed back to Prince Nedfar.

Nedfar greeted me with warmth, for we had gone together through some of the horrors of the Moder. And I had assisted his son, Prince Tyfar, to escape. He knew about Jak the Shot.

“You are thrice welcome, Horter Jak. Lahal and Lahal."

“Lahal, prince. I am glad to see you are uninjured."

Lobur said, “Jak wishes to join the Air Service—"

“Excellent.” Nedfar, a resolute, honest, admirable man, smiled approvingly. “Hamal fights on too many—” Then he checked himself. He shook his head. “Welcome, Horter Jak."

He'd been about to say that Hamal fought on too many fronts and was overextended. That was true. When the invasion broke into their damned homeland they'd have another front, only it would be at their front door.

“I am at your disposal, prince."

Slaves summoned in haste from Kov Thrangulf's villa ran up, and with them the resident needleman. The doctor bent to the wounded. Some of them were bearing their wounds stoically; only a couple screamed and groaned and writhed. This was the ugly face of striving to a good end.

One of the hunters devoted to Spikatur had not been killed. His wounds prevented him from running off. As Lobur approached, no doubt to make some searching and unpleasant inquiries as a preliminary to horror in the dungeons of the Hanitchik, the wounded man drew his dagger and slit his own throat. It was done quickly and efficiently, very bloodily, and most oppressively. The commotion that caused gave me time to get my wind back, metaphorically speaking. I knew Prince Tyfar must have spoken to his father, and to his sister, Princess Thefi, as well as Lobur, about Jak the Shot. At first I'd led them to believe I hailed from Djanduin; later they believed I was Hamalese. I could lay no claims to titles or estates in Hamal, thus Nedfar had called me horter, a plain gentleman. For the moment, this suited me. I had labored long to preserve the integrity of the ham Farthytu name. I would not jeopardize it now.

Lobur delivered Tyfar's message to Prince Nedfar, a simple affair of delay in some voller sheds and that he would meet the party later at The Golden Zhantil. Everyone in Ruathytu had heard of that famous tavern, for it was of the highest possible class, and catered exclusively to a clientele from the upper strata of nobility. During my stay in the Sacred Quarter I had not supposed I'd ever need to go there. Now, it seemed, I was included in this evening party as of right. I found this charming, by Krun!

High up outside the tavern and supported on convoluted iron brackets the massive golden representation of a zhantil lowered down on all who entered. That magnificent eight-legged savage animal glittered in many torchlights. It was reputedly fashioned from solid gold. No one was likely to make the attempt to discover the truth of this story, put about by the owner, Thorndu the Wine, for invariably a crowd of muscle-bulging sword-swinging guards checked on the patrons. If you were not accepted, then you'd go headfirst out onto the cobbles.

The raffish blades of the Quarter used to laugh, and swear by Krun the thing was solid lead with a smear of leaf.

Be that as it may, the interior of The Golden Zhantil was luxurious and sweet-scented and awash with wine and the good things of life. There was no stinting here. Hamal might be at war, and struggling with increasing desperation against the foes she had raised up against her; here decadence breathed lushly, replete with wealth and privilege.

I wondered what Nedfar wanted in a place like this, for he was a man of rectitude, upright and honest, and not much given to the sleazy kind of debauch. When Tyfar turned up, a couple of glasses later, I found out. As for Tyfar—how his eyes popped when he saw me!

The last time we'd seen each other, he'd been haring off with a wounded Jaezila, urged intemperately by me to think of his honor and save our comrade, while I fought off those who sought to slay us. He stood for a moment, the old Tyfar, open, honest, twinkling at me, and then he clapped me on the shoulder, unable to speak.

“I haven't clawed my way back from the Ice Floes of Sicce, prince.” I clapped him on the back. I had to remember to speak as though to a prince who did me honor in even acknowledging my existence here in Hamal. “I joy to see you again."

“By Krun, Jak! I hoped, and yet I could not believe—but one should expect miracles where you are concerned, I think."

We two had no truck with mawkishness, valuing a comradeship forged in blood above mere sentimentality.

With the arrival of Tyfar, Prince Nedfar's party, which did not, I was intrigued to notice, include Kov Thrangulf, got down to business. The men they had come to see, high-ranking officers in the Air Service, wanted to finish this business and then devote themselves to the pleasures offered by the tavern.

“There is now no doubt whatsoever, prince,” said one of the Air Service Kapts, a Vad Homath. He was a lean man, with a scarred face and bristly hair, much decorated with gold lace. “Our spies confirm the rumors in every detail."

“But you do not know where he has gone?"

Vad Homath stroked a finger down his scarred cheek. “Back to Vallia, I expect, the cramph."

My ears, I felt sure, must have stuck an arm's breadth out of my head. Vallia!

“Well, Homath,” said another Kapt impatiently, “that is as may be. But we have to strike at Hyrklana, now, and strike fast, before they are ready to attack us."

“By Barfurd! You have the right of it."

This other Kapt nodded in a truculent way. He was called Kov Naghan, and was a bullet-hard, leather-faced professional fighting man. Astride a saddle-flyer, commanding from the deck of a skyship or ordering the iron legions of Hamal into action, this was the type of man we had to meet and overcome.

But—Vallia! And—a cramph, going back there? I decided to loose a shaft and see what target popped up.

“You speak, notors, of that gretchuk empire of Vallia?” I looked at Nedfar as though seeking his permission to continue. He nodded. “But, Hyrklana? Are they not our allies?"

Tyfar favored me with an odd look.

“Only because we imposed our will, Horter Jak.” Kov Naghan spoke with a civility he owed me as a valued associate of Prince Nedfar, who had spoken warmly of our exploits and of my desire to join the Air Service. “But I can tell you, for the news will be general by the morning. Hyrklana has declared against us. The Emperor of Vallia had a hand in that, the Havil-forsaken rast!"

“The Emperor of Vallia!” I said. Then, and I could not stop myself, indulging in this deplorable habit I had of putting as many spokes in as many Hamalian wheels as possible, I said, “That is bad news. I am told this new Emperor of Vallia is a most formidable figure who will destroy the Empress Thyllis if he has the chance."

Now Tyfar did stare at me, hard. I looked back at him, and said, “We fight for Hamal, do we not?"

Nedfar frowned. So I guessed I'd gone too far. Nedfar might be the second cousin of Thyllis; he might detest what she was about; but he was Hamalese and he understood duty and loyalty.

My blade comrade Tyfar saved me. “What Jak is saying makes uncomfortable hearing. But it is true. This is a setback for us. We do fight for Hamal, and we must succeed."

When princes speak, even princes who are a trifle suspect among dour professional fighting men, when there is a prince present who is famous for his integrity and prowess, it behooves lesser mortals to listen—even such high and mighty lesser mortals as these nobles in The Golden Zhantil. They nodded, these generals and nobles, and the consensus of opinion was that we would have to fight that much harder to overcome this setback.

During the more detailed discussions following I had the sense to take myself off and sit at a table by the farthest window. Being too pushy is counterproductive. Presently Tyfar joined me. He was smiling in his frank way, clearly pleased to see me, yet puzzled, too, by my appearance here in Ruathytu. To be absolutely honest, which is a task so difficult of accomplishment as to be virtually impossible, I must admit some notion of what had transpired had been with me from the beginning. From a position within the Hamalian Air Service I would be capitally placed to carry out my work. And, of course, inevitably, that brought up the question of honor. Tyfar and I were true blade comrades. How could I descend to using that friendship to such despicable ends? Easy, my friend, damned easy, when you have the people of an empire to take care of; and hard, abominably hard, when you laugh and talk with your comrade and know you are betraying him. Almost, almost I threw it all in and told Tyfar outright that the girl he knew as Jaezila was the Princess Majestrix of Vallia, and I was her father, and we were at war with Hamal. Almost—but not quite.

We talked over many of the events that had transpired since last we met, and my version was mightily censored, that is obvious. Tyfar had been fully occupied with the Air Service. When Jaezila was mentioned I simply said I looked forward to seeing her again, and did Tyfar know when she would be in Ruathytu. He did not know. Then he said, “You must understand, Jak, I do not fathom that girl at all. One moment I believe she has some friendly feeling for me, and the next, well—” He lifted his glass and put it down without drinking. “I know she detests me and thinks of me as a ninny. I am in despair."

“Then,” I said, and I spoke with knowledge from conversations with Jaezila, “you have no need to be. When this stupid war is over, you and Jaezila will—"

“That long, Jak!"

“It may not be all that long, Tyfar. You have difficulty in obtaining vollers, now, more so after Hyrklana declared against us. Your father is a man among men. I think he can see which way the wind is blowing."

“I do not care for the sound of this."

“Agreed. But you have to look facts in the face. You and Jaezila are so dear to me that I—” I stopped. Deliberately I sipped the wine, a good vintage, clear and bright. I could not bear the thought of what had happened to Barty Vessler, who had been stabbed in the back by a rast who would one day pay for that crime, happening to Tyfar. I said heavily, “When you next see Jaezila, then act as your heart prompts you."

He fired up, but delicately I guided the conversation into further talk of the deteriorating military situation. This was what I was in Hamal for. When we invaded I wanted to have as many facts available as possible. The places to strike must be decided without blindfolds; this was crucial. The lives of too many men hung on these decisions for me to make mistakes.

Tyfar shook his head. “These fanatics of Spikatur Hunting Sword burn our voller yards. We guard them well now, and the losses have come down. But that ties up men."

“And the famblehoys?"

He looked surprised. “You are well informed. We try to keep them away from the cities. They are not popular."

“Understandable. And you are recruiting clums into the army—"

“The old days are dead. Now everyone must fight. And the iron legions of Hamal can mould men, make of them soldiers. The army will fight, however poorly the Air Service may do."

So, hating myself and feeling for Tyfar, I said, “But the army loses in Vallia. The iron legions recoil from the army of Vallia. And, we all know of the Battle of Jholaix."

“The Vallians were lucky there and we lost by a fluke. Everyone says so.” He gripped his full glass. “The army will fight!"

“Of course. I have heard little news out of Pandahem lately."

“The Hyr Notor commands there, by warrant from the empress. The island remains quiet. But what you say of Vallia is so, Jak, and it rankles. I believe more than one of our armies was broken up there."

The Hyr Notor was the name that maniacal Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, called himself as he pulled the wool over Thyllis's eyes. Both shared the same stupid ambition. Incredible though it may sound, both of them wanted to rule the world—or, more realistically, to control our grouping of islands and continents, the whole gorgeous panoply of lands and peoples called Paz. Nuts, both of them.

Thinking to finish this odd little conversation on a more promising note before Lobur joined us, I said, “I do not believe I have to reiterate to you my admiration for your father. But I must tell you that my obligations in certain quarters are now at an end."

He looked up sharply. He had, along with others, taken the notion which I had fostered that I worked in secret for the Empress Thyllis. That gambit had served. Now I was after bigger fish. I went on, “You do understand me, Tyfar?"

“I—think I do. But if anyone else should thus understand what you are most carefully not saying, your head and shoulders would be separated by an air gap, believe you me!"

Chapter ten

Of a Crossbow Bolt

War and Love are intimately bound up in many of the philosophies of Kregen as well as giving color and sparkle to the never-ending myth cycles. In the preparations for those two activities a divergence of approach may be discerned. As the sere grasslands flashed past below and the voller swooped headlong for the rickety wooden stockade ahead, I reflected that out of this ship's company and the soldiers she carried, more than ninety-nine in a hundred would far prefer to prepare for Love than War.

The odd less than one in a hundred was, indeed, odd. But these men are found in abundance on Kregen, probably more so than on this Earth. These are the Warlovers. I detest them. But they exist, they are a part of the universe we inhabit, and in times of crisis we understand the reason for their existence.

Vad Homath, his forefinger eternally stroking down his scar, was such a man.

He peered ahead, his narrow face just like any of the famous birds of prey that will have your eyes out like winkles on a pin. An overly ornate helmet covered his bristly hair done in that peculiar style, all smothered in gold lace. That was a new fad in Ruathytu in those days. He was leaving the handling of the airboat to her captain, a Hikdar who kept nervously swallowing, and to the helm-Deldars. Crouched in the bulky main body of the vessel some two hundred and fifty soldiers fidgeted about and coughed, and waited uneasily for the moment of disembarkation.

This was just a practice. The half-regiment of men had gone through basic training, and were now having the final polish applied. Most of them were clums, freemen but the poorest of the poor, at last allowed into the august ranks of the army. I fancied most of them would prefer to be out of it.

“Keep her head up, onker,” Vad Homath's words grated.

The Hikdar shrilled in anger at the helm-Deldars, who heaved on their levers and brought the voller's bows up. We were due to skip over the wooden fence, touch down, and see how fast we could disgorge the half-regiment. This was just the kind of exercise I had done a thousand times with my fighting men of Vallia. Here I was in a position to make interesting comparisons. I admit to a fatuous glow at the feeling I was doing my job as a spy—and getting paid for it, too, by the foe!

The windrush over the prow ruffled the flags, those damned purple and golden flags of Thyllis, with the green of Hamal slashed through. I looked down at the soldiers. Their faces under the brims of the helmets looked white. I noticed the way they gripped spears, and crossbows. By the time warlovers like Homath, and the army Jiktar, Landon Thorgur, were finished with them, they'd be drilled, disciplined, regimented, ready to become part of the iron legions of Hamal.

And there lay the problem confronting Vallia and her allies. Insidiously though we might work, cutting here, burning there, in the end we had to face the iron legions. There was no way of avoiding that confrontation.

Men like these had marched west and south and north from Hamal and had conquered everywhere. True, the wild men from the Mountains of the West had checked the advance, and that had been met by a redistribution of forces against more sophisticated enemies. In the Dawn Lands down south Hamal continued her advance. Pandahem lay under her heel, with Phu-Si-Yantong in command and plotting further deviltry. Only in Vallia had a real check met the Hamalese. There we had beaten them fair and square. Rather than be whittled away by the mountain guerilla tactics of the wild men of the west, the Hamalese had turned their attentions south. Only in Vallia had the iron legions been met and worsted, by the radvakkas and by the warriors of Vallia. Thyllis knew that; she'd sent hecatombs of the poor devils who had failed to the horrors of the syatra pit in her throne room, or the jaws of the manhounds in the Hall of Notor Zan. More importantly, in a military sense, those in command of the army, those charged with its continuing performance, would know and, knowing, prepare countermeasures.

As Vad Homath ostentatiously lifted his left hand in the air I knew what I was doing had a direct bearing on the struggles to come. He shook the ruffles at his wrist free. Then, with an equally meaningful gesture, he placed his right middle finger over his pulse. We all knew that he would time us to the last heartbeat.

A glance ahead showed the wooden fence skipping beneath us. The Hikdar shouted, the helm-Deldars thrust their levers hard over, and the voller plunged for the ground.

She hit heavily. The whole fabric of the airboat shook and she groaned, for she was an ancient craft, in Hamalian terms good only for training, although in Vallia we'd have had her through force of circumstance in the front fighting line. Dust spouted up from the hard ground. The Deldars were bellowing as Deldars always do bellow. The wooden flaps covering the openings along the sides crashed down and the men started to run out over these ramps. You could taste the sweat and fear. The Deldars did not actually brandish whips; but the impression was there, hard and vivid, like desert sunshine. The noise of bronze- and iron-studded sandals clattered into the hot air. The uproar battered on. I was supposed to be observing what went on and learning. I did think that a bunch of smart girls with bows could have made a sorry mess of these iron legionaries as they debouched from the voller.

All around us the flat horizon of Central Hamal showed specks of trees, dust and grit, mountains lifting to the north and a river meandering along vegetation-choked banks to the south. The swods panted and stamped down the ramps and ran out onto the parched ground. They formed up smartly enough, for that was a parade-ground evolution. But one or two tripped quitting the airboat, and others piled up, and, all in all and quite without the black-faced fury of Vad Homath to warn us, we knew the evolution had been a disaster.

That didn't bother me. Callous, of course, but gleeful, by Vox!

One Deldar simply picked up a poor wight all entangled with his own crossbow and fairly hurled him head-first down the ramp. The swearing flowered to the burning sky. He catapulted full into his buddies and they collapsed down the ramp in an arm and leg wriggling mess. This was an active-service exercise, a practice disembarkation under threat of opposition, and the crossbowmen were landing with loaded weapons. Some idiot couldn't have latched his safety properly. A crossbow twanged from the middle of the confusion. The bolt went an arm's length from Vad Homath's head.

He didn't move or flinch. Give him that. He looked down on that particular ramp, and the heap of struggling men, and at the Deldars, and abruptly it was not funny any more. I knew—everyone knew—heads would roll for this foul-up. On Kregen, in Hamal, the expression “heads would roll” was not idle, oh, no, very far from idle.

Out of that squirming heap of uniformed humanity, a voice burst, high, hard, rapturous: “Spikatur! Hai, Spikatur!"

So the crossbow bolt had not been an accident. The only mistake here had been that the quarrel had missed...

“Down there!” ordered Homath. He did not scream or rage; he cracked out his orders as though in the midst of battle. Well, for his life, it had been a battle. “Arrest all those men. You—” he spoke to me directly. “Down there. Do not let any of them escape. On your head."

Jumping down onto the ground I joined the Deldars and other officers rounding up the tangled group of soldiers. We sorted them out. They stood in a line, quivering, shaking, the sweat starting out in sheening rivulets all over their faces. If no one knew who had shouted, they were all for the question, no doubt of that whatsoever. I felt sorry for them, that was a normal human response. But I felt angry, too. Was this the way I wanted to fight Hamal?

Vad Homath called off the exercise at once. As a Kapt, a most high-ranking general, he had chosen in his capacity as overlord of the Nineteenth Army, his immediate responsibility, and member of the army council, to check out the progress being made by the new units. Prince Nedfar had asked him to take me along to gain experience. Homath's rage was contained within himself. Like an icy chip caught between ice floes, he froze the marrow in the bones of his subordinates.

The upshot of the affair came when the suspects, lined up in the virulent blaze of the suns, awaited interrogation. One man leaped out. His face was a mere mask of contorted hatred as he tried to get at Vad Homath. The crossbowmen of the guard shot him to pieces. He died. Useless to rage at the guard. Homath didn't even bother to check them. They had their orders. The immutable laws of Hamal laid down procedures. Their job was to protect the Kapt, and this they did. Any thought of sparing the man's life for questioning must remain subordinate to that.

One thing you could say, these fellows of Spikatur Hunting Sword were not afraid to die for their beliefs.

The man's name was Nath the Tumbs. His dead face showed the freckles like peeling paint.

“Take him away,” said Homath, and turned back to the voller.

The thought occurred to me that I might put this incident to advantage. I marched up beside Homath and said, “With respect, notor, it might be advantageous to us to find out more of this man."

His finger stroked his scar. He stared at me. He nodded his head. “Very well.” It was all nicely done, calculated to impress. It did impress. This man was no fool, and he was an enemy of my country. I saluted and wheeled off pronto.

The security officers in his suite would make their own inquiries, no doubt of that. I fancied my line of inquiry would differ from theirs.

There was no chance of donning the gear of a simple swod in the ranks and joining in as an equal. Nearly all these fellows were clums and I learned that Nath the Tumbs had been a taciturn man, not a clum, who kept himself to himself. Nothing of any note was known of him. He came from a small village away in the south of Hamal, or, at least, he said he did. One bearded swod, sweating, fidgeting with his stux, the spear-haft sheening, told me that Nath the Tumbs had been a fine swordsman. The summoning bugle call for the next meal rang out. The bearded swod saluted.

“I must go, horter. And we will not eat any looshas pudding this day, bad cess to Nath the Tumbs for that."

Looshas pudding is one of the favorite desserts of the soldiers in the ranks. Then this swod added, “Although Nath the Tumbs had no real liking for the looshas. He swore he knew a place in Ruathytu where they served the best celene flan in all the world."

On Kregen rainbows are, by reason of the two suns, somewhat spectacular affairs. A common name for rainbow is celene, and celene pie or celene flan is made from a mixture of fruits and honey and, while rather sweet to my taste, is a delicacy. I nodded, half-listening, as the bearded swod, who was called Lon the Surdu, saluted again and wheeled off for the meal. As he went he said over his shoulder: “Oh, and, your pardon, horter. Once when he was more merry than he expected, for Hambo Hambohan sold him his ration, he boasted he was of the Mitdel'hur persuasion. But he denied it afterward."

Lon the Surdu trailed his spear and fairly ran to fall into line for the meal. Everyone was on edge after the assassination attempt, and the officers would be merciless over any infringement. The religion of Mitdel'hur, insignificant in adherents, was little known to me. At the time I had a vague idea they stripped off in their temples and ritually bathed each other, and then shared a communal meal. If there was harm in the sect, it was hidden from me. This might be a start to unravel Nath the Tumbs's background and find a lead to Spikatur Hunting Sword.

In any event, my dilemma about reporting in this item of information was unnecessary; the officers charged with investigating the affair had also found it out.

“Mitdel'hur?” said Vad Homath. “A petty religion.” He looked at the group of staff officers surrounding him as they prepared for their meal, in somewhat grander style than the soldiers. “Follow it up, follow it up. But it will be a waste of time."

For a man who had just survived a murderous attempt on his life, Homath appeared composed. He was your true professional fighting man. That, in many a view, should have inclined him even more against assassins and caused him to react with a display of anger. Instead, he went meticulously through the faults he had observed in what had been performed of the exercise. Eventually he handed over to Jiktar Landon Thorgur, and, his forefinger stroking down his scar, gave orders for the return journey.

We were a subdued party on the way back to Ruathytu.

The close brushing of the wings of death made us all realize afresh that the steel-headed crossbow bolt can take the life of the greatest of men as easily as the least.

Chapter eleven

Lobur the Dagger Fidgets

“Our spies in Vallia,” said Kov Naghan, “report massive preparations. An enormous buildup is taking place in that devilish land. And therefore it is necessary for us to reinforce Pandahem."

Vad Homath, stroking his scar, said, “I agree—if it is Pandahem."

They sat at their ease at a table in the window corner of the Golden Zhantil, these two Kapts with other high-ranking officers and pallans, and with Prince Nedfar. I closed my eyes, leaning against the wall at a discreet distance. Prince Tyfar was signaling for a fresh round of drinks, and I listened as best Icould to what this informal war-council discussed. It was not satisfactory and only Zair knew how different from what I anticipated and hoped—but ... But! Spies in Vallia! Damned Hamalese spies sniffing out our secrets!

The situation amused me, despite the seriousness. Here was I, growing righteous over damned spies in my own country, and calmly doing my best to spy on the enemy. And, at least for the moment, my best was nowhere near good enough.

Kov Naghan pulled at his jaw, growling, unhappy. “We must hit Hyrklana to knock those rasts off-balance, and we must put more men into Pandahem. Troops, troops, always it is more troops."

Nedfar spoke pleasantly enough; there was no mistaking the steel underlying his words. “The army has taken many clums into the ranks, strong, simpleminded men who do not think overmuch and therefore may be considered to make good soldiers.” Now I knew Nedfar had pondered this question of the imaginations of soldiers, and so saw he spoke indirectly. But the people at the table were not reassured by his tone.

“No army commander ever has enough men, prince,” said a shriveled little man, doubled up as the result of an old wound imperfectly healed. He was the Pallan of Metals. “If I produce a reserve of swords or spears, the Kapt go out and find men to use them.” And he laughed, a choked dry cackle.

“If, prince,” said Kov Naghan, bullet-hard, unswerving, “we face war on two—no, three—fronts again, we shall have need of every man and voller and saddle flyer Hamal can produce, hire or steal."

“True."

“Pandahem or Hyrklana?” said Vad Homath.

At that point Tyfar called and I joined him at the table being prepared by the servants. Lobur drifted over and with him a few of the other aides to the great chiefs. I had been appointed aide to Prince Tyfar, which was useful, and which gave enormous amusement to Tyfar, who jested with me, his blade comrade. As I sat down I reflected that although eavesdropping on the chiefs as they talked was small beer, in this case I had been pointed toward a new and potentially fruitful path. As we drank and our conversation drowned out anything else, I leaned over and as though concerned, said, “If the Vallians attack us in Pandahem, that could be nasty."

“They don't stand a chance!” The bulky body and sweating face of Famdi ham Horstu, aide to Kov Naghan, gave importance to what he said. He banged his fist on the table and the bottles and glasses jumped. “We'll reinforce Pandahem and chase the damned Vallians all the way home, by Krun!"

The consensus, expressed in a growl that rippled around the table, agreed with this summation. Tyfar looked grave.

“And Hyrklana?"

“Them, too!” yelped the company.

So, all in all, I felt pleased. This was just what we wanted. We wanted the Hamalese to pour men and materials into Pandahem, so that when we bypassed them and hit Hamal, they'd be left high and dry. By the time they were recalled we'd hope to have a hot reception awaiting them. By Vox! We'd run rings around these confounded Hamalese!

Since the return from the exercise in which Homath had nearly been sent down to the Ice Floes of Sicce, I'd been in communication with Deb-Lu-Quienyin half a dozen times, keeping him informed of progress and learning what went forward in Vallia. Assured that my work here was important enough to keep me away from home, and the projects there of expanding and then consolidating our frontiers went ahead, I breathed a little easier. The trouble in the Southwest of Vallia was being handled by Drak, and I left him strictly to handle the affair himself. If he was going to be emperor—and the sooner the better, by Zair!—then this was a damned good way of learning. Delia had gone back to Vondium on business for the Sisters of the Rose, and Jaezila, declining to accompany her mother, had declared she had work still to do in Hamal.

I own my heart sank at that. I didn't want my daughter swanning around in enemy Hamal. Of course, there was nothing I could do to stop her, for she was her own woman. I just trusted in her own prowess and skill and courage, made a few private invocations, and promised myself I'd try to persuade her to leave off the spying and go back home. As for the situation between her and Tyfar, that was hideously complicated. All I could do there, I fancied, was to urge our war preparations along, invade Hamal, knock seven kinds of brick dust out of the damned place, and then make a good and just peace. Then Tyfar and Jaezila could settle their own affairs.

Before that devoutly wished-for end could be reached, before our invasion could succeed, we had to weaken Hamal's capacity to wage war.

And, as you will notice, in all these cogitations, I would not face the scene to come when Tyfar discovered the truth of Jaezila and me.

He was laughing now, open and frank, joying in life, cracking jokes. Lobur the Dagger played up to the prince, and the other aides joined in. Lobur was being twitted about his hopeless passion for the Princess Thefi, Tyfar's sister, and yet Tyfar did not tease him. Tyfar knew that situation well. Kov Thrangulf, sober, industrious, was the raven in the picture, and yet Tyfar and I both felt that Thrangulf had been seriously misjudged by those who mocked him. Yes, he was stuffy, but that is no hanging crime.

Tyfar leaned across.

“You had no joy of those naked prancers, the folk of the Mitdel'hur persuasion, Jak?"

“None. They swore they'd never heard of Nath the Tumbs. I believe them. They seem a harmless lot."

“Vad Homath is still alive, for which we give thanks. He has probably pushed the incident out of his head. He has grave responsibilities.” Tyfar looked straightly at me. “Where would you commit our forces, Jak—Hyrklana or Pandahem?"

“I am thankful I do not have to make the decision. But Pandahem is rich, and we gain much there. To lose the island now would be harmful. We have already lost the vollers from Hyrklana, so—"

“So, you would reinforce Pandahem against the Vallians?"

“That would seem judicious."

“And then those Hyrklese could fly in to attack."

“Hamal has enough troops, surely, to—"

Tyfar closed his eyes. Then, again looking at me, unblinkingly, he said, “Yes, we have the troops. But our Air Service—we are in trouble there, Jak, you know."

I didn't know. I was willing to learn.

“Surely, prince,” interrupted Famdi ham Horstu, his face florid in the lamplight, “surely this is only temporary."

“And,” pointed out Tyfar in his mild voice, “in that temporary period we may be invaded."

“The army will deal with any invasion."

“Of course. We have perfect faith in the army. But it makes life a little easier on the ground during a battle if you control the air."

There was a general nodding of agreement. The point was so obvious I knew Tyfar aimed at a different mark.

Lobur sat sideways on his chair, looking about the elegant room. He fidgeted. He could not keep still. Something of moment bothered Lobur the Dagger, that was clear. In the small pause that ensued after Prince Tyfar's unnecessary yet important comment, I heard the chiefs at the next table talking of the Empress Thyllis's war room. Some of the generals wanted to go across to the palace of Hammabi el Lamma reared on its island in the River Havilthytus to check on the maps adorning the walls of the war room.

Then Famdi ham Horstu banged his fist again, and the glasses and bottles jumped, and he said, “By Krun! If we cannot make enough silver boxes and are short of vollers, then the aerial cavalry will have to cover the army. I do not like it—"

“None of us likes it,” said Tyfar. “Famblehoys will have to fill the gap."

“Famblehoys!” Disgust dripped. “They are useless!"

Thinking it time to put my oar in, I said, “They have been used with success by our enemies."

Tyfar nodded. “Jak is right. If the Vallians, who cannot even build their own vollers, can use flying sailing ships, then surely we can, also?"

Lobur twisted back, fidgeting with the dagger slung at his waist. “The damned Vallians are a seafaring folk. We are not. They understand sails and how to use the wind."

“Then, while there is a shortage of silver boxes to power our vollers, we must also learn to use the wind."

They looked sullen and rebellious at that; but Tyfar was right, and I warmed to him. He was willing to go on and face the future, using whatever means came to his hand. He would not uselessly repine over what was not possible.

Lobur had spoken damned sharply to the prince. Tyfar took no notice, continuing to talk and laugh with the others; Lobur sat sideways on his chair and fidgeted and looked black. In one of those little pauses that break up any general conversation the chiefs from the next table, talking with growing heat, made themselves heard.

Van Homath was saying: “...any time we like. I'll prove my point in the moorn vew—"

“Let us go, then, and we'll see.” Nedfar rose. They quite clearly were going to the moorn vew, the war room in Thyllis's unholy palace. I perked up ... But my hopes were premature, for the chiefs agreed that they had no need of us aides and we could carouse the night away if we wished. There was the other watch to come on duty who would take over during the night. I slumped back in my chair. And Lobur, when I turned to speak to him, had gone.

His florid face a sheen of sweat, Famdi ham Horstu looked furious. “As Malahak is my witness! Lobur is a strange fellow!"

Tyfar smiled. “As San Blarnoi says, understanding a man is like peeling an onion, the task is tortuous and tearful."

We all laughed, for the aphorisms of San Blarnoi can usually turn up an opposite quote, and Lobur had been acting deuced oddly, no doubt about it. With the rest of their duty thus cancelled, the bloods among the gathered aides decided to go out on the town. Tyfar raised his eyebrow at me. I nodded, and making our farewells, we went off together.

“And Lobur?” I said. “Something ails him, for sure."

“It is my sister, of course."

“Of course."

For him, Tyfar spoke a little fretfully. “Lobur is a good companion, bright and quick and eager to please. There is no reason why he could not make his way in the world, and secure Thefi in a marriage that would be agreeable to my father. As it is—"

Feeling a traitor, I said, “Lobur is eager to please."

“Ah!"

We walked along in silence for a space among the throngs out to enjoy themselves, their faces animated in the torchlights becketed to walls and archways. The air smelled sweet, even here in the Sacred Quarter, and the scent of moon blooms drenched down, refreshing and nostalgic.

Then Tyfar said, “I refuse to listen to anything said against Lobur, as you know. Thefi is in love with him, I think."

“You think?"

He lifted a hand, the gesture a helpless appeal. “I am not sure. Kov Thrangulf is everywhere laughed at as a stick in the mud, a bore. He has no ham in his name, true, but he held onto the kovnate. I think he is more worthy than folk are willing to give him credit for."

Very quickly I decided this moil was not for me. I liked Princess Thefi well enough, and she was Tyfar's sister. Lobur, despite the dealings I had had with him, remained an unknown quantity. I did not believe the triangle of passion and hatred here could affect my work for Vallia. Well, in that I was wrong, as you shall hear.

So, in that honest if misguided conception, I could say, “There is every indication that this evil war will hot up, and when it does Lobur will be in the thick of it. A man's fortunes may change overnight."

Tyfar glanced back, and I knew he was not checking if the four guards assigned us were following on discreetly, as feeling the annoyance that a man could not take a stroll in the Sacred Quarter without guards. A straightforward Bladesman's ruffling fight, all swirling capes and shouts of “Ha!” and “Hai!” and much leaping and twirling, well, that was one thing. And the ever-present possibility of a hired stikitche going in to earn his hire and assassinate you was another. But this new business of Spikatur Hunting Sword, where men didn't give a damn if they died or not just so they could skewer you—well, that did call for four hulking guards to dog the prince's footsteps.

He swung back and gave that fighting man's hitch to his belt where his axe snugged ready to hand. We'd never satisfactorily settled between us how soon Tyfar could dispose of a rapier and main-gauche Bladesman with his axe, and we'd mocked each other, saying the rapier would snick past a clumsy axe swing and an axe would lop a head before the onker realized and so forth, and so forth. Now Tyfar took his hat off and bashed it against his thigh, and punched it, and put it back on his head.

“We are for the Twentieth Army and the mountains,” he said.

I stopped walking. I stared at him where a torchlight threw orange smears like butter down his cheeks and set skull-shadows under the hatbrim.

“The Twentieth? The mountains of the west? You said nothing—"

“No. Security. I suppose I should be pleased. After all, I am young and have been given an army."

I glared at my comrade. I spoke as the Ice Floes of Sicce must grate and grind together as they suck down the ibs of the departed. “I give you my congratulations, prince, on your new command."

“Jak!” He flung up one hand, appealing, his face distorted in that orange and black grotesquerie.

“You are my comrade, Tyfar, and dear to me. But, by Krun, you don't expect me to follow you to the Twentieth, do you? Molder away out in the West?"

“I take over from Kapt Thorhan, who fell from his bird. I know the army guards the western frontier against the wild men, I know we should be facing the other three points of the compass, I know the men will be dispirited and sullen—"

“They'll be mutinous, a rabble—"

“—but my father commands it.” He was appealing to me, to understand and, perhaps, to forgive. “You are a fighting man with your way to make in the world, just like Lobur. I shall not hold you. Havil knows, I would escape this posting if I could; but I am given an army as a trial. If I fail, if I refuse..."

“It will lead on, Tyfar, to greater commands. Of course."

I couldn't go blindly back to the western mountains and sit in strongholds and fly patrols against the wild men! I had so many hooks baited the fish would be snapping at my ankles. And Tyfar, as a prince, still had to work his way up the hierarchy of command. The Hamalese are not stupid—or not more so than most peoples—when it comes to handing out responsible posts.

“You will write to me—?"

“If you leave an address."

“Your letters will reach me at Hammansax."

I nodded.

He went on, “The wild men have caused disturbances among the vo'drins."

I knew about the volgendrins, marvelous flying islands where the Hamalese grew an abundance of pashams, honey-melon-sized fruits which, although they might smell like old socks and taste like the sweepings of a totrix stable, were processed to form a component in voller production. And facts clicked into place. Production of the silver boxes which powered vollers in the air was down. The wild men were “creating disturbances."

Slowly and with meaning, I said, “It could be this posting is vitally important. You won't be sitting on your hands out there."

Tyfar drew a breath. “Then you'll come?"

“No."

“I do understand. I shall miss you.” We walked on past the brilliantly lit entrance to a lord's villa and into the shadows beyond where small shops flickered their lesser lights. “What will you do? The Air Service needs support."

To be honest, I was not absolutely sure of what would be best as my next step. I had a certain project to accomplish here in Ruathytu before I hared off down south into the Dawn Lands to help coordinate their attacks on Hamal. I anticipated objections to our plans down there.

“As your aide I have been granted the honorary rank of ob-Jiktar. I appreciate that. Will it open doors?"

“Ah!” Ahead of us now past the shoulders of folk pushing into and out of the shops a tavern's sign proclaimed The Bolt and Quarrel and we made for a quick wet. “The rank may be honorary but I shall have a few words in the right ears. You wish to command a voller with a little more weight than that a Hikdar pulls?"

“Yes."

“Then consider it done. Who knows? You may even fly out to visit me as I moulder away in those damned mountainous forts."

I quelled my sigh of relief. I thoroughly detested bamboozling my friend and comrade like this. I wanted command of a Hamalese flier for reasons that would make Tyfar's hair stand on end.

“Jak, one thing—you'll probably have to find your own crew. We are stretched for quality voswods and, another thing, it may be possible that instead of a voller they'll assign you to a famblehoy."

I made a face. “If that is to be, I'll accept. But a voller—"

“I'll do what I can."

Thoughts of my days on Earth when as a first lieutenant of a seventy-four I had hungered for my own command mocked me. How relatively easy it was to obtain your heart's desire when you had Influence!

The Bolt and Quarrel was packed with army officers, and the diffs among them, paktuns, kept themselves to themselves along one side. This new and unpleasant hostility to diffs in Hamal showed least among fighting men. A warrior recognizes another warrior, no matter if he has scales, or a tail, or three or four arms. We managed to acquire a couple of glasses and then went outside to the patio, under the torchlights which drowned the moon-radiance of She of the Veils. If there was a tension between us, it would pass.

At the far end of the patio a troupe of jugglers and fire-eaters and magicians went through their repertoire of tricks, and the roars of delight and wonder as a man swallowed a flaming brand or a pyramid of muscle-bound fellows stood on one another's heads drove us farther away. Our talk although offhand remained of vital importance to us both. At length Tyfar could not keep back the thought that stood foremost in his mind. He put his glass down. “You are going away again, Jak. And Jaezila? By Havil! How I miss her!"

I said, with a fervor that was absolutely genuine: “So do I!"

Despite the uproar with the jugglers, or perhaps because of that, and with the tavern crowded with fighting men, there was in the air, strong and unmistakable, the feeling of departure. Soldiers shouting out good-bye, and the people waving and calling as the armies left—yes, this feeling is one dreadfully familiar. That feeling itched everyone here this night, even though the departures lay for the morrow. With what lay between Tyfar and me we did not make a night of it, but took ourselves back. Two days later Tyfar was gone.

He had been as good as his word. I had been made up to dwa-Jiktar and given a voller to command. If I could not find a crew within a month of the Maiden with the Many Smiles, the voller would be taken away and given to someone who could.

The Hamalese officers commiserated with me, being helpful and encouraging, saying things like, “You'll never find a crew these days,” and, “Let the nobles take the commands, they can always find crews."

My problem was quite the opposite from what these Hamalese imagined.

On the question of crewing my new voller, once I made known in certain quarters I needed men, I would be inundated by offers, and infamously injure the good feelings of magnificent fighting men by having to choose elsewhere. And, by Zair! How was I to make the choices? How was I to select a mere fifty or sixty fellows from the thousands who would fight to be with me?

Chapter twelve

Mathdi

As the voller bore on steadily southward I wrote names on a sheet of paper. The first sheet filled up rapidly, and I took another from the rack. A glance through the forward windows—they were more than scuttles—showed me the empty sky and the high clouds all suffused with the glory of Zim and Genodras shining refulgently. The second sheet filled. At the fourth sheet I sat back, in despair, knowing the task was impossible.

The voller the Hamalese Air Service had assigned me flew well and confidence could be reposed in her that she would not arbitrarily break down as the airboats the Hamalese used to sell abroad would invariably do. She was called Mathdi. I was alone. The reason for the flight I had given was firstly to test out Mathdi and get the feel of her, and secondly to recruit a crew of volmen and the fighting component of voswods. Having said that, I could say nothing about the age and state of the craft, for Mathdi was old and if not decrepit then weak at the knees.

In the current fraught state of voller production in Hamal everything that could fly had been pressed into service. In the normal course of events Mathdi would have been broken up and her silver boxes freshened up to give them a longer lease of life before they turned black and useless, and a new ship built around them. There was no time for that now. She was a beamy craft of two decks, with fighting towers and balconies and her design had long since been superseded by new models. She carried the venerable air of fragile antiquity about her, and I loved her.

All the same, to find her crew ... Every name I had written down had been winnowed from a much longer list in my head. I needed men who could carry off a deception and who would not instantly bellow out at the sight of a Hamalese and go charging down to blatter the poor fellow. Many of those names you know—and plenty you have not so far been introduced to—and every one a ferocious fighting man, a warrior, a soldier, a man who knew his trade and, more importantly, knew why he fought.

Mathdi would sink under the weight of the men who would clamor to follow me into battle.

Not, I confess, a comfortable thought. I am not one of your charismatic killers. At least, I devoutly hope not. I do have that special form of charisma the Kregans call the yrium, and this may curse or bless indifferently. Men will follow me. With that responsibility on my shoulders I had to lead well, so that as few as possible suffered. Not easy. Not easy at all, by Zodjuin of the Silver Stux!

And, too, although I would disagree with the judgment, some people might say that reluctance to send men off to their deaths caused me to joy so much in adventuring off by myself or with a chosen band of comrades. The reasons for that were quite obvious, and quite removed from considerations of empire.

Unable to come to any sensible decision over the lists I threw the paper onto the chart desk and took myself off on another tour of inspection. The controls were locked to a steady level flight. Up on the topmost lookout tower where on Earth the crow's nest would have perched, I stared around the wide horizons. By Zair! What a world is Kregen!

Ahead hills stretched in folds of blue and gray threaded by sillver watercourses. Dense clumps of trees strewed the flanks of the hills with darker greens and browns. The sky lifted, sheer, crystalline, suffused with the radiance of the Suns of Scorpio. I looked down. Mathdi looked, as all ships look small from the masthead, a cunningly wrought toy. Her bulwarks were solid lenk, the oak of Kregen, and her fighting towers were armored in iron and bronze. As for her teeth—the ballistae snouted along her sides, ranked deck by deck, and catapults lifted in cleared areas. She might be old and creaky; she was a beautiful craft, and I overlooked the severe dint in her larboard flank where, in the long ago, some idiot had rammed her.

Her main color scheme tended to blue, with gray and white adornments. There was precious little gilt left, and the gingerbread work was mostly gone. The eyes in her bows, one larboard, the other starboard, had been freshly painted. No need to wonder that the sea and air-faring folk of Kregen adorn their ships with eyes, still, as we did—and do, by Zair!—here on Earth to let the ship see where she's going. Mathdi was clearly Hamalian in origin and to avoid as much unpleasantness as possible where I was going I'd prepared a few flags ahead of time. The flagstaffs were all bare. With a sigh I climbed down to the deck and went into the armored conning tower just forward of amidships to make sure the lock on the controls was still in place. I'd had experience, on Earth, of old ships where one sailed in the constant expectation of the bottom falling out. The conning tower with its racks of crossbows and stuxes, its air of spartan efficiency, did not depress me. From here a captain would conn his ship in action, if he did not, like me, feel more at home out on the open deck.

Soon Mathdi would resound to the noise of her crew. And still I could not choose from all those splendid fighting men. A thought occurred to me. Of course! I could not simply take away men from their regiments, their ships, their aerial cavalry squadrons—of course not. I would say, firmly, that their duty demanded they continue the struggle there, and not go haring off with me. Well—it might work.

“By the revolting pestilential carcass of Makki Grodno exhumed!” I said. “Sink me! I'll line ‘em all up on paper and toss an arrow for each one. That's what I'll do, by Vox!"

Let chance decide among peers.

Just to give myself an edge, I could push the crew of Mathdi up to a hundred. She'd take that number without bending in half or having bits fall off.

So, alone in the ship, on we pressed, Mathdi and I, on to what of peril the Dawn Lands would afford us.

No difficulty presented itself in choosing a course to take us clear of any continuing fighting. With such a large area and so long a frontier, inevitably the gaps between actions, sieges and routs were immense. A sharp lookout had to be kept to spot the aerial patrols the contending forces would maintain between their major areas. With the River Os, He of the Commendable Countenance, left far to the north, Mathdi and I flew on over the Dawn Lands of Havilfar.

From staring overside I brought my gaze back to look forward along that sweet curve of Mathdi's decks. Deb-Lu-Quienyin stood just beside the third starboard varter, a pale shimmer of ghost-shine about his robed figure. I climbed down and walked toward this apparition.

“Jak! You'll have to go to Ingleslad—that's the capital of Layerdrin—right away."

“I know it's the capital, Deb-Lu—and what's the trouble this time—?"

I stopped speaking, for I was speaking to myself. The solid wood and iron of the varter showed through the Wizard of Loh, and as he vanished so the ballista exuded a breath of cold. Well, now. Deb-Lu was in the devil of a hurry. So, obediently, I went back to the conning tower and directed Mathdi on course for Ingleslad. Layerdrin was just one of the small countries of the Dawn Lands, long since overrun by the iron legions of Hamal. The distance was on the order of five hundred or so miles, and I'd make it in six hours or so. Locking the controls again I went off for a bite to eat.

The necessity of keeping up my cover as a dwa-Jiktar in the Hamalian Air Service, commanding a voller, made me wonder how long I could stretch this flight before reporting back. Truth to tell, the thought that I would not have to decide on the names in those confounded lists today cheered me up, coward that I am. As soon as I'd found out what Deb-Lu's mysterious words meant, I'd have to high tail it for Ruathytu and the Air Service berths at Urnmayern where I was based.

The people of Layerdrin had lived under the Hamalese yoke for some time now and were thoroughly cowed. The chances of a revolt originating there seemed remote. Yet as I slanted in through a gap in the Mountains of Yallom fringing the eastern boundaries of the country, with a wide basin ahead threaded by rivers and patterned with agriculture, I saw the old and dreadful signs of combat ahead.

Swarms of flyers winged high above the city. Flames shot up and smoke rolled away downwind. The flyers were mostly fluttrells and, for a moment of horrid doubt, I thought they were flutsmen. Then, as I swung in nearer, I saw the picture and realized the truth, a truth so overwhelming I hammered a fist onto the lenken coaming before me and swore.

“By the putrescent putrid eyeballs of Makki Grodno! The idiots!"

But it was true. Here in this cleft between the mountains the first invasion of Hamal had begun.

Down there, and swinging high in the sky, the armies of our allies from the central and southern nations of the Dawn Lands fought the Hamalese garrison, seeking to batter their way through. This should have taken place when the armies from Hyrklana and Vallia invaded, so as to provide a pincer movement that prevented the Hamalese from reinforcing any one front. A combined offensive had every chance of succeeding. But these hotheads had struck ahead of time. They could be crushed, and the Hamalese turn, fresh from victory, to deal with the invasions from north and east.

And, as I flew in toward the flames and action, I could guess who was running some, at least, of the show down there.

Through the windrush the noise bloomed ahead, hideous and clangorous with combat. A flight of fluttrells winged over toward me. And that brought me—belatedly—to my senses.

If our allies down there were idiots, then I was an onker of onkers, a get onker, by Krun! Here was I, flying in with an empty voller marked as Hamalian—either way I was on the receiving end. Instantly I fled for the conning tower and bashing the controls free, sent Mathdi over in a wind-splitting swerve away from those inquisitive flutswods. By their streaming banners I knew they were from Arachosia, allies from the windy city in the mountains far to the south, here to bash in the heads of Hamalese. They wouldn't hesitate. Mathdi dived for the crags below.

In a straight flight a voller would outpace a bird; but I needed to get down below and bash a few heads myself—friends’ heads, to knock some sense into them. What would my pallans of Vallia say to this debacle? What would Jaidur say, new King of Hyrklana and awaiting the signal? Had I been a wizard or magician with the power of invisibility or teleportation I'd have been in better case and would have thrown off those ferocious fellows from Arachosia. As it was, I had to twist and turn among the crags and gradually pull ahead, outdistancing the pursuit, and throwing myself miles off course.

By the time I'd lost them the decision had to be made.

If I hung around I'd be late reporting back. Under the strict laws of Hamal, which extended even more stringently into the armed forces, there would be an appropriate paragraph and sub-section dealing with my offense. Well, then, to hell with Hamalian rules and regulations. I had to see my friends here.

The decision was made and acted on and Mathdi hurtled back, keeping low, fairly skipping over the mountains and sliding down into the narrow valleys. We came around in a wide circle and headed north again. Selecting a likely-looking clump of trees below and landing the voller was easy enough; then I had to inch her in gingerly under the trees. There was still plenty of daylight left. The leaves rustled overhead and as Mathdi settled the sounds of the forest dwellers reached me. That was heartening.

Moving out of the trees I finished clasping up the short red cape. That had been stowed very secretly, for obvious reasons, and I just hoped it would be enough to stop some overzealous swod loosing into me at first sight. The path ahead led to an encampment of many tents and cooking fires and totrix lines. Not many zorcas, though. I strode on briskly, cursing this waste of time, and knowing that to land a Hamalian voller into the little lot ahead would be like leaping into the jaws of a shark. Even my flags would not have sufficed, I judged, for it was my guess the Air Service people here would know every airboat they owned. Any stranger would be an enemy.

The camp was deserted of fighting men, properly so, as they were all besieging the city of Ingleslad. A few servants moved about and meals were being prepared. The most likely-looking mount was a freymul, the poor man's zorca, and I simply unhitched him from the post outside a tent,mounted up and galloped off. An angry shout floated after me. I did not look back.

Despite that first appalled glance when the sky had seemed filled with aerial combat, the truth was that for a siege of this scale there were precious few flyers and even fewer fliers. I was not molested from the air as I rode on toward the lines. A steady trickle of wounded passed going back to the camp. The position of the commander was easy to ascertain and I guided the freymul toward the cluster of tents well out of catapult range. Beyond them the town burned and the dark frantic figures of soldiers were silhouetted against the blaze. Whatever the outcome, the city of Ingleslad was doomed.

Sentries stopped me and I was polite to them, inquiring the name of the commander, dismounting with the crackle of the flames in our ears and the yells of men thin and screeching from the walls.

“Dav Olmes, Vad of Bilsley commands here."

“Oh,” I said. Then, “I might have known."

“Have a care, dom, how you speak of the Vad."

“I shall, I shall. Pray, tell Vad Dav Olmes that I am here and I would have a word or three with him. Tell him my name is Jak. Mention the king korf to him, and Kazz Jikaida. I think he will see me."

The sentries, hard men in mail with spears and crossbows, stared at me. I glared at them and, Zair forgive me, that old devilish Dray Prescot look must have flashed into my face, for they turned away, shuffling, and their Deldar mumbled about at once, notor, at once. So I waited, and then instead of being conducted up the little stony path to the tent with the flags I saw a figure burst from the tent and come hurtling down on me. A great mop of fair hair blew, a round, pugnacious, cheerful face, the embrace of muscular arms, and I was being greeted as Dav Olmes greets people—overpoweringly.

“Jak! Jak you crafty leem! Here! You are welcome, for we need all the swordsmen we can lay hands on! Tell me—"

“Tsleetha-tsleethi,” I said, which is to say, softly, softly. “I am overjoyed to see you, Dav. But what in the name of a Herrelldrin Hell are you doing? Who gave the orders for this attack, who ordered the invasion begun?"

He stepped back. He looked at me with a quick flush rising, his face expressing bewilderment at my tone. I had to get the protocol over, and fast, for Dav Olmes was a vad, and used to command, and a stouthearted fellow, and he knew me as just a wandering adventurer with whom he had shared some fraught moments.

“The council—” he began. “By Spag the Junc! They told—"

“I am glad to see they gave you a command, Dav. I did not know you were here. Tell me, when do you anticipate taking the city?"

At this fresh line he brightened up. “Havandua the Green Wonder has smiled. Yes, the city burns, which is a damned pity. But we'll be in before nightfall. And then—"

“And you and your army are not alone?"

“Of course not.” Being Dav Olmes he was already looking around for a stoup of ale, and a servant hurried up with a tray loaded with best quality goblets and best quality ale. We drank, and Dav said, “Konec commands against Felsheim, and—"

I interrupted. If Vad Dav Olmes grew prickly over a mere paktun—even a hyr-paktun—treating him so cavalierly I might be in for a ticklish moment or two. But Dav was a good-natured fellow and shrewd with it, so that he listened, for all his happy bellowings. I said, “So the general invasion has begun. The nations of the Dawn Lands have risen against Hamal. So be it. You are premature—"

“I know! But we could not wait for signals from parts so distant as Vallia and Hyrklana and Pandahem! Jak, we waited and the men grew restless, so we marched.” He gestured with his goblet. “And we are damned short of air, too."

“The Hamalese are short, also."

“Bad cess to ‘em, by Spag the Junc!"

We talked on, and I inquired after old friends, Fropo and Bevon the Brukaj and others. Some were dead. Well, that is a fact of life on Kregen, as anywhere else. The shortage of vollers was worrying, and the armies assembled for the invasion would mostly march on their feet all the livelong way to Ruathytu. The legions were on the move, the standards leading on.

“Bevon,” I said. “I would like to have seen him; but I cannot tarry."

“He'll be through the walls before the suns go down. You were always a mysterious fellow, Jak, damned mysterious. Will you tell me—?"

“Yes—but not now. I am merely a part of all this.” This was true. “When the King of Hyrklana starts, he will sort out the Hamalese. I pray you are not overwhelmed first."

“We understood the risks when the council ordered us to march."

“I am keeping my temper, Dav, in a wonderful way.” I kept my face impassive, for I felt like bursting out with a really wild impassioned denunciation of the council of the Dawn Lands. “The risk to your forces you accept. All very good. But if you imperil the invasion plan, what of the risk to the other lives involved? Hyrklana? Vallia?"

“We have heard there is a new king in Hyrklana. As for Vallia, well, their emperor, this Dray Prescot, we hear is so wild and savage a leem he could chew a harness of armor and spit out the rivets."

“He would,” I said. “And who could blame him?"

After a pause, Dav said, “Will you stay with me and help?"

“I would like to. But I have a duty that presses on me."

“And you will not tell me what that is?"

“As I have said, I will. Later.” I eyed him. He was a stout fighter, we had fought in Kazz-Jikaida, which is a bloody game on Kregen. “If I asked for Bevon the Brukaj, you could not spare him?"

He looked taken aback. “Well, Jak—"

“Very well, Dav. I understand. Then spare me six lusty fellows, and let Deldar Jorg the Fist command them."

“I am not overly endowed with men; but six.” He laughed, that roaring laugh of Dav Olmes that echoes and fills the world wherever he happens to be. “Deldar Jorg and five of the best, then. But take care of ‘em, Jak, take care."

“I will.” It was a promise. “And I give you thanks."

At that point a Hikdar in the supply train came clattering up awkwardly riding a calsany, swearing and shaking his fists. He was the owner of the freymul I had borrowed. Well, in sorting him out and smoothing his ruffled feathers, for he was a Rapa, the tension was broken. There was a deal of jollity as I started back with my six men, and Deldar Jorg, giving me that wolfish smile, had expressed himself of the opinion that if I was involved he was in for some fun and games.

“You are right, Jorg. And the quicker we set about them the better."

So back to Mathdi I went with the first six of her crew. I anticipated a somewhat lively time as I explained just what was afoot. A somewhat lively time...

Chapter thirteen

Signs

The lively time began with: “Among the damned Hamalese! I'd as lief slit their throats as look at ‘em!” and ended with, “It's so cunning a scheme I'll be a better Hamalese than any of ‘em, as Havandua the Green Wonder bears witness!"

I sighed. Deldar Jorg the Fist and his five men clustered about me, straining their harness, their faces inflamed, breathing hard. “Havandua is not of Hamal."

“No, dom, no, that is right. I'll allow you that."

“So it will be Havil, or Krun—Dernun?"

The word dernun came out inquiringly and not insultingly, but it was hard enough, in its demand for their understanding, to make them snap up.

“Understood,” said Jorg, and he winked, a fine raffish leering wink that made me turn away so that they should not see the foolish smile I could not contain. We sped for Ruathytu and the six swods rid themselves of insignia that would mark them as enemies of Hamal. Each man knew his business. I had the nucleus of a crew. That proved the straw to which I clung as the obnoxious ord-Jiktar Morthnin chewed me out. As an ord-Jiktar, eight steps up the Jiktar ladder of promotions, he stood six above me, a dwa-Jiktar. I listened to what he had to say, watching his face twitch with his own passionate anger, realizing that he was in a position which he, himself, did not think he could handle. You have to feel sorry for men in that situation, of course...

“You will be severely reprimanded, Jiktar, most severely. I shall see to it myself—"

“I have the beginnings of a crew, Jiktar Morthnin. If you wish to make any more of this, then run me up before the Chuktar. He'll chew you out for wasting his time. I have a full month of the Maiden with the Many Smiles. Only then will you have anything to say to me—now let me get on with seeing to my command."

His face approached in color a plum left too long in the light of the suns. He gobbled.

I marched off, giving him no time to spit out the retort he was frenziedly attempting to put into words.

Not pretty. He was a Hamalese, so that made it a little more bearable for me...

At the time, I must emphasize, at the time only. We had to get together with the people of Hamal to resist the damned Shanks raiding from over the curve of the world. But, first things first.

The premature invasion of Hamal from the south created a whole new slew of problems, for the Hamalese no less than for the allies. The tempo of life increased and the feeling of being at the heart of world affairs broadened. Ruathytu became even more a city of contrasts, as the seriousness of the situation was brought home by the open comings and goings with the wind of fleets of famblehoys. The swift vollers plied their routes through the skies, and the famblehoys bumbled along as best they could. I took more than a few moments of amusement from the unhandiness of the Hamalese sky sailors.

Many of the fresh troops were bundled off down south and the officers of the garrisons left and the training barracks were of the opinion that many of the regiments being sent to the front were not yet ready. I listened. During these days I learned a great deal. The Empress Thyllis kept herself closeted more and more, not seeing her pallans, going with her favorites to any of the secluded and secret villas she kept up in various parts of the country. The streets of Ruathytu resounded to the tramp of marching men as units were called in to be dispatched south.

All the same, as I went about collecting a crew, I heard what Vad Homath had to say. He was bashing his Nineteenth Army into shape with a frenzy that reflected the urgency he, at least, saw in the situation.

“I am going to Hyrklana and take them apart, the cramphs, even if the whole Dawn Lands rise against us."

Someone in the crowded tavern where we talked and argued and drank was foolhardy enough to say, “Is that wise?"

Homath's scar flamed. “Wise! Onker! They invade from the south to weaken us here and in the east.” He looked savage. “As for the north, the Hyr Notor will have to handle that. He has powers ordinary men know nothing of, by Krun!"

He was talking of the great devil, Phu-Si-Yantong, and he was right, uncomfortably right. Our own Wizards of Loh would have to meet and front the deviltry of Phu-Si-Yantong.

“Where do you intend to hit the Hyrklese, notor?” I spoke casually, lifting a goblet. “Neck, belly or groin?"

He was filled with his own anger at what was going on and the stupidity of others, and so was a little off guard. He knew what he was going to do. “I shall go for the belly. A straight drop on Huringa. That will settle the whole issue in a day."

“Excellent, notor,” I said, and sat back, and drank.

The incautious fellow—he was an under-pallan at the treasury or something similar, I believe—piped up again. “There are other armies involved, Homath. Their Kapts will—"

Homath left off stroking his scar. He bristled. “I have been given the mangy Nineteenth but I remain in command of the force! Don't forget that. Kapts Hindimun and Naghan and Lart will obey my orders or their armies will be commanded by fresh faces. Believe me."

The foolhardy under-pallan drew a breath, and sat back, and took refuge in his wine. Homath, hard professional as he was, had clearly been severely shaken by what the Hamalese considered the treacherous attack from the Dawn Lands. Useless to rage, myself, thinking of the marvelous opportunity we had missed. Had Hyrklana and Vallia struck, and then the allies from the Dawn Lands ... But we had to work with the tools fates placed in our hands.

“I shall clear the whole of Hyrklana in three months. I shall return with all the vollers they have. It will be up to the armies of the south to hold these yetches from the Dawn Lands.” Homath drank, fiercely, and banged his glass down. “Maintain the aim, that is what we must do and pin our hopes on Havil and the soundness of our military doctrine."

The others gathered around the Kapt in the tavern agreed in their various styles. They were confident, and had every right to be, for the soundness of the Hamalian military thinking had been proved time and again on battlefields and in sieges where their organization, skill and courage had crowned their standards with victory.

I stood up to make my excuses, for I intended to leave early on the morrow. “My felicitations for success in Hyrklana,” I said, which was, considering all things, sneaky enough.

Homath was talking to a Chulik Chuktar and he half turned to acknowledge my departure. He had no need to, of course. I saluted and threw a few respectful remberees to others in the company I had come to know. Now an interesting reversal, almost a revulsion, of feeling had possessed the people of Ruathytu when news came in of the invasion. Diffs were now, suddenly, welcomed again. My own view was that the apim nobles of Hamal had been growing restive at the increasing number of diff nobles; certainly the fighting men considered diff or apim or whatever only from the prowess, the skill and courage that a racial stock would confer. Whatever the reasons, diffs now moved about much more freely and were once more a splendid part of the magnificent spectacle of Kregan life.

The Chulik Chuktar was saying, “Prisoners confirm that this evil cult of Spikatur Hunting Sword is behind the invasion."

Homath grunted. Pausing, I waited a moment, standing at the end of the table and with the back of the incautious under-pallan off my starboard wing, listening.

“You were unable to get any more, Chuktar Rarbonatch? No, these fellows of Spikatur chop themselves. I know."

“By Likshu the Treacherous, notor! You are right. But we confirmed they have no leaders."

“Or will not admit to them."

The Chulik polished up his starboard tusk, the one with the ruby inset beneath the gold band. “Our security Jiktar believed it, notor. Although it is difficult to understand."

Chuliks are trained from birth to handle weapons and serve as mercenaries, and know little of humanity; but they do understand chains of command. That warriors would fight without due heed of officers to command them puzzled the Chulik.

He pulled a piece of paper from his wallet and passed it across to Homath, who looked, made a disgusted sound and threw the paper onto the table. It showed in simple black-ink lines the outline of a sword piercing a heart.

“These signs appear everywhere, notor,” said Chuktar Rarbonatch. “Painted on doors, chalked on walls. We remove them; but they reappear."

“Remove the sign-writers!” shouted Chuktar Thrend, and the company indicated they shared that opinion. It was time for me to leave. As I left the tavern the sign above the door creaked. The wooden slat was painted in vivid colors, greens and blues and yellows, showing a leem being shot by crossbow bolts. I had thought that Spikatur Hunting Sword would turn out to be a grand conspiracy directed against Hamal and of material assistance to our plans. Well, I was half right and half wrong. By Zair, yes!

The secret adherents of Spikatur might want to get at the Hamalese; but they had, by prodding the allies from the Dawn Lands into a premature attack, materially hampered our plans.

And then, as I went back to the barracks in a not-too-happy frame of mind, there on a wall the chalked sign of the sword piercing the heart gave me heart, reminding me that we did not struggle against this puissant Empire of Hamal alone.

I decided the early start was going to be considerably earlier than anyone expected. Rousing out my lads I told Jorg to get Mathdi ready for a long flight. Then I went to see Chuktar Fydur ham Thorfrann, not giving a damn for poor old ord-Jiktar Morthnin and protocol. Chuktar Thorfrann at least knew his job, being a choleric, stout, astute sky-commander, having charge of a wing of twelve vollers. He was bucking for promotion to command one of the awe-inspiring Hamalian skyships. He woke up rubbing his eyes and cursing me.

“I am leaving for a longish flight, Chuk—and I don't want that idiot Morthnin doing himself an injury worrying about me. If we can recruit diffs again, then I can fill my crew."

“Why do I put up with you, Jak the Insufferable! By Havil the Green! All right! Go and get your crew. But if you're not back here on time—"

“I shall be, Chuk."

It was all both a laugh and petty at the same time. I was tempted to wing off at once, take Mathdi to join forces with my friends, and so join in with the invasion. But I could serve much more important ends by remaining within the Air Service of Hamal. And, also, in my treatment of Morthnin and my toadying to ham Thorfrann, I writhed in remembered indignation and resentment at other days, when I had suffered from puffed-up nincompoops with Influence. Thorfrann allowed me a long leash because of my friendship with Prince Tyfar and Prince Nedfar. I remember, I made myself a promise to make amends to poor old ord-Jiktar Morthnin, if I could.

“You think you know where you can pick up crewmen, Jak?"

“I'm hopeful.” I sounded cautious.

“Well, if you can find a few extra—the Wing needs men to fill out the crews. We're in for the big one, if I'm not mistaken."

“You mean—we'll go south?"

He laughed, purple, apoplectic, spluttering. “No, Jak, you fambly! Not those pathetic fools from the Dawn Lands."

“Hyrklana, then? But Kapt Homath said nothing—"

Again that taint of Influence. That I, a mere dwa-Jiktar, could talk and even drink on easy terms with a vad and a Kapt must have annoyed Chuktar ham Thorfrann. But he just wheezed again, and said: “Vallia!” and laughed, and threw me out.

Of only one thing could I be reasonably sure—about that. I did not think Hamal could possibly put another onslaught onto Vallia, my homeland, together with all the problems she had from south and east and in Pandahem. If I was wrong ... No, confound it! By the Black Chunkrah! I said to myself. Maintain the aim, that was what Homath had said, quoting sage military doctrine, and that was what I would do. If ham Thorfrann had reason to believe Vallia was a target, he must be talking about the Hamalese reinforcements for Pandahem. He had to be.

Jorg had Mathdi ready and we took off at once.

I'd appointed Jorg the Fist as ship-Deldar, which post just about equates with the responsible position of boatswain on Earth. If the ship fell to pieces, Jorg would be the one to make inquiries of...

We set off eastwards. I fancied my lad Jaidur, who was King of Hyrklana, would be vastly interested in what Kapt Homath had had to say in The Bolted Leem tavern. Vastly.

Chapter fourteen

"Zair does will it!"

Jaidur was now king in Hyrklana, with Lildra, the queen, radiant at his side. It was therefore very necessary to be circumspect, cautious, civil—even ceremonious—in tackling that young tearaway. And, of course, even the youngest of right tearaways grows up in time. Jaidur, my youngest lad, had unmistakably grown in stature and in wisdom. For all that he was still as sharp and cutting as ever as Mathdi alighted with the swarm of patrolling flyers surrounding her.

We landed sweetly enough on a platform of the High Hakal, the fortress and palaces of Huringa. Flags flew and trumpets pealed, and there was a plethora of gold and gems ablaze in the light of the suns.

The Lahals rang out. Jaidur and Lildra waited for me. I was conscious that I had left this place borne by the magical powers of the Star Lords, leaving Delia, leaving all that I loved. Now, in returning by mere mortal airboat, I was not in any real sense completing a circle.

There was no time to waste. I did not intend to shilly-shally here with protocol and tiresome formalities. I told Jaidur what lay in store for Huringa, capital of Hyrklana, and added: “Your invasion of Hamal is still vital. Even more so; but—"

“But can you expect me to leave Huringa unprotected?"

“No. But I have forewarned you. You know this Kapt Homath is bringing four armies against you. Therefore you deal with them with your Home Forces. Jaidur—you must invade Hamal. The plan calls for it."

“The plan—well, I was not king in Hyrklana when that plan was forged."

Lildra, smiling, placatory, knowing how much Jaidur had had to put up with an absentee father in the past, and, too, I feel sure, remembering how it had rained when I'd taken her out of the Castle of Afferatu, intervened.

“Hyrklana has been almost untouched by the wars. There are many brave fighting men, Jaidur. You know that."

“I know it.” His brows made a bar above his nose. “My scouts reported a swarm of those devilish ships of the Shanks sailing north. They keep well away from the coast. But it could be they seek to lull us. Should they reverse course and strike Hyrklana ... do I need to spell it out, father?"

“Shanks. There were many of them?"

“More than any man can remember having seen in one fleet before."

“Then that is all the more reason for the invasion plan. We have to make Hamal and all the countries of Paz understand they must stand together against these confounded Shanks."

“That is surely a dream—"

“No!"

Lildra, with a laugh more nervous than any of us liked, said: “Cannot we talk to the Empress Thyllis? Surely diplomacy will make her understand?"

“She's a she-leem,” said Jaidur.

“I would try diplomacy,” I said, somewhat heavily. “But you tend to be stabbed in the back after you make treaties and arrangements. I know. I think Hamal will listen more readily to sensible proposals when an allied army is camped in Ruathytu.” I tried to clear my frown away, and could not. “But I do not like it, by Vox. I would to Zair there was no need for wars!"

“Well, father, there is and we are in one, whether we like it or not.” Jaidur motioned the hovering servants with their silver trays of refreshments to approach. “You will eat and drink? For I see you are, as ever, anxious to be gone."

“I am going to Vallia. I shall convey your love and respect to your mother—if she's in Valka or Vondium. Now, Jaidur—Vax Neemusbane—will you send that army to invade?"

He nodded. I'd known him as Vax before he knew I was his father. “Yes. Rely on me. If I cannot lead the army myself, I shall send the best men I have."

“Thank Zair! And I need twenty-five men from you for my ship. Men who can carry off a deception—I know their names."

He laughed. “Norhan the Flame and Frandu the Franch, I suppose—"

“If they are available and willing. I suppose no one has run across that numim, Mazdo the Splandu? No?” as they shook their heads. “Well, I have the feeling he will turn up again."

“You are welcome to them, a pair of know-it-all rogues."

“Then the next time we meet will be in Ruathytu."

He looked grave, the laughter lines flown. “If Zair wills it."

I glared at him. I felt young and impetuous and to hell with gravity and long faces, despite all the difficulties and dangers ahead. The dip in the magical Pool of Baptism in far Aphrasöe had kept me young, physically certainly and, I trusted sincerely and with fervor, mentally as well. So I spoke with an energy that made Lildra glance up quickly.

“Zair does will it, Jaidur! And, in truth, so do Havil and Havandua and Djan and any other godhead you can imagine, save those few bloody-minded warrior gods among whom Djan is not numbered. The people of Paz may believe in and worship any number of different deities; they are all united against whatever Fish-headed demons rule the Leem-loving Shanks who raid us all indifferently."

“I believe you, father. By Vox! You are touchy—"

Almost, almost, I said, “You'd be touchy if you had my problems.” But I did not and stilled my tongue.

During the alfresco lunch we discussed in more detail just how the Hamalian onslaught on Huringa might best be met, and I flatter myself I was extraordinarily tactful in giving Jaidur advice. Anyway, he was a Krozair of Zy which, although the Krozairs are doughty fighters, does not automatically turn a Krozair Brother into a strategist. It does give a fellow more than an inkling of military matters. The Krozairs, martial and mystic, an order to which I am devoted, for all their disciplines and skills do not concern themselves overmuch with the problems of aerial warfare.

“And it is in the air lies the key!” said Lildra.

“Yes.” Jaidur swallowed his mouthful. “Did the news come in yet of the raids on the voller production centers?"

I shook my head. “I've received no intelligence. But the raids must have done some good, for production of the silver boxes is causing the damned Hamalese severe headaches."

“And their flying sailers, these famblehoys. They really are inferior to our vorlcas?"

“Only in the sail plan and in the handling. If you have the opportunity of capturing any, do so, by all means. Vallian shipmasters can soon make respectable sailers out of them."

“H'm,” he said, and took another huge bite, and chewed, and Lildra, looking brilliant, drank her parclear off. I sat back and pondered how it was the Good Lord delivered to us children of so diverse a nature. Still, that conundrum makes two worlds go round, surely...

The twenty-five men I asked for arrived, carrying their possessions in bundles tied to sticks, ready for anything.

I eyed Norhan the Flame sternly. His shock hair had been cut and trimmed, so that he looked most odd to me, who was used to seeing him fighting in the Arena with his hair mass about him. But he still possessed that knowing twist to his lips and that remarkably evil fishy eye. Next to him, Frandu the Franch exhibited all the symptoms of intense pleasure open to a Fristle, and so I guessed they'd been arguing as usual.

“Norhan,” I said, “you will be very careful with any pots of combustibles you happen to have about your person."

“They will find useful employment on the decks of Hamalians."

The fact that these stout fighting men must act the part of Hamalese was spelled out for them. Frandu riffled his whiskers. “We're too smart for them! By Numi-Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor, we'll run rings around them!"

So, with an augmented crew and the remberees ringing high, we took off for Valka and Vallia.

At this time a certain number of locations on Kregen were, for all that the planet remained marvelous and evocative wherever I happened to be, of special importance. Strombor, Djanduin, Valka. And, yes, it would be totally dishonest to exclude Paline Valley from this number. Strombor, the city enclave of Zenicce, of which I was lord, was located on the west coast of the continent of Segesthes and was for all practical purposes out of the conflict centered on Hamal. Djanduin, peopled by ferocious four-armed Djangs and clever gerbil-faced two-armed Djangs, lay in the far southwest of Havilfar and would most certainly be embroiled in the war. I am King of Djanduin. But—Valka. Ah, Valka! That beautiful island off the east coast of Vallia means so very much—the people there Fetched me to be their strom, and Delia and I had made a wonderfully happy home in the high fortress of Esser Rarioch overlooking Valkanium and the bay.

To Valkanium and Esser Rarioch I flew in Mathdi.

The journey time was occupied in beginning the organization of the increased crew nucleus and of drawing up a provisional watch list. The man I wanted for ship-Hikdar, equivalent to the First Lieutenant, Bonnu Varander ti Valkor, might not be available. Here lay one of the ever-present problems of selecting men for command; you give them a job and they do it well and you have to weigh up the advantages of shifting them around against the disadvantages. Anyway, Bonnu could handle a voller with superb efficiency and a panache I think peculiar to Valkans. But then, I am prejudiced.

Most of the men—many of whom you have met in my narrative—with whom I had fought and worked earlier were now fully occupied. Certainly, if Drak could spare a few I'd take members of the emperor's guards, and agonize over the choices.

Valka swam up out of the shimmering sea in a haze of blue and a rising tide of happy nostalgia. Useless to repeat ecstatic descriptions of the island. Superb, simply superb, Valka, and my home of Esser Rarioch the jewel in the crown.

Because dear old creaky Mathdi was so clearly Hamalian in origin I ran up the flags Jaidur had given me. The Hamalese, in the days when they built and sold vollers, usually manufactured those for themselves to different designs from those for export. Mathdi was aggressively Hamalian. The brave flutter of red and yellow and red and white flags from her staffs should at least cause the Valkan patrols to think again before shooting us to pieces.

However, it was a Deldar I knew, astride his flutduin, the powerful bird docile to his commands, lethal to foes, who landed on Mathdi's deck and leaped off his saddle-flyer. He was beaming from ear to ear, bearded, girded with weapons, muscled, alert, a fighter who would never cry quarter—in short, your typical Valkan.

“Strom!” he bellowed. “Lahal and Lahal!"

“Lahal, Virko, you great rascal. It is good to see you.” His patrol flew circles about us, watchfully, as per standing orders. “Come and drink a stoup. And tell me all the news."

“Quidang, strom!"

I believe even those fighting rogues I had brought from Hyrklana and the Dawn Lands took notice of Deldar Virko the Chunkrah, impressed despite themselves.

The news was almost uniformly good. That made a pleasant change, by Vox! But I interrupted Deldar Virko to say, “Now hear me, Virko. You called me strom, which—"

I stopped speaking at sight of his powerful face which crumpled as though in anticipation of unjustified punishment.

I cursed myself. My Valkans called me strom instead of majister because to them I was their strom first, and the emperor a long place after. This was acceptable, more—it gave me a fine warm feeling. But this was not the cause of my words. I started over.

“You did right to call me strom, Virko.” He brightened and tugged his beard, listening hard. “In fact, you have given me an idea. I do not want these fellows with me—fine fighting lads—to know I am the Emperor of Vallia."

Virko nodded sagely. I went on, “If it is to be strom, it cannot be Strom of Valka, for folk know he is Emperor of Vallia also. There is that pretty little island with the wild gregarians, you know it, Virko—Thydun—I fancy I'll have to be called Strom Jak of Thydun for a bit."

“Quidang!” rapped Virko. “The word will be passed."

He was bursting with the importance he attached to this mild example of skullduggery and was as excited by it as though winging down into a fight. Anyway, Thydun was a simple enough name, and fitted well enough. He went on with the news and as I listened I realized that it might be better if instead of going to Vondium, capital of Vallia, as I had planned, I sent for the people I wanted. That would keep the operation within bounds, tidy. Also, I would get back to Hamal considerably faster.

Turko had just about reclaimed his kovnate, both the Blue and Black Hills of Central Western Vallia were cleared, and the lines between us and the recalcitrants to the north had stabilized. Now, as you know, that last was not to my liking. But in the present circumstances when we needed to bring every fighting man against Hamal, firm frontiers, even if temporary, were far better than fighting campaigns up there. Virko flew off to pass my immediate orders by word of mouth, and I settled down to write orders that would summon the folk I needed, to redistribute some of the forces and—and set the Host of Vallia in motion.

Only one man stood in my mind to lead the Vallians.

To Seg I wrote, in part: “As the allies from the Dawn Lands have moved ahead of time you must move decisively and fast. Get the forces in motion and keep either Deb-Lu-Quienyin or Khe-Hi-Bjanching at your side always to contact me. As soon as I can discover the deployment plans of the Hamalese, the Wizards of Loh will inform you.” I went on into more detail, but I knew that Seg Segutorio, who traditionally commanded the vaward of the armies of Vallia, would not fail.

Seg Segutorio, Master Bowman of Loh, from Erthyrdrin—the finest comrade any man could ever find on two worlds, by Zair!

To my own bitter disappointment in order to maintain the cover name of Strom Jak na Thydun, I did not land at Esser Rarioch in Valkanium. We bypassed Valka and touched down on Thydun, a pretty little island, as I had said, filled with suns shine and ripening fruit and simple folk whose villages were models of tidiness and charm. Here we watered and Deldar Virko, appointed into the temporary capacity as chief of merkers, kept me informed. Merkers, aerial messengers, usually fly fluttcleppers or volcleppers; but Virko handled his duties well. Fast airboats trafficked between Valkanium and Thydun, and I waited and kicked my heels, and presently Mathdi began to fill up with the bronzed keen faces and tough bodies of the men I needed.

Each one was now given a double task of deception. He was to call me Strom Jak, and he was to act the part of a Hamalese.

By Krun! I can tell you these doughty fighters joyed in these games of skullduggery!

In any event, I crammed a hundred and ten souls into Mathdi. Plans for their employment filled an idle hour with dark schemes. I will not detail their names. Each one was accounted a kampeon, a veteran of the army or Air Service, and many were hyr-paktuns returned to their homeland to fight for Vallia. As soon as we were all aboard, Mathdi lifted up and away from Thydun, and we dropped the blue haze of Valka astern of us. We flew on over the sea, heading south, heading for Hamal and our foes and for perils and adventures that would, if the light of Opaz shone upon us, bring us the victory.

Chapter fifteen

Of the Power of Hamal

The conceit of our enterprise filled the swods with unholy glee. Or, given the feelings we had of a great crusade, perhaps it would be correct to say holy joy. We were bringing a Hamalian Air Service vessel to join with the Hamalese, and she was stuffed with Vallians and Hyrklese and men from the Dawn Lands, foes of Hamal! As I say, the conceit charmed us all.

We maintained a strict discipline from the very start, doing everything by the Hamalian book, which Chuktar Fydur ham Thorfrann, our wing commander, had made sure I thoroughly understood. There were hitches, of course. Much laughter boomed and rang about Mathdi as some wight forgot he was no longer a Vallian and started cursing away and bellowing “By Vox!” until he was reminded that “By Krun!” was now de rigueur. There were surprisingly few fights between the contingents, and protocol was quickly settled as the watch list was promulgated and men knew the jobs they were expected to fill.

Among the intelligence I had received had come news that Drak was about to relinquish command of the forces arrayed against the rebels in the southwest and return to Vondium. The insurrection down there looked to be quashed. If he intended to lead the Vallian armies in the coming invasion, I would have to think very carefully. In all probability, although not liking the solution, I would instigate two separate invasion columns, giving one to Seg and one to Drak. That way, at least, we'd make the Hamalese split their forces yet again.

Vast distances across Kregen may be covered in a voller, and, conversely, if you are down on your own two feet those distances stretch to enormous proportions. It was mighty comforting to know I had a voller which would not almost inevitably break down.

We gave the island of Pandahem a wide berth. The lord of the countries there groaning under his evil dictatorship was Phu-Si-Yantong, and I knew he would not sit tamely and do nothing while the invasion struck at Hamal. We had to be quick, damned quick!

The ship-Hikdar, Bonnu, came up to me and said, “I'd like to paint over that damage in the larboard beam, maji—strom. It detracts from the look of the ship."

I beamed on Bonnu ti Valkor. If an observer might recently have decided I'd been far more interested in my new voller Mathdi than in the invasion, he could be forgiven. He'd have been wrong, but understandably so. I fancy Bonnu was more concerned about Mathdi than about anything else. Well, and so he should be, as any first lieutenant should, until the action began.

I shook my head. “Leave the dint there, Bonnu. It makes the ship look older and more fragile than she is. Camouflage."

He didn't like the idea.

“I'm used to running a taut ship—"

“Of course. That's why I asked for you."

He stared. “Asked, maji—strom? You have merely to give the orders and men obey."

“It's not,” I said with something of a grunt, “always like that."

The ramshackle empire the people of Vallia had asked me to save for them was now much more healthy. But, all the same, I still didn't take kindly to despotic overlordship, having suffered from nastiness of that kind for much of my life. Had the Lord Farris, commanding the Vallian Air Service, told me Bonnu was tied up, I'd have accepted that, and gone for Hikdar Vinko the Shrewd. He was running the second largest skyship we possessed. The largest was run by Hikdar Naghan Erdmor, and I did not wish to deprive him of that task. So I said, “You have to compromise when you run an empire, unlike running a ship, Bonnu."

“Yes, strom."

“Although,” I added, “arranging watches and selecting men and deciding on tasks is not simply a matter of giving orders, is it now?"

“We-ell—"

And we both smiled as Mathdi bore on through the level air.

“You must keep on at the men in their deception asHamalese, Bonnu. We cannot risk a slip-up jeopardizing the enterprise."

“Many of them have been mercenaries, as you know, strom. And the Hamalese are accustomed to strangers serving them. Even renegade Vallians, may Opaz frown upon their misdeeds."

This was perfectly true. There were men from many nations and races serving with the Hamalian forces, and strange oaths and customs were accepted.

As it turned out, the crew of Mathdi integrated easily enough with the crews of the other eleven vollers in Thorfrann's wing. I'd warned them about the obnoxious ord-Jiktar Morthnin, and our lads were wary of that one. Chuktar ham Thorfrann greeted me with open surprise at the crew and the mettle of them, and with news that was not only unwelcome, news that was a bombshell of disaster for my plans.

“I don't believe it, Chuk!” I said. I know I must have looked wild.

“It is true, Jak, and there is nothing we can do about it."

“But we have to fight the invasion! Those cramphs from the Dawn Lands are marching on Ruathytu! We can't go flying off to the west and leave the action!"

“Our orders are just that. We have to reinforce the air arm tangling with the wild men over on the Mountains of the West and those are our orders and must be obeyed."

I fumed. What a debacle! I'd already refused to go to the west with Tyfar, and had got out of that through friendship. Now I was under orders to go. If I refused I'd be deprived of command and Mathdi would be given to another captain. And with her, her crew ... Her very special crew...

The voller yards at Urnmayern, just outside the city to the north, resounded to the noise of vessels being given last-minute attention and with the preparations for early departure. Provisions were being loaded, and ammunition was trundling up the ramps into the fliers. We'd water last, and then we'd be off.

“Look, Jak.” Chuktar ham Thorfrann's apoplectic face betrayed resignation. “You're in an odd position. You are a Jiktar commanding a single voller, an unusual situation. Yet look at the wing I command. Mathdi is old and creaky; yet she is as good as most of the wing. The truth is, we are tantamount to a second-line formation. We are what the Air Service can scrape up to send against the wild men and the raids on the voller plants. You have to accept that. We'd be massacred if we went up against the vollers of Hyrklana."

"Mathdi would give an account—” I started to bluster.

He shook his head, that acceptance of his position forced on him and to be obeyed according to the laws of Hamal. “Oh, you'd fight. And you have found yourself a hell of a crew. Just how you'd have done that I don't know. But do not delude yourself."

“Hamal has to throw everything against the invasions—"

“Everything except an army and its air to stem the stab in the back. Our task is vital. If the wild men are allowed to break in—do you know the geography out there? Where the volgendrins are?"

“A little—"

“It's a big country. If the raiders can stop production of the contents of the silver boxes—” He eyed me. Hamal kept information strictly secret on the details of production of the silver boxes. They were crucial, which was why we'd sent off raids against the centers. We'd done a great deal, and Hamal's voller fleets were reduced as a consequence. And now I was to fly off to try to stop my own people! Ludicrous? Not really, funny, yes. Damned inconvenient, of a certainty.

“Well,” went on Thorfrann. “Best not to know too much about the silver boxes. We use them to power our fliers, and that is all we need know. Our task is to safeguard their production."

The dilemma facing me was a moral as well as a strategic one. Political considerations weighed, too. Where would I best serve the interests of Vallia and the alliance?

In my frustrated impatience it appeared to me some malignant fate insisted on dragging me away from the invasions over to the Mountains of the West. The decision not to take command of any individual column advancing into Hamal had been arrived at some time ago, my decision being to keep a free hand. The idea had been to keep a watching brief on the progress of the different armies. Stuck out over in the far west would allow me little freedom of movement. So, I fumed.

As a result I spoke a trifle warmly. “You told me we were due for the big one, against Vallia—"

He brisked up, prickling. “Not so! I happened to mention the name Vallia.” He wheezed around in his fiery way and then, because he was a true horter, he shouted: “Yes, yes, Jak the Insufferable! I thought we were going to teach those cramphs of Vallese a lesson. But I am disappointed. Our wing has been detached from the expedition; Chuk ham Gorthnil is going instead."

At that point it was vitally necessary for me to keep a civil tongue and to make my face conceal the volcanic spate of rage that shook me. I put my left hand on my sword hilt and gripped so that it hurt. Somehow, from some small stock of common sense I possess, I managed to say, “A great pity, a great pity. We could have done a deal of mischief against the Vallese. When does the expedition leave?"

“The same time as we leave for the west. Now clear out, Jak. I have work to do—I'm not just a voller captain with nothing to do—that ship-Hikdar you have is a smart one."

“A smart one,” I repeated like a lunatic parrot. Somehow I saluted and took myself off. This news was devastating—our onslaught on Hamal was akin to poking a hornet's nest with a stick. Thyllis's empire might be fighting on more than one front, they might be forced to send squadrons and armies east and south, and find men for the west—now they had the strength to dispatch an expedition north. I tell you, at that moment as I walked out into the clamor of the voller berths, I felt a chill sweat start at this fresh realization of the horrible power of Hamal.

The vital need now was to discover the composition of the forces flying against Vallia, their point of onslaught and their plans. When we flew west, they would be flying north.

The hornet's nest was buzzing with furious energy and venom.

The Hamalian high command knew exactly what it was doing. These days what the planners had contrived would be called a preemptive strike. They'd hit Hyrklana and Vallia, force them back on the defensive, make them think twice before committing forces to the invasion in support of the allies from the south.

I made the round of the taverns and inns of the Sacred Quarter. The Bolted Leem, the Thraxter and Voller, the Ruby Prychan and the Diamond Lily drew blanks. I needed to talk to Prince Nedfar and his entourage. He would know. If he was in the Golden Zhantil, I believe I'd have forced my way in. As it was, I ran him to ground in the Bolt and Quarrel. He was sitting with his friends, drinking and laughing, and everyone was in high good spirits, so that I guessed they were all due to fly off very very soon.

I made myself smile.

If any unpleasantness had to be employed, I was perfectly clear in my mind that nothing short of absolute necessity could make me lift a hand against Nedfar. And was not an attack on Vallia an example of the absolute necessity? I trusted that Opaz in his infinite wisdom of the Invisible Twins would spare me that.

Because Nedfar had chosen a tavern he had heretofore not often patronized—I am sure this had something to do with the recently altered attitudes to diffs—others beside myself had difficulty in tracking him down. I guessed he wanted a little of privacy and yet would not forgo the company of good friends. As I entered and began to steer a course between packed tables, a man pushed past, urgently, shoving me out of the way. Because I was playing a part I allowed myself to be shoved.

“Immediate message for the prince!” he snapped at me as he bustled past by way of explanation and apology.

He got Nedfar's instant attention.

Just as I came up to the table, Nedfar's eager, eagle look changed. All the sparkle went out of him. He looked drained.

“Tonight?"

“Three burs ago, my prince. Heads will roll—but the mischief is done—"

The messenger wore drab clothes, with the air of a stylor and clerk about him. He was frightened, too.

Nedfar stood up.

“My friends. You must excuse me.” Then he could not contain himself or the bad news. “I have just heard that my daughter, the Princess Thefi, has absconded with my aide, Lobur the Dagger."

Instantly the prince's friends started up from their chairs to express their concern and a babble of voices filled the tavern with noise. I stood back. The messenger bowed and withdrew, happy to escape. Nedfar looked haggard. He loved his daughter and was fond of his aide, but an alliance between the two had not, I surmised, occurred to him. Perhaps Tyfar and I had seen more than most—without any special aptitude on our parts. Kov Thrangulf, who was serving with a regiment of personal zorcamen in command of a division down in the Dawn Lands, had been the man chosen to wed Princess Thefi. No doubt Nedfar would send for him. As for Lobur the Dagger—he had cut adrift from friends, home and family, casting himself and Thefi into the treacherous currents of fate. I could only wish Thefi well. It was not my business.

My business was discovering all I could of the projected attack on my own homeland.

Quite useless to attempt to speak with Nedfar now. His every thought was of his daughter. I stepped back, out of the way, watching. One of the pallans at the table, speaking heatedly to the man at his side, was the Pallan of the Hammabi el Lamma, the man in charge of arrangements at the palace on its artificial island. He and Nedfar must have become acquainted in the course of Nedfar's visits to his cousin the empress.

Surrounded by his friends and with the ever-vigilant guards in attendance, Prince Nedfar left the Bolt and Quarrel. As he went the jugglers were performing on the patio, and a small booth with gaudy decorations was playing one of those silly, sly country farces the Kregans do so well, all oversized noses and stuffed pants and bludgeons and falling about. The musical accompaniment battled against the surrounding noise.

If Prince Nedfar's thoughts seethed with concern for Thefi, my thoughts boiled with apprehension for Vallia.

Now while it is not universally true to say, as so many do, that if anything in a military operation can go wrong it will, there is so much truth in the saying as to make it vital of cognizance in any planning. The multiple invasions of Hamal had been projected with just this probability in mind. If one went wrong, others would succeed. The Dawn Lands and their infernal lack of patience to strike back at the despoilers of their lands had made a nonsense of most of our planning. But some could be saved, if we could stave off the preemptive strikes against Hyrklana and Vallia.

There lay no doubt whatsoever in my mind now as to what must be done. Back at the Urnmayern voller berths I roused out a few of my rascals. They lined up on the tween decks of Mathdi, and sentries were posted. I looked at them, these cheerful cutthroats. I stared particularly at Norhan the Flame.

“I've a job for you, Norhan. And the rest of you will be advised to listen to Norhan."

They listened to me and then they listened to Norhan, and by the time the Twins rose into the night sky over Ruathytu we were prowling through the back alleys, a gang of desperadoes, and woe betide anyone who stood in our path.

They split into teams, and my last words to them as they went off were: “And if questioned you are merely disaffected volswods. You have nothing to do with Vallia. Dernun?"

“Quidang!"

So we went off about our nefarious tasks.

A night breeze blew the scents of moon blooms, and clouds scuttered across the faces of the moons. Torchlights waved their golden glow from the corners of walls. At this late hour few sounds broke the stillness of the city; but occasionally a hubbub broke distantly from the Sacred Quarter. Over there the Bladesmen still able to live it up were trying to carry on the hell-for-leather traditions in such marked contrast to the rest of the country. The clouds layered thick shadows. The voller berths were closely guarded as a result of previous attempts on the part of fanatics of Spikatur Hunting Sword and spies and saboteurs. We crept on, muffled in cloaks, to all appearances a drunken party returning home clutching our pots and jugs to us. We staggered.

Chuktar Naghan ham Gorthnil's wing of vollers, which had been selected to replace ours in the attack on Vallia, lay berthed at the Hlunub Yards. The walls reared tall and stark and anti-aerial precautions, although in our view slack, still presented problems to any onslaught from the sky. We threw ropes with grapnels and swarmed up onto the walls. Only two sentries were encountered during this phase of the proceedings, and both went to sleep peacefully enough.

In the shifting light of the moons the yards lay spread out before us. Gorthnil's vollers, all twelve of them, lay ranked and neat, according to regulations. And, in truth, they were of superior quality to Thorfrann's.

Norhan said in a slurred whisper, “They'll do nicely."

“And make it fast, O Man of the Flame!"

Like shadowy demons cloaked in a mummer's play, the saboteurs disappeared between the ranked vessels. Saboteurs, yes; but this was an act of war, distasteful though it might be. When the first tongues of flame rose, I cursed, for they broke through a hatch in the nearest ship. That voller must have been loaded with combustible stores. Before anyone could realize, she was a torch, spouting to the sky.

“Run!” I bellowed down. Now it was a race, a race between our returning lads and the guards tumbling out of the guardroom.

All the eerie darkness of the opening moves was gone. No longer were we a band of secret saboteurs; now we were a handful of fighting men. The little group with me, increasing in size as each team rejoined, drew their swords and prepared to battle on against the onrushing Hamalese guards to give our men a chance of escape.

The whole business was nip and tuck. But for that voller crammed with materials that took the flame and roared into the night sky the plan would have been perfect. Now we had to scrabble to redeem what we could. This we did in swords.

No doubt believing us to be adherents of Spikatur and therefore unwilling to be taken alive, the guards simply bored straight in to slay us all. The fight blossomed along the wall as men cursed and shouted and struggled along the narrow walkway. Dark figures pitched out into thin air, screaming. The Twins suddenly poured down their refulgent pinkish light and the battle along the wall was revealed in rose-lit clarity. We fought. Steel clashed against steel. More and more guards climbed the narrow stone steps to get at us. I glanced back over the outer edge of the wall.

“Start going down!” I shouted to the men at my side. They wanted to protest; I was rude to them, and one by one they dropped down the ropes. The last party who had fired the farthest ship now appeared, panting, and were incontinently dispatched over the wall. Soon only Norhan and I were left.

“Over with you, Norhan."

“But—"

“Go now, fambly—and—"

But he read my mind and hurled his last pot of combustibles into the mass of guards who stepped over the bodies of their comrades. In a smothering roar of flames they stumbled back. Norhan slid down his rope and, after a quick look around, I went down after him. I may say I went down smartish. Very.

We had the luck with us. By the time other guards opened the massive gates onto the Yards and ran out we had taken to our heels. All the Hamalese swods saw were disappearing shadows.

We carried our wounded with us. Two men—two good men—died of their wounds and we buried them with due honor, if secretly; but none of us had been left at the voller yards. We had put in our own preemptive strike. The men settled down as though nothing had happened. When the news of the night's attacks came in, we were all as astounded and enraged as any other good Hamalese.

Disgust dripped from Chuktar Fydur ham Thorfrann. His apoplectic face in its ripeness betrayed scorn for Chuktar Gorthnil, delight in a rival's discomfiture and desperate anger over a serious blow at the Hamalian Air Service. He stood in the little courtyard of the barrack block as I came out and he rocked back on his heels, fuming. “You've heard, Jak?"

“Aye.” Then I thought of what seemed to be a clever idea. “We fought off the cramphs who tried to set your wing alight, Chuk. Praise Havil we were alert."

That furious color darkened even more. “What!"

I nodded, very serious, very dedicated. “Yes. Trouble is, they ran off and we couldn't catch them. Is it serious?"

“Serious? Are you a fambly, Jak? Of course it's serious—although, now maybe we will be sent to Vallia."

And, believe it or not, that eventuality had not occurred to me, not found a single lodgment in my thick old vosk-skull.

Chapter sixteen

Fracas Under the Moons

The pace of life changed in Ruathytu when the invasions began and yet the impression I gained was at variance with what I—or any Vallian—would have expected of a capital city during these parlous times. The contrast between Ruathytu and Vondium when we had been besieged was most marked. Yet this was a perfectly natural and proper occurrence, for nations on Kregen no less than races react in different ways. Vallians had reacted with the joyfulness of a man coming through a painful illness and facing imminent death; death held no terrors and the task was to beat back death in the shape of the enemy and regain health and strength. That the Vallians had done that gave warning that, as a nation, they might be wrong-headed over many issues, but they possessed the spirit without which a nation is a mere collection of peoples.

In their very different way the Hamalese reacted with a stoic adherence to their purposes. It was openly acknowledged that the aggrandizement of Hamal into a continent and island-spanning empire was the dream of the Empress Thyllis and must therefore be upheld; privately more and more doubts were current. The pace quickened, yes; but fewer and fewer folk cared to lead on at the head of the columns. Those ardent spirits who did yearn to lead on found a ready acceptance within the mass of the people, for the prospects of empire brightened cupidity, and so much wealth had already stuffed the coffers that any cessation of the flow of booty could only be contemplated with horror. It remained to be seen in the contest of arms if that horror could be banished in the horrors of approaching conflict.

“When are we going to burn a few more vollers?” demanded Norhan the Flame.

“They'll never catch us,” said Frandu the Franch, “for we can outsmart them with ease."

“When I say so,” I said. “And your stations are filthy and you'd best get your lads on cleaning up. Hikdar Bonnu is not a man to cross in the matter of dirt and polish, believe me."

From which it was clearly evident that we had not yet left for the west or Vallia. Thorfrann told me he now believed the high command were keeping his wing in reserve. “Just in case any of those damned invaders gets too close to Ruathytu."

Being of the military, we had access to more information than civilians; but that information was sparse and unreliable. That forces had landed in Hamal everyone knew. What they were up to was obscure. The most worrying problem I now had was the lack of communication from Deb-Lu-Quienyin. Why hadn't the Wizard of Loh contacted me?

There was little more I could tell him of the plans and dispositions of the Hamalese. Everyone in Ruathytu knew the high command had devised a plan that would utterly destroy the allies. Unable to decide in my own mind if such a plan existed or was merely a sop to public opinion, I hesitated. During this period Kov Thrangulf, bluff and unhappy and conscious of his own defects, arrived in the capital. But there was no word of Lobur the Dagger or Princess Thefi. Nedfar withdrew into his shell. Once, I'd saved Lobur from falling off a roof. At the time, I'd been wearing a gray mask, and told him my name was Drax; I fancied Nedfar and Thrangulf would far prefer me to have let Lobur fall to his death, had they known of that little incident. As for Tyfar, I thought I knew him well enough to know he would not wish for Lobur's death. Tyfar was not released from command of the Twentieth Army and was battling against incursions of the wild men.

One evening I summoned ship-Hikdar Bonnu and said, “I shall be going out tonight, Bonnu. If anyone asks for me say I am sick in the guts and am not to be disturbed."

“Alone?"

“Aye, alone."

“But—"

“Alone."

He killed his frown of displeasure. He was just like all the folk of Vallia and Valka; each one considered him or herself entirely responsible for my welfare. It was warming; it had in the past proved hampering. Now I would disregard it.

To Thorfrann I said: “Chuk. I have a pain in the guts—"

He laughed. “That'll teach you to drink cheap wine, Jak! Go on, sleep it off."

So, with these precautions tidily attended to, I put on a smart uniform, all bullion and silver lace, with plenty of greenery and feathery decorations, girded up a rapier and main gauche and went off to break into the castle of Hammabi el Lamma. I had done this before, pretending to be a messenger, and this time the ploy carried me past the first guardroom. Thereafter the scheme went wrong, for although the empress was absent the place was more tightly gripped in security than ever before. Well, to cut a period of cut and thrusting short I had to evacuate smartly and came roaring out onto the jetty by the Havilthytus with a pack of rascals trying to cut me down. There was a wild scene of flickering blades and twinkling steel before I got away. Of only one thing was I thankful; all during this stupid fracas I'd managed to hang onto a face that was not my own.

By Zair, though! It was frustrating. In there, in the palace, in the map room, hung the information I needed. Somehow, I had to look at the maps and learn what plots the Hamalese were hatching to discomfit our invasions.

The next morning Thorfrann told me I looked the worse for wear, and he laughed and went purple, and I gave him a smile that would have melted iron.

When I went along to Mathdi for morning rounds Bonnu reported that a messenger had arrived. He spoke quietly, and his eyebrows shot up and down, so I knew the messenger was no Hamalese. I was right. He turned out to be Nath Winharman, one of Seg's young aides, flown in by a circuitous route from home. My people had hidden his fluttrell away. He looked tired, disheveled and yet full of fight.

“Majister—” he began.

“Shastum, Nath,” says I, and then, in a lighter tone: “In Hamal Jik will do. Your news?"

“Prince Drak leaves the southwest uneasily, maji—Jik. This King of Kaldi has gone back to his mountains again.” We went down to the cramped stateroom and I made Winharman sit down and take refreshment. His news was not all bad; but it was not all good. Of the many items he recited, the most important was that the Wizards of Loh were again in contention. Phu-Si-Yantong had brought great powers to bear. I sat there, feeling sick, seeing all our plans being brought to nothing. Deb-Lu struggled to overcome the enormous kharrna of Yantong, and he would do so, I was absolutely confident, in time. But time was now a commodity of which we were in short supply.

“Kov Seg is arranging a messenger system, but the journey is wearisome, and the seas—"

“I know. Seg will manage.” Clearly, Seg, in command of one of the Vallian columns pushing south into Hamal, was in contact back via ships and flyers with Vallia. It was a chancy business, flying out over the sea on a saddle bird and finding a ship at her designated spot. Damned chancy. While it was important that Nath Winharman should return as soon as possible with my messages, he had to have rest. Bonnu saw to that and I settled down to write.

What I could tell Seg and Drak and my chiefs was all useful material; what I could not tell them was vital. Here I was, at the heart of our enemy's war preparations, and I could learn nothing of his plans. As a spy I might as well pack up shop and take up arms and fight at the head of our army. So I was not in a particularly agreeable mood as, the day's routine over and Nath Winharman, fed and rested and his bird cared for, took off for the first stage of his night flight, I walked down into the Sacred Quarter. It was in my mind to seek out Kov Naghan and apply for a transfer. In my eyes I was accomplishing nothing.

The truth was, and is clearly apparent, that I was in a down mood. And, in the nature of these things, chance popped up like a Jack-in-the-box. Cronies told me Kov Naghan had gone to The Rokveil's Ank. This select tavern had experienced its share of rowdy nights; but in general was quieter than most. The moment I pushed in through the low doorway and looked around the taproom I saw Prince Nedfar in close converse with Kov Thrangulf, who looked as hard and jumpy and put-upon as ever. Everyone wore casual evening clothes, loose and comfortable, and everyone wore weapons. Nedfar saw me.

“Jak! You have news?"

I shook my head. The news he wanted, hungered for, was news of his daughter Thefi. “I have heard nothing, prince."

“No one has seen or heard of them since they disappeared."

Now I have mentioned my high regard for Nedfar and yet I know I have given no proofs of great substance to support your belief in my view, as I did with Tyfar, for our adventures together with Jaezila had bound us together as comrades. Now Nedfar in these dark days bore up with a strength of character that, while not disdaining grief, held it at arm's length while his country battled against invaders. He sank back into the old blackwood chair, shaking his head, and repeating, “No one has seen or heard of them."

Thrangulf made some commonplace observation. Kov Naghan was not in the taproom, so with a polite circumlocution I asked for his whereabouts.

“Hammabi el Lamma,” said Nedfar. He spoke wearily. “We spend too much of our time there these days. I feel guilty about snatching a few hours off.” He glanced up. “You have business with Kov Naghan?"

“Only to seek a transfer—"

The folk who had told me Naghan would be at The Rokveil's Ank had been casually definite; if he had gone back to the palace maybe Something Was Up...

“A transfer, Jak?” Nedfar moved his glass about on the table by its base. His hands were finely shaped. “You are tired of the Air Service?"

“No. Suffocated, perhaps."

“I see.” He spoke purposefully, yet the old snap and ring of command lacked the urgent energy of yesterday. “Lobur—my aide has left me, Jak. I am allowed a replacement. Would you serve as an aide?"

No hesitation at all as I said, “Wholeheartedly, prince. It is an honor—"

He smiled, interrupted and spoke shrewdly, “You left the service of my son."

“Only because he was posted away from action, prince."

“Yes, that rings true. We went through much suffering and terror down the Moder, Jak. I do not forget those times."

So, like a beautiful ripe fruit plopping into my hands, the chance at Thyllis's map room was given to me—free.

Mind you, by Zair! If I make this sound an easy decision, it was not all that easy. Moral dilemmas, they are the stuff of life, it seems, and we chart our course from rock to rock and hope to escape disasters as we blunder along. My lads crewing Mathdi must be thought of. I couldn't have that hairy crew of cutthroats rampaging around Ruathytu—or could I? Why not? The glow grew in me as I went off to arrange matters. Why not, indeed! What a riotous shambles they would make before they were all caught and tortured to death.

That could not be allowed. The dreaded Laws of Hamal would specify the exact nature of their crimes and the appropriate punishments, down to the number of turns of the rack and thumbscrews, the twists of the ankchun, and the length of time they would be allowed to linger in torment before they were executed. No, no. That would not do. My lads in Mathdi were far too valuable for that condign fate.

Chuktar Thorfrann heaved up a sigh when I told him I was leaving, and he wished me well. If he experienced envy, he concealed it in his explosive apoplectic way. I packed my gear. The latest intelligence from the various fronts was of a steady advance of the different columns. A few battles had been fought; but no major engagements had taken place, and everyone lived in Ruathytu with the thrilling conviction that the high command had events well in hand and were waiting their time to strike.

Again I weighed the advisability of my leaving the capital and joining one of our invading armies, and again I was forced to the conclusion that my sphere of greatest advantage lay just here, where I was, and where, by Vox, I would be as soon as I gained free entry into the palace. Once into the Hammabi el Lamma as an accredited aide to Prince Nedfar, I'd be into the map room, whether allowed or not.

We held a full muster of the crew of Mathdi. Bonnu held them in their ranks as I appeared. I wore a plain gray tunic and trousers, tucked into low-cut boots. But, around my waist and looped over my left shoulder, I wore a flaunting scarlet sash.

What I had to say was short and, if you like, brutal.

Boiled down, it went thus, “You may do what you will to the cramphs of Hamalese, but you will fly this ship to Kov Seg's army, and you will not lose a man here, and you will arrive sober and in good order. Dernun?"

The shout of “Quidang!” shook the old ship. They understood me, right enough. My private feelings were that this was a tame ending to their adventure; but I could not risk their lives heedlessly, and Mathdi, old and creaky maybe, would be a capital addition to Seg's aerial forces. On that, they dismissed and I went off to the barracks to collect my gear.

The gold I'd brought from Paline Valley was holding out well, although Bluenose had been swept up by the Hamalese for their mirvol scouting forces. That thought reminded me that Nath Tolfeyr had been absent from the capital, and again I wondered if that mysterious man operated for the empress. Somehow, even then, I doubted that. Their characters would not have been compatible enough, for Thyllis was an overbearing personality so used to command as to be incapable of understanding opposition to her wishes, and Nath Tolfeyr always trod an independent path. That I had been able to keep my real if secret identity of Hamun ham Farthytu, Amak of Paline Valley, in the background without recourse to use pleased me mightily. So, as dwa-Jiktar Jak the Shot, I stepped out onto the next part of the course I had chosen.

My fingers had just gripped the handle of one of my lenken chests when a figure stepped out of the rear quarters. He wore a cloak and a muffling scarf, and he held a crossbow, fully spanned. The steel quarrel head glittered. It was aimed at my heart.

“Jak!” The voice rasped hoarsely. “Jak, I am in the most desperate straits. For the sake of the friendship I bear you, you must help me!"

The scarf fell away. The gaunt, haggard, desperate features of Lobur the Dagger stared out.

“You've got to help me! Or we are both dead men!"

Chapter seventeen

Into the Hammabi el Lamma

The leather-wrapped rope handle contracted as my fingers gripped. The chest, although lenken, was not large and was moderately filled with clothing. Lobur's crossbow quivered. He didn't know it, but I rather fancied I could have the chest swinging in a short arc before me to take the impact of the bolt. With his weapon discharged, Lobur's famous dagger wouldn't stop me from taking his neck between my fists and asking him a few pointed questions.

Deliberately, moving slowly, I released the handle. I straightened up. I stared at Lobur. He licked his lips.

“I mean it, Jak! You must help me, or—"

“Where is Princess Thefi?"

“She is safe now—"

“Now?"

He flinched at my tone. “She's been ill—but she is all right now. Jak! Listen—we have to get out of Ruathytu—"

He didn't like my expression. I moved my hand, carefully. “You'd better tell me all about it, Lobur. I've a bottle somewhere here, it's a middling Stuvan; but it will serve.” I went across to the wall cupboard and took down the straw-wrapped bottle. The crossbow swung to cover me.

“Jak! Are you listening? We can't get hold of a voller or a flyer, there are guards everywhere. Prince Nedfar has his people beating up the whole—"

“So you can't get out of Ruathytu and you want me to do it for you. Here.” I handed across a goblet filled to the brim. “How do you expect me to do it, then? A magic zorca?"

He looked at the wine and licked his lips again. His face was fuzzed with beard, drawn and dirty. The crossbow trembled.

“Do you want the wine or not?"

He crumbled. He put the crossbow down and reached for the wine. There was no hesitation on my part as he took the goblet.

“My thanks, Jak. I have no one else to turn to."

“You know how Nedfar has taken this?"

“He will agree in the end. His high and mighty honor has been besmirched, that's what riles him. If he were like an ordinary man instead of a stuck-up prince it would be easy. As for that buffoon Thrangulf, I'll stick him if he crosses me."

This Lobur before me now was a very different fellow from the Lobur I'd known before. I kicked the chest to the side.

“We are going to Thefi now, Lobur. You'd better pray she is in good health and spirits. D'you forget Tyfar?"

“No.” He finished his wine at a gulp. “I do not forget Tyfar!"

Outside the quarters in the courtyard a little Och slave with only three arms who pushed a broom all day caused Lobur to jump and dodge into the shadows. I called the Och, and I put on the strong haughtily casual voice of your habitual hateful slave-handler.

“Slave! Go at once to Hikdar Bonnu in Mathdi and tell him Jiktar Jak orders him to wait. He will receive a message. Is that clear?” I tossed a copper ob into the air.

“Clear, master.” The Och spluttered out the words. He dropped his broom and caught the copper coin skillfully. He ran across the dusty courtyard.

I said to Lobur, “You can come out now, Dagger—the little three-armed Och slave has gone.” Well, I was not feeling too happy about Lobur the Dagger. “We cannot delay. You do not know what those fellows of mine will get up too if I'm not around."

“Then, for the sake of Havil, let us hurry!"

He didn't know the half of it about hurrying, by Krun! Just as I had things organized; myself with ingress into the map room and my lads in Mathdi to cut up rough and perform a little mayhem and then join Seg, this idiot Lobur brought his passionate elopement into the picture. As they say, Men sow for Zair to reap.

Through the fuzz I noticed how long and lean Lobur's chin looked, and the way the line of his lips twisted down and then up as he spoke. He looked both haunted and hunted.

My first concern now must be for the safety and welfare of Thefi. It wasn't Lobur's fault he'd fallen in love with a girl whose hand, however willing she might be, he could win only by the most prodigious of efforts. As Tyfar had said in his gentle way, Lobur did not appear to be making any efforts. Once I was satisfied about Thefi, I could think about Lobur and the pair of them. If this is a priggish holier-than-thou attitude, then so be it. It was the way it was going to be, at least, for me.

We found Thefi huddled on a pallet in a miserable garret with a holed roof and splintered floors, high in a warren off Fish Fin Street, leading down to the Havilthytus. The place possessed its own aroma. I do not care for fish. Thefi looked better than I'd feared. She started up as we entered, drawing a shawl about her. Her hair was combed, her face was clean, and the draggly old dress she wore was stitched and decent.

“Jak! But—but—” Then, almost accusingly: “Lobur! You shouldn't have brought Jak into this. We could all be—"

“Hush, Thefi! Jak is a friend. You remember the Moder? He will find us a voller, you'll see."

I said, “Princess. You are well?"

“Yes, yes. But we must get away—"

Did this answer my unvoiced queries? Was Thefi heart and soul in this business? Some reticence about her could be easily explained by the circumstances and her natural fears. All the same, I fancied I detected a hesitation here.

They explained that they were paying an extortionate amount to the rogue who owned the tenement, that Thefi had been unable to bring much cash, and that she had in the rush of their elopement dropped the bag containing her jewels. Someone had had a find, then. I passed across the bag I had with me, which contained enough to satisfy the landlord for a pair of sennights.

“By Krun! He is charging you—but you had best stay here until I can arrange for your departure."

“If Prince Nedfar gets wind of where we are—"

“He will not from me, Lobur.” Then I looked directly at Thefi. “And you, princess?"

She understood well enough what I was asking. She leaned her head back, and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

“I did not think it would—would be like this."

There was nothing else I could get from her, short of asking outright and thus precipitating a nasty scene with Lobur. I promised to return with news, again assured them of my best will, and told them not to take any foolish chances. My warnings were unnecessary; but they served to emphasize the plight Thefi found herself in.

Then, just as I was leaving, Lobur said, “You are captain of a voller. If we can reach Pandahem I have a good friend there. He will do anything for us. You will be rewarded."

“Pandahem, is it, Lobur? Well, I'm not in this for reward."

“No. No, of course not, Jak. I should have realized."

During this short and uneasy conversation Lobur stood by the door on the alert. This grasping landlord would spy on them if he could. They had told him they were Nath and Natema hiding from Nath's outraged wife. Once the fellow understood she was Princess Thefi, daughter of Prince Nedfar, he'd be off to collect his reward like a bolt from an arbalest. They took care.

Joining with this subterfuge, I pulled my scarf up around my face, and calling, “Remberee, Nath, Natema,” I blundered down the rickety stairs and out onto Fish Fin Street. The scarf—it was a green flamanch with yellow borders—served double duty here, for it also filtered out some of the odors.

When I trotted out my orders in the stateroom of Mathdi, Bonnu screwed up his face. His head went up.

“As they say—to hear is to obey. But, in this—!"

“I know, Bonnu. The lads are spoiling for a fight. But they'll get all the fighting they want when they serve with Kov Seg. Mark my words!"

As just about all the Quoffas and krahniks, as superior draught animals, were pulling government equipment, I had to employ a lopsided mytzer whose low-slung body shuffled along on nine instead of his ration of ten legs all moving in unison. He hauled a two-wheeled cart on which my gear was piled. His driver was a Relt, whose beaked miserable face showed patches of missing feathers where his master had taken a crop to him with too heavy a hand. We presented an odd spectacle, I daresay, a strapping dwa-Jiktar of the Hamalian Air Service marching at the rear of a bouncy little cart hauled by a poor tradesman's mytzer. For all that, these animals give excellent service and have splendid pulling power. We trundled along the busy streets of Ruathytu en route for Prince Nedfar's villa where I was to be quartered as his newest aide.

Reposing confidence in ship-Hikdar Bonnu, and knowing that for the moment there was nothing I could do about the Lobur-Thefi situation, I could let those events for the moment hang fire—an expression not found on Kregen yet, thank Zair. I could concentrate on getting into the map room of the palace.

This was an odd experience.

Rather naturally, I was not Nedfar's only aide. As a prince with a mind of his own, who had shown that he did not always see eye to eye with the empress, he yet wielded immense powers. His uprightness and strength of character endeared him to many Hamalese, and brought contumely on his head from the more fanatical of Thyllis's adherents. There were four of us in the skiff as we were rowed across the Havilthytus toward the artificial island. The palace reared, stark and somber and yet spired and turreted, a masterpiece of Kregan architecture, giving off an aura of splendor and pomp, and of chill horror.

The other two aides were nobles both, Strom Nath and Trylon Handur, youngish men with their careers to make, wealthy, resplendent with health and fancy uniforms, adept with weapons, and alike—almost—as two peas in a pod. But they were not buffoons, and they knew their duties. Nedfar would not have bothered with them had they not been competent.

I was dressed up in a fine ornate uniform of blue with green trimmings and with much gold lace and feathers. The thing itched abominably. But it would serve as a passport. The skiff touched the green-slimed gray stones and we let Nedfar jump out first. Always, I had to quell that instinctive movement to be first to leave a boat, last to enter. The sentries stiffened into bronze and iron statues and we went through the iron-bound gates and so entered Hammabi el Lamma.

Everything breathed opulence. The passageways would have taken three zorca chariots abreast. The ceilings were high enough for voller aerobatics. Marble and gold and dudinter smothered the walls. Curtains and drapes hung in artful folds, and the tapestries must have been worth millions. The fusty smell of a vast hive of people could not take away the impression of grandeur. We marched along like ants. Guards, sentries, paktuns, officers of all the armed services, stylors and slaves passed and repassed amid a continuous murmur of thousands of voices. I kept tag of the way we went by counting the enormous jars of Pandahem ware that stood, smothered in flowers, at every corner and angle. Truly, the place was a labyrinth of wealth.

We passed a party of women all beautifully dressed and who were neat and competent and feminine in the way Kregan ladies are. Nedfar stopped for a few words with their grand dame, who smiled and was gracious, her hair done up with pearls, her dress a blue and silver marvel. When he rejoined us, Nedfar said:

“Kovneva Dorena, a most powerful lady, charming and understanding. They are here as a delegation to offer their jewels in Hamal's dark days."

I perked up at mention of dark days for Hamal. Like most folk, I was in the dark as to the true situation, and the darker it was for Hamal the brighter for the allies. All the same, I vowed that all this nonsense of dark and bright would be swept away once the war was over. We had, as a united Paz, to face the dreaded Shanks.

More guards saluted and we passed through corridor after corridor. Far below lay the dungeons and the cells where once I had languished. As for the Hall of Notor Zan, we did not go near that somber place. Thyllis's throne room with its horrible syatra pit lay in a different wing as we climbed the last flight of marble stairs to the military planning wing. I felt a tremble along my limbs. The famous moorn vew, the map room, lay only a few paces ahead. After all this, would there be nothing of value to my friends on those jealously guarded maps?

And then we three aides halted in an anteroom and Nedfar said, “Amuse yourselves for a bur or two.” He strode off, upright, purposeful, his desperate concern for his daughter thrust aside in his concern for his country.

I just stared. I had to close my mouth.

I turned to Trylon Handur, who walked across to a side table for the wine. “Trylon—do we not accompany the prince?"

Handur looked over his shoulder. He was casual. “No. He has gone to the map room. We are not allowed in there."

Somehow or other I was still standing there, my face politely blank, still the perfect aide. Somehow or other I was not rushing madly after Nedfar, and shouldering past, and hurtling into the room where the secrets of our enemy's dispositions were revealed. Perhaps they were, perhaps they were not. But I was still standing there, starting to look around for the wine, still dwa-Jiktar Jak the Shot. How it was done escapes me.

Strom Nath followed me. “I wish this unfortunate business over the prince's daughter had not occurred just now.” I roused myself and we reached for wineglasses together. “The prince is the chief hope of Hamal. That gretchuk empire of Vallia is very strong—"

“But we are stronger, Nath,” said Trylon Handur.

“Oh, yes. But there is Hyrklana and the Dawn Lands, too—"

Double doors at the side of the room opened as the Chulik guards drew the valves aside and a messenger ran in. He ran. He was splashed with mud and had wisps of grass in his hair, so we surmised he'd come a cropper. His blue uniform, that of the messenger corps of the Air Service, was ripped. He said to Trylon Handur, “An urgent signal, Trylon—” He handed across an oilskin-sealed packet.

Randur took it, put his glass down, ran across to the smaller door in the corner where two Chuliks opened it as he arrived. He vanished inside. The messenger fell into a chair.

Strom Nath handed him wine and he tossed it off in a gulp.

Presently, the messenger said, “It will be no secret soon. Kapt Hlandli ham Therdun has been beaten. His army is in ruins and streaming back from Hallandlad."

Now this was news! Ruathytu lies some one thousand miles south of the north coast, and Hallandlad is fair and square halfway between. The army was Seg's, that had won the victory. He was forced to march most of the way, for we had nowhere near enough aerial transport. He would leapfrog what regiments he could, of course; but the danger of that was being caught by detachments. The messenger went on speaking, and from what he did not say I gathered Seg had made use of the natural capacity in military matters of his opposing general, this Kapt Hlandli ham Therdun. He'd sucked ham Therdun into the belief Seg was overextended, the Hamalese had attacked, screeching their war cry of “Hanitch! Hanitch!” and Seg had dumped the bulk of his army on them from a great height. I gloated.

Trylon Handur came out of that small door and handed Strom Nath a message packet. “For Kapt Naghan. He is to move at once."

Now here was the dilemma. I now knew that Naghan was to take his army, held in reserve in Ruathytu, north to attack Seg. But there was no way I could warn him of this. What the hell had happened to Deb-Lu-Quienyin? I shuddered to believe the obvious. That devil Phu-Si-Yantong had used his enormous powers and forced Deb-Lu onto the defensive, unable to use his own kharrna to communicate with me.

Handur shook his head in admiration. “The prince is a marvel! This disastrous news, and he checks the maps—which we are not allowed to see—writes, and gives his orders. With his worries about his daughter, he knows exactly the right plan to smash these damned Vallian invaders."

I said, “He is indeed a marvel. All the same, this is not the great plan that will save Hamal altogether."

“Oh, no. But that exists. Everyone knows that."

If I couldn't get into that map room soon I fancied I'd burst!

Six tall windows each side of the double doors let in light. I strolled across—seething!—and looked out. A landing platform here had been built high against the wall, with the sky above and a nasty drop below. On the platform were ranked a number of courier vollers. To one side and neatly segregated stood perching towers for mirvols and scratching bars for fluttcleppers and volcleppers. The vollers were all just about the same, small two-place jobs with a van-like rear. They were all-over green in color and along their sides and sterns painted in yellow-gold was the word courier.

I rubbed my chin. Now one of those vollers would serve Lobur and Thefi a treat. Also, one would get me through to Seg or Drak later in the game. A landing platform to be borne in mind, then...

The guards out there were mostly apims; but there were Chuliks and Khibils and a couple of Rapas. There were no Pachaks I could see. Inside this anteroom the guards stood woodenly at their doors, opening them when necessary, and by the time I'd dealt with them all, reinforcements would come pelting in in overwhelming numbers.

The door in the fourth wall opened and a crowd of aides to other members of the high command jostled through. They'd been eating heavily and drinking well, for we with Nedfar were late arrivals. The uproar of laughter and conversation filled the anteroom. No doubt some of the high command would be members of the Nine Faceless Ones of Hamal who directed many affairs and particularly appointed nobles to the production of vollers. The news of the disastrous Battle of Hallandlad sobered the boisterous aides. For my part, I knew that the colors of my regiments in the battle would bear the honor embroidered in gold thread. Sink me else!

Shortly thereafter a deal of coming and going ensued as fresh orders were written and sent off. Ruathytu would be like a beehive tonight. This was to the good. If men were drawn off to the north they could not reinforce the armies facing the invasions from east and south.

When an aide was required from the group waiting a man would come out of that small door and bellow his name. This man presented a singular appearance, for he was blind. He wore a silly over-ornate uniform and a velvet cap with a feather; but his legs were chained so that he could just walk and not run. He carried a yellow stick with a bronze head, with which he felt along the walls and floor, although long custom in this occupation had given him a sure sense of direction.

“Trylon Handur!” he shouted in a parade-ground bellow. He must have been an old warrior, blinded in action, and now peculiarly suited for this work. Handur started up and ran through the door.

No doubt because of the seriousness of the news and the tenseness of the atmosphere in the anteroom, so far not one of the aides had strolled over to inspect the new aide. Among a certain type of noble—no less in Vallia than Hamal—the desire to bully and humiliate inferiors and new acquaintances is an old and nauseating phenomenon. I was in no mood to be temperate; but I did keep myself to myself, over by the windows.

When Handur reappeared he carried the oilskin packet that was the hallmark of the messengers’ trade. I had to take it to the Chuktar of the artillery park over in the soldiers’ quarter, north of the river. “Take a messenger voller,” said Handur. “And be quick. The packet cannot be entrusted to anyone else."

I nodded and taking the packet went out through the double doors. The Jiktar on duty pointed out a voller and pilot I might use. The green-painted craft with the yellow-gold lettering looked flimsy; but she was fast with rakish lines. Her pilot settled at the controls and we were off.

He was a cheerful sort who invariably began any sentence with a little laugh. His fair hair blew about. He said his one desire was for the war to finish, as he had no enmity for Vallia, having been there and liking the place. He told me he was called Bonzo, although that was not his name. One day, I surmised, when he scraped up enough courage to disdain the job in which he found himself, he would make his mark upon the world. In this I was right.

The packet was duly delivered to the Chuktar, who brooded over his stores of varters and catapults and nasty darts and stones, and we flew back. The wind blustered and the Courier craft sped between the clouds. Ruathytu presented the spectacle of huge areas of darkness, and avenues and streets of light in other quarters. The Sacred Quarter spouted to the night sky.

I said a cheerful Remberee to Bonzo the Courier and went into the anteroom. Handur had gone off, I was told, and so I hitched up my sword and marched up to the small door. The Chuliks made no offer to open it.

“Open the door,” I said, in that cutting way. “Message for Prince Nedfar."

I waited for what seemed a damned long time; then the left-hand Chulik, who wore a golden thread braided into his dangling pigtail, opened the door. He did not speak. I looked inside, along a corridor, and marched in as to the manner born.

The corridor was short, no more than half a dozen paces, carpeted in dark blue, with paler blue walls and ceiling. The only two pieces of furniture were a chair and a table. On the table stood a jug and a glass of water, a loaf of bread and a heel of cheese, together with a pottery dish of palines. Painted outlines on the table circumscribed the areas to be occupied by these refreshments. I noticed there was no butter. Some of the provinces of Hamal supply troops who will have nothing of butter or preserves or relishes. They furnish good quality fighting men, though. In the chair sat the blind man. As I entered he began to rise, for his hearing was sharp. As I closed the door after me he stood up very quickly, and called: “Do not shut the door, notor. Give me your message.” And he held out his free hand.

I looked at him, seeing the seamed weather-beaten features of an old kampeon, and I sighed. I walked on, very softly, and his stick switched up. The stick barred the passage. “Notor?"

Some things a man does in life he will not dwell on. I was as gentle as I could be, and arranged the old warrior in his chair comfortably, his stick propped at his side. What a world it was, when the Emperor of Vallia was reduced to dealing with old blind men!

His name was Nath the Bullet, for he had been a zan-Deldar of slingers.

The door beyond his slouched shoulder pushed open on oiled hinges. A small square room, carpeted and walled in green and blue checks, revealed three more doors. The one on my left was open to show a spartan bedroom. That on my right opened as I entered and a portly snuffly man emerged blowing his nose. That was the lavatory. He wore fussy robes, girded with golden links, and his jowly snuffly face had no time to express astonishment before he went to sleep. I was not as gentle with him as with Nath the Bullet.

The door ahead opened with a bang and a voice called: “Come on, Larghos! The fate of Hamal is being decided and you sit—"

The speaker was sumptuously dressed in blue and yellow and gold and he was a hard case, blue-jowled, heavy of eyebrow, scornful of lip.

“By Krun!” he exclaimed, seeing me.

I crossed that little square room like a leem. He collapsed. But other voices lifted beyond the open door. I looked in. Impressions jostled. People standing around a huge table, many lights, tall curtained windows, a square black opening in the far wall, the blackness as of a night of Notor Zan. I saw Nedfar look up from the table which, in the single glance I gave it, I saw was a superbly crafted model of Hamal, sculptured and painted in miniature perfection. Clumps and columns of color on this map table represented the armies marching and countermarching. The maps on the walls paled by comparison.

Two men rushed me. They drew their swords and they did not wait for Nedfar's abrupt cry. “Hold! He is my aide—"

“Then he is a dead man!” shouted one of these fellows, and he lunged. Like many of the newer nobility he carried the rapier and main gauche, having discarded the traditional weapon of Havilfar, the thraxter. His face showed the clear determination to skewer me. I drew, put the point through his shoulder, and then whipped my own left-hand dagger before the eyes of his comrade.

“A message!” I bellowed.

Nedfar started for the door. Other men and women crowded up. The man I had pinked fell down, screaming, gripping the hole in his shoulder. Then the other one slashed at me, and I ducked, and I had to stick him in the thigh. He staggered back, yelping.

“Jak! Jak—what are you about?"

In a rush a twinkle of swords broke like a massive comber breaking into foam on a pebbly beach. I skipped and jumped and I bellowed out as though mortally afraid.

“I meant no harm! I have a message—Stop fighting, notors!"

But whatever Nedfar might have thought, the others were in no doubt. They did not bother to call for the guards. The doors between muffled all sounds. And no guards, no aides, no one was allowed into the map room. They tried to get past me to the door and run out to raise the alarm. I had to stop them and began to use the hilt, thunking them into peaceful sleep. Even the women fought like she cats, and with the fate of empires at stake, women had to be treated as equals with men, which is what they would have asked for. Nedfar stood back, shaking his head. He drew his rapier; but he held it point down.

When he and I stood alone, he said: “I knew you were a swordsman, Jak, a Bladesman. Now I wonder what you are."

“I am your friend and admirer, prince. That is the truth, as Havil—as Djan—is my witness."

He smiled. Yes, he was a gentleman. “Not Havil? You are not Hamalese, as you pretended?"

“No, prince. But I am not your enemy."

“Spikatur Hunting Sword?"

“No. I am not sure I approve of their methods."

“And you are here to...?"

“Is it not obvious?” I gestured to the map table.

“I see. Then it is my duty to stop you."

“I know it is. And it is my duty to look. What can we do about it, prince?"

“You call yourself Jak the Shot. Will you add to that?"

“No."

“Then we must fight."

“I think not. I have promised—first myself, and then Tyfar, although he does not know of my promise or the need for it—that I would never raise hand against you.” Deliberately, I lowered the point of my rapier. All the time I moved closer to the table. “You are, I think, one of the Faceless Nine, one of the Nine Faceless Ones?"

He started. “You should not even know of their existence!"

“That I do proves a point. Also, Nedfar, I would willingly see Thyllis cast down to the Ice Floes of Sicce and you as the Emperor of Hamal. This, I think, is what I am about at the moment."

“You talk—"

“Best you should understand the implications. We are friends, and I intend us to remain so. For the sake of Tyfar as much as anything else."

“You talk wildly, about things you should not know, about treason. Thyllis is my cousin—"

“Second cousin."

“Second cousin. I will not be a traitor."

“I would not expect you to be. After we have defeated her you will be the choice. There is no other with your—"

“The king, the emperor—"

“You, Nedfar, and you alone, will be the Emperor of Hamal. Now, to business. I intend to look at that map table. I will not fight you. So—"

“And I will prevent you, and will fight you."

Close enough now to the table, I fancied ... Close enough to act...

As I leaped, I said—and it was pure bravura, stupid—"I will not fight. But I will do—this!"

The single clean blow stretched Nedfar upon the floor. I looked down on him, and then bent and picked up my main gauche. The knuckles of my left hand did not even tingle, so nicely judged was the blow.

Then I turned to the map table and the secrets of the high command of Hamal.

Chapter eighteen

I Am Peremptory With Princess Thefi

The high command of Hamal had no secret master plan to defeat the invasions. The story was a cleverly concocted propaganda exercise. I gripped the edge of the map table and stared wolfishly at the sculptured contours, the greenery denoting vegetation, the winding of rivers and the clumping of mountains that formed a miniature model of Hamal. Scattered across the land lay markers of various colors. These were representative of the armies and air fleets that marched and flew. These were the secrets.

The Hamalese had disposed their forces according to sound military doctrines, operating on interior lines, dispersing to march, concentrating to fight, keeping on the move so as not to exhaust the country.

It was all laid out. Broad arrows made from wood blocks and positioned before each army indicated its line of march. In front of the invasion columns more than one set of arrows indicated by their different sizes the probable direction. The tallest wood block arrows showed the route the Hamalese planners calculated the columns would move, the smallest the least likely. A few moments of study convinced me the Hamalese had covered just about all eventualities. Their response moves were all worked out. I looked and committed the plans to memory.

A hoarse snuffle from the floor where the high command sprawled brought my attention to one of the men, a rotund, big-bodied man with a simple taste in clothes. He snuffled again and rolled over. His face was doughy, multi-chinned, yet unmistakably the face of a man who gave orders. I bent to him to put him to sleep again. At his throat he wore a small version of the pakzhan, indicating he was a hyr-paktun. No doubt that was where he'd picked up his expertise. As I straightened up my eye was caught by the favor he had pinned to the shoulder of his tunic. It was of black and green feathers, and was pinned by the golden representation of a grascent. The grascent is one of the more interesting varieties of Kregan dinosaur. I stared. Feathers of black and green and a golden grascent—I had seen this badge before.

The arch wizard, Phu-Si-Yantong employed men as his tools, and some had worn a badge like this.

Studying the table, walking around the room checking on elaborations of details on the wall maps, I had to face the simple fact that Phu-si-Yantong's insane ambition to rule all of Paz—all of Kregen for all I knew, he was mad enough even for that—must cause him to keep a watch on the most powerful of the rulers whom he must bend to his will. This doughy-faced fellow took orders from Yantong and betrayed Thyllis.

That Yantong kept up a corps of spies seemed a common sense enough conjecture. He was able to go into that weird trance state of lupu and spy out incidents at vast distances; but that kharrna could be interfered with. Thyllis had once kept her own secret personal Wizard of Loh. I rather fancied from what little I knew of Yantong's character that he would never tolerate another Wizard of Loh in his own affairs.

The wall maps took my attention then for the last one showed in neatly inked outline and color what the Hamalese high command planned as their defenses of Ruathytu—always assuming any of the invasion columns managed to reach the place.

The plan was elegant and simple as good plans usually are. The ground forces would be dealt with according to their strengths, so that over the last miles of the advance they would be resisted where weak, allowed a relatively easy progress where strong. The Hamalian Air Service would keep most of its strength disengaged and away from the capital. The Hamalese had no fear of other aerial forces. When the last attack went in, with aerial support or not, the Hamalian Air Service would pounce. They would catch the attack columns in that vulnerable moment when they advanced to the assault. The picture formed in my head—clear skies with Vallian and Hyrklanian and Dawn Lands various aerial forces pressing on above the troops below, everything going well, shouting and uproar, and on, on—and then the enormous Hamalian skyships dropping down and the swift vollers and the clouds of fluttrells and mirvols—yes, that picture formed, and it was a picture of darkness and death for all our hopes.

High morale, determination, and knowing the moment to strike—these were the Hamalese secret weapons.

Prince Nedfar stirred. I had struck with as little force as possible, less than I should have done to do the job properly. A line from a poem by Covell of the Golden Tongue, one of the preeminent poets of Vondium, crossed my mind. He was a lively, intelligent and sensitive man who abhorred violence. Useless to attempt to render the poetry into terrestrial tongues, the Kregish is unique and beautiful. He sings: “To see no hope in romance and love in human relationships is death; loneliness is the true unhappiness."

Zair knew, I'd been lonely in my time. Among all the splendid friends fortune had favored me with on Kregen, this man, this noble of an enemy country, this Nedfar, numbered; it was time for me to leave crazy Empress Thyllis's map room and be about my proper business.

I gave a last swift look around, then crossed to dough-face and ripped away the black and green feathered golden grascent. I stuffed it into my pocket. Nedfar groaned. I gave him a polite salute and left the moorn vew, closing the door on the square room after me and closing also the door from that room onto the corridor. Nath the Bullet slumbered. I made sure he was still comfortable as I went by, and propped his stick to give him extra support.

Then, bracing back my shoulders, head up, face wearing a scornful aide's rendition of a man with an important mission, I marched out into the anteroom.

As far as I was concerned I might not have bothered. The place looked exactly the same, if a little noisier. Across at the double doors the Chulik guards had no compunction about letting me out. The terrace presented a blotched look from scattered lanterns and lamps, orange lozenges, yellow ovals, white rectangles of light. The landing platform held a number of courier vollers and messenger flyers; but protocol must be observed. I felt the old itch up my back. That roomful of sleeping beauties would be found soon—must be found. They knew who I was. I was dwa-Jiktar Jak the Shot, of the Hamalian Air Service, captain of Mathdi. I heaved up a sigh as the Jiktar approached, already signaling for the next voller inline.

“Trouble, Jik?” said this Jiktar, short, stout, breathless, officious.

“Aye, Jik. Herrelldrin never has a Hell deep enough. Oh, well, life is life. Is this my voller?"

“Ready and waiting, Jik!” called a cheerful voice. But before the words were spoken there was this little apologetic almost internal laugh. Bonzo's cheerful face stared up at me, his fair hair about to take off from his head.

There was nothing else for it. If Bonzo got in the way, Bonzo would go to sleep. Bratch!

We shot away in his usual style of piloting. “Where to, Jik?"

“The Urnmayern voller berths."

He cocked a blue eye at me. I knew what he was thinking. Aides did not have the free run of courier vollers to take them back to quarters. Hamal's laws were strict on the point. And that is a redundant remark; Hamal's damned laws were strict on every point. On that short flight I learned that Bonzo was a gambling man; what he did not know about zorca or sleeth racing odds would scarcely have weighed down a copper ob. I told him gambling was a mug's game, and asking him to wait as I went off to Mathdi, reflected that the gambles I habitually took were far more foolish.

Hikdar Bonnu was raring to go, and when I told him where he'd be off, almost before the words were out of my mouth. The little three-armed Och with his broom had stirred up more problems.

“I know, Bonnu, I know. Order, counter-order, disorder. But things have come up. You know the Caves of Kov Mak about twenty dwaburs north?” He nodded. These caves, so called because of their exceeding lack of light, tunneled miles into the hillsides and had been used since the first flint-handlers. “Wait for me there. Keep Mathdi out of sight. If you have to fight to maintain concealment, make sure you win and do not let news of your presence spread.” Those were fierce orders, indeed! “I shall join you as soon as possible, certainly within a day."

“Quidang,” he said. “But skulking in caves—"

“I know, I know. There will be more fighting for you all before this little lot is seen off. Now—move!"

He went off to roust out Mathdi's crew and I returned to the green-painted voller. The yellow-gold COURIER on the sides glittered in the lantern lights. Bonzo laughed and we took off.

“Where now, Jik?"

Sink me! I said to myself. That was a heavy question!

Taking Bonzo's Courier voller was vitally necessary; taking Bonzo was not. There was no hesitation in my mind. I would not harm him; he was too artless for that. “Fly to the Havilthytus by the Camdenorm quay."

His first reaction was, “That's a fishy destination,” and the laugh preceded and succeeded his words. Then: “I'm only allowed to carry you about on official business, Jik."

“This is."

He did not quibble; no doubt he was grumbling away to himself about puffed-up aides doing their shopping for a fish supper on his time. We whirled over the rooftops. Ruathytu was now awake and bubbling as the troops ordered to move north roused out. Kapt Naghan was not a commanding general who tolerated slackness. The broad stretch of river was flecked with the lights of boats, and the pile of the Hammabi el Lamma and, downstream, the Temple of Havil the Green and the Castle of Hanitcha the Harrower threw their own ribbons of colored light upon the waters. We slanted in for the fish quays and Bonzo made for the Camdenorm.

A few stalls were still open but the majority were wrapped in shadows. I alighted and told Bonzo to wait. Fish Fin Street lay less than ten murs away. As I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door I wondered if Bonzo would wait; discipline was ingrained in Hamal yet even he must sense something more than a little odd in the night's doings. If he did not wait, I would have to adopt a different plan. Lobur and Thefi crept out, their faces drawn, and we moved rapidly back along the shadowed side of the street to the Camdenorm quay. Bonzo waited. A torch light glittered across the yellow-gold COURIER.

I said to him: “There are two passengers for the van section in the rear of your voller, Bonzo."

He looked up at me, opened his mouth, did not laugh as he said: “And?"

“And what?"

“And what do I say to my Jiktar, Jik?"

“You are doing the right thing. You have no need to worry."

Lobur walked in front of Thefi, both huddled in cloaks, and I unlatched the doors to the vanlike rear of the courier voller.

Just as they were entering, Lobur started to speak, and I said, “Shastum!” which is one way of saying “Silence!” and Bonzo got out of the pilot's seat and came around the back. He gave that little swallowing laugh, a cough to precede a statement.

“I am a courier now, Jik. But I have eyes, and have been well-schooled, if prematurely cut off, as my father was a businessman who traveled the world. I do not think—"

“Good!” I said.

“What—?"

“Good. It is good that you do not think."

“But, Jik—I do. And what I think—"

I walked around to the pilot's seat and jumped in. Bonzo let out a yell. We took off even as he ran up and made a frantic grab at his Courier voller. I looked down and through the windrush I yelled, “Remberee, Bonzo! I'll try to give your voller back."

Over my shoulder I could hear Thefi laughing.

Hamal's laws ensure that the Hamalese number everything. I had been a number in the Heavenly Mines. A brass plate gave the number of this voller as Jay Kay Pe 448 with an appended V to indicate she was of recent construction. The wind blustered past and we lifted and three inquisitive patrols, one after the other, nosed up and saw the little green airboat with the big yellow-gold courier and simply flew away. Our credentials were impeccable.

Now Lobur laughed, also.

“Pandahem, Jak!” he called over my shoulder. “My thanks!"

My uneasiness persisted. I could not make up my mind about Lobur. Tyfar had appeared to approve of his sister's attachment to the Dagger, and I fancied Tyfar would accept what had happened if it was what his sister wished. As for Nedfar, I felt the worst of scoundrels and rogues, for his love for his daughter had not encompassed the idea of her going off in this way. And Thefi herself? Here was the source of my greatest concern. Was she merely caught up in the romance of this affair, liking Lobur and being carried along by his vehemence? Would she bitterly regret her impulsive acquiescence? I did not know. Useless to say it was no business of mine. By Zair! It was business of mine, now, because I had been brought into it no less than for my love for the participants. If only my daughter Jaezila was here! She'd know what was right like a shot.

A bur and a half later—for courier vollers by the nature of their business must be fleet craft—we reached the Caves of Kov Mak. As I began to descend, Lobur, who was in fine spirits, called, “You go down!"

“Aye."

Because things had worked out so well I was almost bound to be at the rendezvous before Mathdi. This was all to the good. We touched down and the airboat rocked to stillness. We all got out.

“Why, Jak?” said Thefi.

I found a smile for her. Her face tilted up and by the light of the Moons of Kregen she looked lovely, by Zair. If there was hesitation on that face, was not that understandable?

“I leave you here, princess. You may fly to Pandahem at will."

Lobur's laugh rang out. He was in fine fettle, brimming with good spirits. “You are a marvel, Jak, a real marvel."

“I want to have a word with the princess in private.” I did not wait for him either to acquiesce or argue; I took Thefi by the elbow and moved away into the darkness. Surprised, she allowed herself to be drawn along. She was totally unused to such behavior.

“Listen, Thefi—"

“You—you are peremptory, Jak!"

“And if you say I am presumptuous, I shall say I presume on my affection for Tyfar and my regard for your father. Listen, Thefi. Do you really wish to go with Lobur?"

Now it was out, flat and bald and ugly, and I heard the stupidity of it even as I spoke. What else could she say but the answer she gave? But she spoke well, give her that.

“But for my friendship for you, Jak, I should be displeased. Lobur and I—we thank you for what you have done for us. You will be rewarded, and I say that in no demeaning way. Somehow I shall make sure of that. But, anything else—you run friendship perilously close to animosity—"

“Because you are a princess? Or because you are not sure?"

In the light of the Moons her face darkened as the blood rose to her skin. “No more, Jak. I command you."

No more was right. By Vox! What a ninny I was even to dream she would deign to confide in me. I was just a plug-ugly adventurer, a hyr-paktun, a man who had rendered service to her father and brother. Beside Lobur the Dagger I was a nothing in her eyes. So, with a grimace that might have been a smile, I said: “You are right, princess. But when I tell Tyfar I shall tell him you went away happily. This is true, because you say so."

“It is!"

Then Lobur came up and it was time for them to go. They had a fair old way to go; but the time would pass quickly for them.

So the courier voller lifted off and vanished amid moon glow and star glitter. I shook my head and stared at the jagged line of hills where the Caves of Kov Mak tunneled for miles, and I turned around, and Mathdi, showing lights, descended an ulm away.

A voller landing just here right now had to be Mathdi. I walked across and as I neared I let rip a bellow or three to let them know I was coming. If I had done right, if I had done wrong, I did not know. What I did know was that the escapades of lovers would no longer play any part in my plans for empire.

Stern business and hard fighting lay under my hand, and I would wish they did not. Rather, I reflected as, observing the fantamyrrh, I climbed aboard Mathdi, rather the adventures of star-crossed lovers than the bloody adventures of battle.

Chapter nineteen

A Grand Tour Weaves the Net

Over the succeeding days a very great deal of work was done. Organization and reorganization followed on our experiences. We regrouped. Now this word is often used euphemistically to cover the collecting together of shattered forces after a battle and getting the men in the right frame of mind to fight again; our regrouping was carried out with other ends in view. I made a kind of grand tour of the invading forces, beginning with Seg's in the north. He was his usual magnificent self, filled with zeal, a comrade I would trust with my life, a man among men.

“And, my old dom,” he said, his wild blue eyes afire with what he saw of the future, for the folk of Erthyrdrin are fey. “Your plan will work. In the knowledge of Erthyr the Bow, I see it!"

“And you will bear the brunt of it, Seg."

“Rightly so. By the Veiled Froyvil, Dray! Of course! I'll have the most troops, so—"

“You'll have precious little air."

He sniffed. We sat outside his tent with a wide panorama spread before us and the noise of the host in our ears. The Suns of Scorpio shone and I joyed in the company of Seg Segutorio, and I pushed aside the hateful darkness that might blight his happiness. He glanced up to where a skein of flutduins from Valka flew strongly out on patrol. He jerked his chin up.

“Oh, aye,” I said. “But the skyships of Hamal shrug off saddle flyers as a calsany shrugs off flies."

“Maybe, maybe."

We spent a glorious two days together, and bemoaned the absence of Inch and Turko and the others, and then I was off again, to see Drak. By this time Mathdi had been repainted in a decent russet and ochre color scheme and much of her Hamalian nature had been obscured. She flew the red and yellow flags of Vallia and the red and white of Valka, and the blue and yellow of Zamra, and, also, the orange and gray of Djanduin. When I saw Drak he wanted to know why Seg was to have the glory.

“Glory! Glory? Have you learned nothing?"

He was stubborn. Well, he would be. He was intense, serious, and I believed dedicated to Vallia and capable of being a truly great emperor. I was abrupt with him.

“When you take over as emperor, my lad, then you may order as you see fit. But the people saw fit to Fetch me to be their emperor, and I am telling you that Seg will take the risks—"

“You perhaps think to shield me, because I am your son—"

“Because you are the future Emperor of Vallia, ninny! And the quicker we can sort everything out the quicker you can take over. And I will not hear anything about your refusing the job. By Zair! I've had enough of it!"

“I believe you—but—"

“I'm off to Vallia to see your mother, if she's not off adventuring. Have you any messages?"

“My deepest regards to Queen Lushfymi—"

He saw my expression and he quelled the fury that flowered into his face. He spoke with precision.

“I hold the queen in great esteem. Her country of Lome will be freed one day, and then—"

“If you suggest you'll go off and be King of Lome I'll—I'll—I'll—"

“Yes?” Now he was amused.

“You're getting as bad as your brother Jaidur! At least he has acquired some sense now he's King of Hyrklana."

“I do not design to be King of Lome.” He smiled and the day warmed up. “And give my—regards—to Silda."

“I will.” Silda was Seg's daughter, and Delia and I would dearly wish to see Drak have the sense to marry her instead of scheming Queen Lush of Lome. So, with the ice melting a little, I called the remberees and Mathdi was off for Vallia.

As I had feared, Delia was not in Vondium, and no one knew where she was. Rather, the Sisters of the Rose knew, but they would never tell a mere man. So I had Mathdi seen to again and replaced some of her ballistae with the superior Vallian gros-varter, and then we were off, flying hard, to see Jaidur. During that short period in Vondium I had attended to a deal of detail and got through a pile of work, the effects of some of which will no doubt surface later in this narrative...

Amid all the political wheeling and dealing I'd gone through in Vondium, and the minimal social occasions, the major concern was the problem of the Wizards of Loh. As to social occasions, minimal but of a nature I could not and would not cut: How refuse to attend a ceremony honoring Vallia's dead, and bestowing medals on the wounded survivors? How to avoid spending a precious two hours opening a new school complex where the children sang and danced and behaved with amazing decorum, quite unlike their real selves which were harum-scarum to a delightful degree? An emperor's life is not all giving orders, pigging at banquets, having people's heads off and fighting battles.

Deb-Lu told me, “Phu-Si-Yantong is exercising his powers again in exemplary fashion. Khe-Hi and I resist; but it takes effort.” He looked tired, his turban awry, his red hair straggling. As for Khe-Hi, that young wizard looked murderous with frustration. “We believe we can overcome Yantong if it comes to the final struggle in the occult. I do apologize, Jak—majis—I do apologize for failing to make contact. But I must warn you that even that communication could be broken—"

“You mean Yantong would know, would listen in?"

“Suspect, at the least.” Deb-Lu abruptly reverted to old habit, and Spoke In Capitals. “I have Managed to Keep an Observation upon You, and in Lupu Watched. Your Messages were Taken In."

“At least, that is something. But I fancy the attack on Vallia will not now take place. The Hamalese are pressed back."

“They lure you on, and seek to destroy you by a trap."

I told Deb-Lu, and finished, “We're just going to have to make our trap snap harder than theirs. It's all we can do."

Khe-Hi handed me a small bronze brooch. “A signomant, majis. It will help our communications.” I pinned on the brooch, pleased.

Jaidur and Lildra were pleased to see me. I wasn't too happy about Lildra accompanying her new husband on campaign; but that little word “new” explained it all. They were confident and when I expounded the plan agreed to go along with it. Although Jaidur in his reckless way, said, “We will cut them up, and finish them, by Vox!” and Lildra held his arm, smiling, I had to squash any feelings of unease. After all, Seg was shouldering the major burden of battle.

“As soon as we reach the best point, I'll have the troops marching,” promised Jaidur.

“Good. Remember—timing is important, so leave plenty of time for emergencies."

“I will."

He told me he had formed a bodyguard after the style of the Emperor's Sword Watch and the Emperor's Yellow Jackets. Well, that was his privilege. Those two corps had been formed by others for my protection, as I had formed the Empress's Devoted Life Guard and intended to form a second body of a similar nature. I explained it to Jaidur. “They say it is better to have more than a single bodyguard, Jaidur. You split the command. Then you don't have palace revolutions. That is the theory."

“But your ESW is with Drak, and the EYJ are with Seg."

“True.” I did not exactly laugh as let my lad see my amusement. “If they want to be revolting, they can be—after we've dealt with Hamal. Anyway, the first regiments only are there. The second regiments are occupied elsewhere."

We talked for a space, for my life had denied a great deal of my family's company, and then Jaidur said, “It is a great sadness that Thelda died. But Seg is well over the death of his wife now. And—” Here Jaidur made an expressive gesture. “Aunt Thelda always fussed so."

I turned the conversation as soon as I could. I did know that the moment Hamal was turned into an ally against the Shanks, I would speak to Seg about Thelda. I am a coward in these matters; I know that.

Before I left for the south I cautioned Jaidur. “Seg has the most troops and the post of greatest danger. But you will be severely attacked, and will be thin on the ground. Don't take any foolish chances. Run if you have to."

“Run!"

“Aye, Vax Neemusjid. Run!"

His glare was a marvel of compressed ferocity. Lildra put a hand on his arm. “I learned a very great deal when I ran in the rain from the Castle of Afferatu, my love. Listen to your father. He speaks sense."

So we left it at that, and Mathdi took off for the south.

“By Spag the Junc!” quoth Dav Olmes when we touched down, and I explained to him. “It might work—no, it will work!"

“I do not want to be too long away from Ruathytu, for I have unfinished business there. But you folk from the Dawn Lands have so many different columns—"

“We have, and wisely so, since many of the countries do not get along. But I will have the word spread. The King of Hambascett marches a full two days apart from the King of Ezionn—back home they'd be at each other's throats at the least excuse. But I'll see to all that."

“You fellows from the Dawn Lands—united you could walk all over Hamal."

“Maybe. But we are as we are. A patchwork quilt of honor and enmity and friendship. A Rapa of Sinopa would as lief slit the gizzard of a Rapa of Sokotro as any old Fristle. I tell you, Jak, it's a balancing act even to get ‘em all to march."

“Any news of Kov Konec?"

“His illness persists; but he is gaining strength. I do not think he will join the army in time for the last battle."

I didn't bother to ask if there was news of Prince Mefto the Kazzur. Dav's forces were in good heart, and he did have a fair quantity of air, which was heartening. His king had entrusted a sizeable force to him, and Dav had grown easily to fill the position. I nodded to a party of Mionches shambling along over the brow of the hill. They did not look happy. Their helmets, high-horned, were pushed back on straps over their shoulders, and their round shields and pairs of spears dangled and slanted any old how. At their head they carried a banner; but this was cased.

Dav shook his head. “I know, Jak. But I can only do what any sensible commander does. Everyone knows Chuliks will not serve in any army containing Mionches. Perhaps it is because a Mionch has tusks twice as long as those of a Chulik."

“Perhaps. Although I fancy there is more to it than that."

Whatever the reason, mercenary Mionches would not be tolerated by Chuliks, and as the fighting ratio was something of the order of six to one, any sensible commander would do what Dav was forced to do. All the same, you could not help feeling a stab of sympathy for the Mionches.

Although Dav would contact other columns marching up to the northwards, we in Mathdi made sure we visited the kings and kapts commanding the armies that might be—quite by accident—left out. By representing myself as a pallan at large from the Emperor of Vallia and the King of Hyrklana, I managed to obtain overall consent to our joint plans. Mind you, it would be folly to imagine everything would go smoothly. Always there would be the odd joker who disagreed, had a better plan, was feeling out of sorts, any excuse just so he or she could carry on doing what they wanted to do. I did my best to weld the disparate forces together, seeing more and more the task of the Dawn Lands armies as grapplers of the Hamalese as the Vallians and Hyrklese delivered the knock-out blows. Our greatest concern was that the enemy would concentrate overwhelming strength against one of our columns; and to thwart this an arrangement of patrols and scouts kept well ahead to apprise us of any forward movement. Then the aerial forces would bring reinforcements and succor as fast as they could fly. So far we had not experienced any disasters.

During this time as I flew from army to army it was my fortune to witness only two battles, and these mere delaying skirmishes on the part of the Hamalese. They held us up, when we landed in rear they would detour and run. Then, a few sennights later, they'd set up another block. Their plans were being carried out.

Soon—but not all that soon, by Krun!—it was time for me to go Djanduin.

The little signomant in the form of a bronze brooch given me by Khe-Hi contained nine gems of different colors and values arranged in a circle. Weird though it was, I knew that the two Wizards of Loh could go into their trance state of lupu and witness events through these gems. The value of this brooch was immense, because usually Wizards of Loh concealed their signomants in massive bronzen plates so as to make movement difficult. Yet the task was difficult and fraught with peril, for if Yantong caught a sniff of our Wizards of Loh at work, his own kharrna would lash out with diabolical viciousness. What might happen then I did not care to dwell on.

Perhaps when I reached Djanduin and flew to the capital, Djanguraj, and touched down in the court of the Stux of Zodjuin in the palace there, our Wizards of Loh might have freer access.

The folk of Windy Djanguraj welcomed us as only Djangs can.

The immensely ferocious four-armed Dwadjangs and the shrewd two-armed Obdjangs with their pert gerbil-faces might be no rivals in the twin fields of war and diplomacy; they are well-matched when it comes to entertaining guests and comrades. For a moment I allowed the tensions and worries to slip away. If I felt any guilt I looked at that question squarely and decided that the campaign was running smoothly, I was not indispensable, and I needed to spend time with my people of Djanduin.

Kytun Kholin Dom did his usual trick. His upper left arm enfolded me, his lower left thumped me on the back, his upper right hand gripped my own right hand and his lower right fist tattooed against my ribs. I gripped and hammered back with my half of his equipment. By Djan! It was good to be back in Djanduin!

Ortyg Fellin Coper, his whiskers dancing, forced himself into the melee to greet me, and his wife Sinkie threw herself on me. Oh, yes, this was coming home with a vengeance.

We went through the outrageous extravaganza of Djang celebrations, with processions and bonfires and torchlights and enormous mountains of food and rushing rivers of wine. The people yelled themselves hoarse. I went everywhere and saw everyone and felt great comfort in the prosperity of the country. The local enemy, the Gorgrens, would not be a threat again for some time. They would come back, in the end, for they are a malignant lot and pose problems of unity.

“And so we march against Hamal, Dray?"

“Aye."

“You speak with a heavy heart,” said O. Fellin Coper. He brushed his whiskers, his face concerned, alert, one of the controlling minds of the country, my co-regent with Kytun.

“I think of the price we will pay—for megalomania."

K. Kholin Dom swelled his massive ribcage, and his magnificent simpleness revealed itself as he said, “We do not often venture from Djanduin, but we have certain news of what these Hamalese are up to. They will not stop by themselves. The only sure way of stopping them is to stop them ourselves.” He picked up a flagon and held it. “No, Ortyg, no, you are right. The king has a heavy heart, as do we all for the fine fighting men who will die. But if this sacrifice is not made, far worse will follow.” Then he let rip a yell which brought all the faces along the tables up to stare at us. “By Zodjuin of the Silver Stux! Here is to Notor Prescot, King of Djanduin, and hell and damnation to all our foes!"

I lowered my eyelids as the deafening roar of approbation broke in the banqueting hall. With Djangs at a fellow's back, what is there to fear from mortal men on Kregen?

Enough, by Zair, as you shall hear...

Through the following days we discussed plans. Rather, we elaborated and refined The Plan. For, in Djan's own truth, there was but the one ploy open to us, and chancy though it might be and dangerous, it offered a rapid end to bloodshed. And when it comes to a gamble in war, there is no one like a Djang to snatch up the challenge with a fearsome shout of laughter. The regiments were inspected and the fliers and flyers of the Air Services. The four-armed Djangs are among the most impressive of fighting men on Kregen, their prowess immeasurable among their peer; and for all that they are little known outside the southwest corner of Havilfar, for they keep themselves to themselves. They are not the brightest of strategists. Point them in the right direction and start them going, and very little will stop them. It is the gerbil-faced Obdjangs who are the brains of the country, and the two races love each other and work together splendidly.

I might add that my crew of rascally fighting men in Mathdi were most polite during their stay in Djanduin, and Bonnu kept them well in hand.

During all my adventures over Kregen I had always, as you know, taken every opportunity to write to the places on that terrible and beautiful world of special interest to me, and Kytun and Ortyg were up to date with news. As a consequence of that they had been in communication with Valka, where many Djangs trained up Valkans to fly flutduins, and had employed Valkans—and Vallians—in work more suited to apims. This was how they knew of affairs in Hamal. Reports came in during that time bringing the latest information on the progress of the invasions, of the incursions of the wild men over the Mountains of the West. In many of these reports the name of Prince Tyfar was prominent.

I said to Ortyg and Kytun, “Listen, my friends. This Prince Tyfar. He is a great man. He is no enemy, for he shares our dream of uniting all Paz.” I stretched the truth here a little, but it was true, even if not yet spelled out. “We will never raise hand against him or his father, Prince Nedfar."

“Then if he brings his army against us?"

I frowned. “I do not know for a surety. But I do not think he will desert his post. The wild men are a pest."

They nodded. And I knew what they were thinking. If anybody—anybody—tried to fight me or them, the Djangs would be ruthless in protecting me and themselves. Selah!

Then, as though continuing a thought begun in his head, Ortyg said, “This Empire of Hamal is a rich country, enormously wealthy. We can live off the land if we have to. But—our vollers remain unreliable, as ever."

“At least they are vollers,” I said. “The Vallians are using enormous fleets of sailers of the skies. Their vorlcas must use the winds. And there have been some fair old battles along the lines of communication. Yes, we live off Hamal. We'd never be able to invade at all if we could not."

This point seemed the appropriate one for me to apprise them of my intentions.

“Mathdi will be going back to Kov Seg and Prince Drak and King Jaidur and then around to Dav Olmes and that oddball collection of Dawn Lands armies.” The word was not oddball, being a Kregish word, but that fits. They are a rum bunch in the Dawn Lands, by Krun. “Then she'll be coming back to you for the assault."

“And you, Dray?"

“I'm going to deprive you of a single-place flier. I am for Ruathytu."

“Burn the place down,” grunted Kytun.

“But leave the treasury,” said Ortyg.

That was my Djangs, to the life.

At that point in the preparations there were three separate plans in operation, each resting on the shoulders of the one preceding. Maybe it was a pretty notion that the simple plan of the Hamalese high command should be used to confound itself; if we failed all Hamal would gloat in our discomfiture. As for us, well, a lot of us would be dead.

They'd heard down in Djanduin of Pundhri the Serene, the philosopher I had rescued at the behest of the Star Lords. They approved of his work and teachings, for neither Dwadjang nor Obdjang was apim, and I realized that perhaps I had underestimated not only Pundhri's importance but the acumen of the Everoinye. Here was a focal point for the future, a strong motivation for the realization of the dreams I had for all of Paz.

There were tremendous scenes as I boarded the little single-place voller. I observed the fantamyrrh in the sight of the people and their noise shook the stones of the palace. The ruby and jade lights of the Suns of Scorpio in their streaming mingled radiance bathed the sea of faces uplifted to the landing platform. I looked down and lifted my arm in salute. They were yelling in unison now, chanting it out.

“Notor Prescot, King of Djanduin! Jikai!” Then, as the voller lifted: “Remberee, Notor Prescot! Remberee!"

“Remberee!” I bellowed down, and turned my face away up to the sky. What it is to have folk like the Djangs as friends!

A damned sight better than having them as foes, believe me.

Everything was drawing together beautifully. Always, something goes wrong with the best of plans, naturally, given the contrary nature of the fates or chance or skill that rule our lives; but short of a major catastrophe we had set up the situation so as to gain the most advantage from any eventuality. The flier soared up and away from Djanduin, heading north and east, and on course for Hamal not by the most direct route but by the safest. My reading of the situation was that it would be criminal of me to take a chance now when I flew a voller that might break down at any moment. So the dwaburs to Hamal were eaten up and the expectations rose in me headily.

What a vision! To encompass the downfall of Empress Thyllis and to make of Hamal an ally in the greater struggles ahead! Slung over my back I wore hidden under my cloak a Krozair longsword, one of those I now attempted to have stored in places where I had friends and where I might turn up in need. Djanguraj now had an armory of Krozair longswords—rather, swords made in Djanduin by Wil of the Bellows, after the pattern of Krozair longswords. Believe me when I say that I, a Brother of the Krozairs of Zy, took thankful comfort from the feel of that superb brand snugged close to my body. A tug, a twist, a cunning draw—and the blade would flame free in a heartbeat.

As I hurtled on over the face of Kregen under the Suns of Scorpio, I felt convinced the Krozair brand would play a part in the dangers ahead. By Zair! I tremble to think that, had I known—had I but known!—the nature of the horror that lurked waiting for me in Ruathytu, I would have turned the voller in the air and flown away, anywhere away from the capital city of Hamal.

Chapter twenty

The Empress Thyllis of Hamal

Far-reaching changes had taken place in Ruathytu during my absence, for I had been away some time as the invading armies approached the capital. For one thing, Pundhri the Serene was in the city and preaching, for the exposition of his philosophy approached the preacher's art and fire. For another, only the great Arena remained in use; slaves had become too valuable to slaughter by the carload as in the old days. The number of fighting men had increased significantly, both mercenaries and swods of the iron legions. Also, aerial strength was marked by its absence. Here were clear signs of the high command's plan in operation. Seg would have to face the final onslaught and face many more adversaries than we had calculated.

The odd and annoying outcome of the Star Lords’ instructions to rescue Pundhri worked to our disadvantage, however meritorious the end in view. Now that diffs were no longer regarded with contumely, the ranks of Hamal's fighting formations were filling with them. Pundhri took much of that credit, together with a general revulsion of feeling against racism. I approved; but it was making life difficult for the allies, by Krun.

Not caring to frequent the haunts where I was known as Jak, I spent a few days as Hamun ham Farthytu, and realized afresh how easy it would be to sink into the ways of life of the Sacred Quarter. I saw and kept out of the way of that stupid boorish Trylon with whom I'd had a run in at The Fluttrell Feather in Thalansen. Inquiries elicited the information that he was Horgil Hunderd, Trylon of Deep Valley, still enormously wealthy, a womanizer, an upstart, and here to present the three regiments of paktuns he had raised to the empress.

One of the more disturbing sights abroad—at least to me—was the numbers of Katakis everywhere employed. Katakis are a nasty race of diffs, low-browed, fierce and savage of aspect, armed with long whiplike tails to which they strap six niches of bladed steel. Their main joy in life, it is said, is inflicting pain, they are sworn at as jibrfarils, and their main occupation is slaving. They were here to chain up the remnants of the armies invading Hamal after the Hamalese had won.

A few theaters remained open and I saw a performance of The Queen's Secret, an anonymous play written only three hundred seasons or so ago. It is in my opinion overvalued; but it was better than the populist blood-thumpers dished up everywhere to drum up morale. I spent one evening in The Chuktar Hofardu, an inn named for a long-dead Hamalese kampeon, where I learned a deal of the grass-roots opinions of the swods and something of their morale, and where we finished up the night singing the old songs. Odd, singing songs with swods again in Ruathytu. We went through “When the Fluttrell Flirts His Wing” and “Chuktar's Orders” and “The Chulik's Bent Tusk.” We rollicked out “Sogandar the Upright and the Sylvie” and we all had No Idea At All, at all, No idea at all, and the laughter threatened the rafters. Damned odd, when very soon I'd be leading warriors to fight and slay these warriors who sang with me.

I steered clear of The Scented Sylvie and other like places. Ruathytu was bubbling nicely, and news of the various invasion columns was that they continued their advance, living off the land and fighting off attacks on their communications. Not long now...

The temple of Werl-am-Nardith by the Hirrume Gate had been beautifully embellished within, and as I passed by on a morning of high cloud with the suns of Antares striking glints of ruby and jade from every cornice and dome, Black Sadrap hailed me.

We shook hands and then Rollo the Circle waddled over. He was, if anything, even larger of stomach.

“I am pleased to see you, Zaydo! We're all finished here and what do you think of our news?"

I managed a smile, for I was pleased to see Rollo and his band of wandering artists. I didn't know his news; but when he told me I was dutifully impressed.

“The Empress of all Hamal has commanded us! We are to decorate some of her glorious chambers! I tell you, Zaydo, this will be the making of us."

“My congratulations.” I did not add that he might be very lucky to be paid. Thyllis would have the work done and spend the money on her mercenaries and fob Rollo off with a title. She had been distributing patents of nobility lavishly in these latter days. Well, perhaps Rollo knew that, and calculated that to be a greater advantage. We talked in the suns light and then we went for a wet and I had to keep up the Zaydo role, and, in fine, I got myself a job assisting in mixing paint and carrying ladders and scaffolding and generally being useful.

I seized the opportunity.

By Vox! This was capital!

Now the Krozair longsword I wore hidden under my cloak had been built with quillons just wide enough to afford proper protection to the hands. We had built a few examples with quillons which folded forward along the blade, and by the press of a stud would spring out into place. Wil of the Bellows pursed up his lips at these, and wiped his hands on his leather apron, saying “Well, I would not like to trust those if a particularly powerful blow is struck full against them, by Zodjuin of the Sword, no!"

So I had this example. But it was clearly not going to be easy for me to scuttle up and down ladders carrying pots of paint with a great bar of steel over my back.

The artists were assigned quarters in some moldering sheds in a little-used court to the east of the Hammabi el Lamma, near the point of the artificial island. There was the usual fuss from the sentries in allowing us ingress; but after a sennight we became a part of the furnishings, and could come and go with our aprons all the colors of the rainbow, and paint in our hair and daubing our faces. I made sure my face was wonderfully streaked with color. Carrying a ladder or a length of plank enabled a fellow to wander past the sentries with a familiar: “Lahal, dom!” and some comment on the progress of the factions in the Jikhorkdun. Majordomos showed us the chambers to be decorated, a complex in a side corridor from the throne room which Thyllis was bringing back into use.

There was every reason to refuse to allow myself to become excited. Yes, I was in Thyllis's palace. I was near her infernal throne room with the manhounds snarling on the steps, and her diabolical syatra pit. A deal more useful would have been to be near the map room...

Among all the paraphernalia of the artists’ equipment there were ample hiding places for the longsword and I got into the habit of keeping it handy wrapped in a length of paint-stained sacking. Among the medley of paints and pots and ladders and boxes it passed unnoticed. The reasons for this are easy to discern—the reasons for my wanting the Krozair brand handy...

The combination of arms into which the allies against Hamal had entered creaked along with many hitches and holdups. But the plans did progress and, thanks be to Zair, there were no major disasters. The day of the Seeking after Truth, as they say in the Risslaca Hork in Balintol, drew nearer with every suns rise. At the time I fancied that what next occurred was purest coincidence; very soon thereafter I was disabused of that paltry notion.

The high command's plans appeared to be working, for they had checked a number of our weaker columns and only Seg's army pressed on. We kept abreast of the news, and I was aware of the mounting tension. Damned uneasy it all was, too, knowing that Seg gambled with the deaths of thousands of good men, and with his own death, also. His army had been reinforced and was stronger than the Hamalese knew, and our aerial forces were massed ready to hit the enemy as they pounced. When Seg halted to give battle short of Ruathytu, the expressions of surprise amongst the Hamalese amused me. Good old Seg!

At this stage of this macabre dance of death Kytun and Seg would be in constant communication. Unless I heard to the contrary then, the day on which Rollo the Circle planned to paint the ceiling of Thyllis's Chamber of the Chemzite Graints would be the day when that ceiling might collapse in tiles and plaster.

On that evening which ought to be the last evening of the old order in Hamal, Thyllis held a levee in her throne room for the forces who would march out. They would hit Seg with almost everything they had, and yet they would still leave forces inside the city, for the high command were not novices at war. I cleaned myself up, put on a neat dark blue tunic over the old scarlet breechclout, gray trousers and ankle boots of soft leather proved comfortable, and the silver-gray fur edging of the green cape was suitably foppish. That cape was cut both high and low and concealed the longsword. I buckled up rapier and dagger and, not wearing a hat, sallied forth wearing a quite different face I calculated I could hold for some time without too much discomfort. Joining the army officers and commanders of the paktuns, and looking grim and stern and remote, I went with them along to the throne room. It was easy enough, and I felt reassured that it was not too easy, for I dodged the sentries carrying out their checks by the simple expedient of temporarily assuming the face of a fellow in the crowd to the rear. I do not know if he got in or if they threw him out; certainly there was no fuss.

And so I entered Empress Thyllis's throne room.

The most awesome single impression of that room was that you did not notice its height or length or width or the lavish decorations. Every eye was instantly drawn to the throne fashioned from its colossal block of multi-faceted crystal. Brightly colored rugs lay scattered across the dais below the throne and over the steps where the scantily clad golden-chained slave girls, the Chail Sheom, simpered and shuddered. For the manhounds were there, the jiklos, lolling their red tongues, their teeth sharp and jagged—the Manhounds of Antares, apims cruelly contorted by genetic science to run on all fours and to be more vicious than a hunting cat of the jungle. The chains that held them were of solid iron. To one side the golden railings encircled the marble slab with its chains and rollers.

And so to Thyllis herself.

She had changed. The face was as white and sharp as ever; but her jaw line had thickened and even in the blaze of light coruscating about her and reflecting from the solid mass of gems that smothered her, her body lacked the old slenderness of waist. Her green eyes slanted cruelly upon her courtiers and the officers gathered here in the evening levee prepared to march out on the morrow for the defense of her city.

Her lips were as red as ever, and fuller, more sensuous, and still she caught up one corner in her sharp white teeth.

The Womoxes at her back waved their faerling fans and their horns were gilded and polished, and their size proved they were still picked from the finest specimens Thyllis could come by.

I admit, I was caught up in watching this woman. Evil? Thyllis, was she a wicked woman? Well, she was if you call throwing people down into her syatra pit, or letting her manhounds loose to munch on them in the Hall of Notor Zan wicked. But, some folk would claim these are some of the mere tiresome duties of being an empress. She was a creature of her time and circumstances. In her the Scorpion had stung the Frog, and, willy-nilly, her life had followed with the inevitability of high tragedy. I had been drawn here almost against my own inclination to see her for the last time before I joined Kytun. It seemed to me only fit and proper that the Emperor of Vallia should look upon the Empress of Hamal before the final confrontation.

Despite the size of the throne room the closeness of the atmosphere made us clammy, the smell breathed in redolent with scents and sweat and fear. The noise of the crowd hung muted in shuffling of feet, the clink of swords, the jangle of golden ornaments. When a manhound yawned revealing a red cavern hedged in fangs the women jumped and the men looked unhappy, reflexively grasping their sword hilts. And, over the whole barbaric scene the presence of Thyllis brooded.

Yet she was being gracious. She was aware that these soldiers would march out to fight for her. That they obeyed her because of fear or for reward was for the moment pushed aside. But not far aside; as though to reinforce that chill grip of fear she inspired, a screaming wretch was dragged in. It was given out that he was a Chuktar, condemned for attempting to betray his empress for gold. The gathered mob began that dreadful chant.

“Syatra! Syatra! Syatra!"

Yet the sound did not ring and vibrate in the room as it once had done, it did not beat against the gilded rafters or echo in the groined vaultings. A man near me kept his mouth firmly closed, and a woman put a lace kerchief to her face. Half a dozen other poor wretches were dragged in, all accused of one crime or another. An iron hoop containing many of the best-quality torches of Kregen lowered over the round marble slab. Their light splashed weirdly down over the scene.

The shouts came mostly from the mercenaries. “Syatra! Syatra!” Guards pulled and whipped the condemned men forward. An old Xaffer shuffled up and removed a section of the gilded railings and the pulleys and rollers lifted and trundled the marble slab aside. A hole as black as the cloak of Notor Zan revealed itself in the floor, a blackness that gradually lightened to a leprous greenish-whiteness. Everyone craned to see.

Shrieking and struggling the doomed men were dragged on and hurled down into the pit. The round opening in the roof was not cleared for the rays of the suns to shine through for Zim and Genodras had sunk below the horizon, unwilling to shine upon this horror.

“By Havil! I do not like this!” said a horter at my side.

“Those poor men,” said his wife. “But the empress knows what she is doing."

There was a perceptible delay before the man said, “Of course, my dear, of course she does."

In my time I had been called rough and tough and ruthless; I decided I could stomach no more of this. It had been a mistake to take a last look at Thyllis. She was doomed, if the allies could ordain fate, and I felt a great uplift of the spirit. And, in that moment, the coincidence that was no matter of chance brought high-ringing peals from golden trumpets, and the buzz of talk and comment in the room stilled instantly.

Into the cleared space before the crystal throne stepped a group of Katakis. Richly clad they were, and yet bearing with them the darkness of their vile profession. And, at their head, his arrogant whiptail upflung so the torchlight splintered against the curved blade—Rosil na Morcray, the Chuktar Strom!

He had wrought my friends and me much harm, and had helped to ravage Vallia. He was here because we had defeated him in our homeland. And as I stared hotly at him, I heard a tinkling tingling as of a multitude of tiny bells—so I knew. I knew!

Sixteen Womoxes, horns all gilded, and clad in black tabards girt with green lizard skins, bore the palanquin. The cloth of gold curtains were half drawn so that the dark shape of the occupant showed against the red-gold gleam, all liquid eye-watering, of the cushions within. The tiny golden bells tingled with their eerie, spine-chilling tinklings. Following the palanquin came the retinue of Relt stylors and chained Chail Sheom, of guards and slaves. They forced a note of obtrusive displayed power within Thyllis's throne room. She sat up straight on her crystal throne, and her manhounds yawned and closed their eyes, and she put a hand to the mass of gems clustered above her heart.

“What means—” she began.

The voice whispered. It held that curious double-echo, soft and breathy, as though echoing in a cave of vampire bats, yet it carried clearly throughout the vaults of the throne room.

“Empress Thyllis, you are a foolish woman."

The assembled courtiers and soldiers were too astounded to gasp. Fans waved, swords were grasped, faces turned white, but no one uttered a sound, gripped by what went forward here.

I, Dray Prescot, I swallowed down, and I felt the pain in my left hand as I gripped the rapier hilt.

This palanquin with its ornate embellishments, these Womoxes, this retinue, this power and wealth flaunted in the face of the Empress of Hamal—one man, one man only would dare. One man who was more than a man, one being who was a Wizard of Loh—

Phu-Si-Yantong.

He was here, within the same room, here with his people and his Katakis, here under my hand. And I stood, and felt the blackness boiling in me and the bile rising to my throat.

Phu-Si-Yantong, the architect of misery, the creator of chaos, the purveyor of pain and the maniac who sought the dominance of all Paz, here, here before me.

Now people whispered: “The Hyr Notor!"

The ghastly whispering voice spoke again. “You are foolish, empress, on two counts, and the lesser is your loss of Ruathytu."

Thyllis looked a glittering image, frozen, as she said, “Ruathytu? Lost?"

“You will send the flower of your army out to fight the Vallians on the morrow. Fool! They suck you in. A great army carried in an armada of vollers will descend on your city tomorrow."

“You lie!"

“You do not, empress, speak to a Wizard of Loh in those terms. The Emperor of Vallia has tricked you. As he tricked you before when you thought he was Bagor ti Hemlad, as he tricked you when he escaped after your coronation as empress. He is the King of Djanduin. Had you forgotten? His army of Djangs will destroy your city on the morrow if it was left to you."

“It cannot be? Our scouts—the plans—” Thyllis looked around her, panting, shattered. Then she drew herself together. “If what you say is true, Hyr Notor, then we will meet and defeat the Djangs. But you said there were two—"

“Two counts that make you a fool. Aye. But I do not think you will live to learn the second."

The Empress of Hamal flashed her slanting green eyes. She exerted all her scorn. “You—” she began to speak.

The eerie breathy voice said, “Strom Rosil!"

Rosil, the Kataki Strom, stepped forward and lifted the crossbow. He loosed. It was very quick. The bolt struck Thyllis near the center of her body, through her breast, over her heart. It jutted there, hard and black and ugly. And Thyllis uttered no sound. She sat upright, a burnished statue, glittering, resplendent and dead.

Again that whispering voice cut through the room.

“I am the Emperor of Hamal. Woe to anyone who forgets this or who opposes me."

The crowds surged as the tides surge through between barren rocks. Women were shrieking, and men, too were screaming and some ran out of the throne room, and Katakis appeared, many Katakis, with bladed tails. Phu-Si-Yantong had prepared well.

In the uproar I stood like a loon. It was difficult to grasp that mad Empress Thyllis was truly dead. Still she sat, upheld by her carapace of gems, and her white face looked as it had looked in life, with her slanting green eyes bearing down in malicious cruelty upon her suppliants.

Phu-Si-Yantong spoke again, and I listened in a daze. In the groups of people in the retinue, fleetingly glimpsed, there looked to be a man remarkably like Lobur the Dagger. But it could not be him. He was safely away with Thefi in Pandahem...

“The second mistake this foolish woman made,” said Yantong, “the second reason she is no longer fit to be your empress, I will tell you.” The Katakis now bunched before every doorway. Strom Rosil handed his crossbow to a lackey who set about respanning and loading it. Rosil looked about, his low-drawn brow, his flaring nostrils and gape-jawed mouth, and his wide-spaced eyes, cold and unfeeling, made the people flinch back.

“I will tell you. She did not know that the Emperor of Vallia watched and listened to her petty plans. She did not know that the arch-devil, Dray Prescot, is here in this room, now!"

There was uproar at this as everyone looked around, panicky, searching their neighbors’ faces to find the devil himself.

In the bedlam as people shouted and men were seized on suspicion and the Katakis began to force their way in a line and push the people into protesting straggling groups, the chains and the rollers of the cover to the syatra pit were abandoned. Down there in a corpse-light grew a monstrous plant, with rib-crushing tentacles and spiny growths like Venus flytraps that would crunch a man in and suck from him all his juices. Horror grew and writhed in that dank pit. And horror gripped the Hamalese in the throne room.

The Katakis were not gentle. Strom Rosil snatched back his crossbow. The cloth of gold curtains framing the palanquin shook as Phu-Si-Yantong laughed at his own cleverness.

And I was trapped.

Looking about for the quickest way out, I saw the number of Katakis, and saw, also, that Chuliks were entering the chamber in support. Yantong had brought a private army of great strength, strength sufficient, certainly, to seal off the throne room and this wing of the palace, and powerful enough in sheer numbers, let alone quality, to take me up like a fly in treacle.

And, of course, that bastard of a Wizard of Loh knew exactly where I was standing.

A thin white hand, so pale and wan as to appear green, beckoned between the cloth of gold curtains. The Kataki Strom bent. The pale hand lifted and pointed. The forefinger pointed directly at me.

Rosil laughed, his coarse bellow without humor of any sort, a raw sound of triumph. He lifted the crossbow.

I took off, running, pushing people out of the way, haring like a maniac for the marble slab. The crossbow bolt flicked past my bent head. At full speed I leaped the golden railings. I snatched a torch from the hoop. Without hesitation, headlong, I dived into the pit of the syatra.

Chapter twenty-one

Phu-Si-Yantong

Torchlight blazed orange down the slimed walls of the pit, and reflected like a sunset of Earth from the stagnant water pools at the bottom. The suffocating heat and dampness wrapped around my falling body. Steam gushed coiling. Head over heels, spinning arms and legs, I fell. I hit.

The torch went flame first into the water and was instantly extinguished.

The breath was knocked out of me and it was vitally necessary to blink away the phantasmal afterimages of the torchlight, to see in the ghastly corpse-light, to see the syatra, to see and dodge.

The first tentacle wriggled across a mud patch as I staggered up, treading through the hot water upon a thick crust of bones, human bones. Piles of skulls formed lodgments, thighbones terraces, vertebrae, scattered pavings. Steam lifted in curling vapors like beckoning skeletal fingers of mist, matches for the yellowing bones beneath the water. Glaring around, trying to see, dashing the sweat and condensation from my face, I drew the rapier and then, even faster than I'd drawn, thrust it back into the scabbard. The first tentacle writhed long and evil from the steam.

The cloud of steam moved and my eyes grew more used to the greenish light. The whole place stank like a—like—well, in brief, like a syatra pit. I moved back from that first seeking tendril. There had to be a way out of here. Logic said so. There was running water, hot and steaming. That came in and went out. If it came or went through an opening smaller than was I—the tentacle struck.

A rift in the steam, my own movement, the vegetable sense stirred into blind insensate action ... The tentacle lapped about my ankle. I unlimbered the longsword and cut the tentacle away, it writhed and contorted and withdrew. The heat bore down like a steam chest. This wall at my back was solid. The shaft was circular and I edged around, knowing I would have to meet the syatra at some point, and hoping I'd reach an opening before that unwanted meeting.

Syatras are unpleasant plants. Corpse-white, equipped with powerful tentacles that seize on prey and stuff it into the coffin-sized spiny traps ranged around the plant, they do very well in Chemish jungles. In more moderate climates they usually grow where there is a supply of warm water from a hot spring. No one had mentioned to me the existence of hot springs below the Hammabi el Lamma.

In daylight with the suns shining through the opening the syatra would reach up the shaft to the light. It could scoop a fellow off the lip of the marble slab. Now it had digested the victims recently flung to it and that would make not the slightest difference to its appetite, by Krun. More tentacles appeared out of the coiling vapor and the impression of a vast body, moving, flickered in green and white and black, rising and lifting and towering up...

The thing broke through the vapor above me. It lowered down, and a multitude of tentacles dangling before it writhed into more purposeful action. At the foot of the main stem were ranged the coffin-sized traps, spined and barbed, grinning with their vegetable grins. Venus Flytraps writ enormous, they waited to snap shut and pierce with spines and suck with relish upon human flesh and blood.

The Krozair brand did not flame in that dolorous greenish whitish half-light.

But the longsword bit through lashing tentacles, bit and cut and sent severed ends plopping into the steamy water. In a few moments a dozen tentacles drew back, coiling around each other like crazed beanplants. In that moment I saw water boiling up in a spout and had time just to leap back and fling myself to the side.

A trap the size of a double-bed foamed out of the water, borne at the end of a short thick stalk. It looked like a fly swatter doubled up for luck, and I the fly intended to be squashed. In a vegetable fury the trap opened and closed, insensately seeking its prey. I circled around, stepping cautiously, got to one side and with a single blow severed the hinge. The trap hung slackly. And a damned tentacle slapped around my neck, all slimy and stinky and horrible, and I had to slice blindly with the longsword to lop it off and so rip it away. Not nice, not nice at all, this fighting a syatra in a repellent pit of stenches.

Eventually by the slow drift of water I found the opening. By this time a great deal of syatra had been cut away and floated or sank, I didn't care which. Downstream did not appeal to me. The opening was large enough to take me—just. The thought occurred that inspections had to be carried out from time to time, and some poor devils of slaves would have to crawl through here. With a last slash at the syatra, which deprived it of six foot of tendril, I ducked down and started to splash along upstream. The corpse-green light persisted, tiny flecks of it in the walls giving just about enough light to prevent Notor Zan from flinging his cloak over all.

The water grew hotter as I went along. Perhaps I'd been stupid to choose the upstream—if I got boiled I would know I had been stupid. But at about the time the water grew too hot to be comfortably tolerable, I came to the first overhead grating and without any hesitation gripped the iron rungs and hauled myself up. No doubt ahead lay a hot spring or a huge furnace room with slaves heating the water for the syatra. Either way, this grating looked more promising.

After a heave and a grunt, the grating slid sideways. I pulled myself out. A quick look showed me a room filled with buckets and brooms and cleaning equipment. I crawled into a corner. I sat propped against the wall. I just sat. If I make this confrontation with the syatra a mere routine affair, that was the way I wanted to regard it at the time. The truth was it was a horrid heart-thumping brush with a squashy kind of death.

The problem and the truth here were the same. I could not sit huddled into a corner like Little Jack Horner when my Djangs flew down into battle very soon now and would be met by foemen whom I had thought would be away fighting Seg. All the cleverness—of both sides—had been brought to nothing by Phu-Si-Yantong. He had cut through everything and imposed his own solutions.

Whenever anyone of my people marches out to battle I worry.

I always have and I always will.

I was fretting about ferocious four-armed Djangs getting into a fight. Yes, I know it is laughable. But I could not stop this concern for my soldiers then, and I do not now, nor do I ever see why I should not be concerned.

Warnings would have to given, Seg would have to be brought on to the city with great rapidity, and I had to get out of here to start all this rolling.

The best way not to be so concerned over the welfare of soldiers is not to have wars.

The scales of the balance are either up or down or level. Unless you smash the scales you cannot have both scales up or both scales down. Life is like that, too...

Getting out was not overly difficult and there was the necessity of skull-bashing only twice. Smartening myself up after the steambath effect of the syatra pit I found a way out through the various corridors back to the Chamber of the Chemzite Graints. Rollo was spending the night before he began prowling around and cocking his head up at the ceiling and preparing himself for what he did in life. I must prepare myself for what I did.

Rollo looked at me as I went past. He did not say anything as I picked up my old clothes with the paint stains and put them on loosely over the blue tunic. I went out carrying a pot of paint and a small ladder, and Rollo the Circle stared up at the ceiling like a man drugged. So, because it was necessary to save an artist from the risks of himself, I dug out Black Sadrap and told him there was likely to be trouble on the morrow and it would be for the best if he took Rollo and the members of the artists company to a place of safety away from the palace. He was a hard-headed fellow and he agreed, and I did not give him time to ask me where I'd come by the information. I took off—literally took off—by jumping over the wall of our hovels into the river.

I found a small and uninquisitive inn and spent the rest of the night resting, if not truly sleeping. Uninquisitive the inn might be; avaricious most certainly. I had to deal with two lean and rascally intrusions after my portable property—and not at the same time, either. By morning and the glorious rising of Zim and Genodras, I was feeling much better in a contrary kind of way, and up and about and wolfing an enormous breakfast of vosk rashers and loloo's eggs and Kregan bread done in the bols fashion and finishing off with unlimited supplies of tea and palines. Thus fortified for battle I went out for the Great Temple of Havil the Green intending to climb the highest possible pinnacle and by gestures attract the Djangs. As I rounded the corner into the Kyro of the Vadvars I saw Khe-Hi-Bjanching walk up to me.

He looked very real. He was eager and dressed in plain gray clothes and a hat of the kind they call a havchun was clamped around his head quite concealing every last vestige of red hair. His apparition held with clarity.

“By the Seven Arcades, majis!” he said. “I am overjoyed to see you—"

“You look damned real, Khe-Hi,” I said to the lupal projection. “Damned real. Tell me the news!"

The corner of the street and kyro held a convenient nook under a balcony and were anyone to glance at us we would look just like any couple of chaps having a chat early in the morning. My clothes were somewhat wrinkled, it is true, and the fur was more mildewy than I liked, and I could swear the trousers had shrunk; but we'd pass, we'd pass. One thing was certain; no one would guess only one man stood there.

Thinking this I heard Khe-Hi say that the armies had begun their advance. I felt relief. At least, something was going right. “And I am pleased I found you so easily. Deb-Lu guided me, I am happy to say."

“I am going to join in the mayhem,” I said. “So will bid you good day. By Krun!” I said, reaching out a hand. “You do look real!"

I put my hand on Khe-Hi's arm expecting it to pass through as through vapor, and I hit his arm, and felt the flesh and bone.

“Oh, no!” I gripped on. “You're real!"

“Of course I'm real!” Khe-Hi was most hurt. “I mean, majis, I am real. It's just that I am here that surprised you."

“Now what in the name of a Herrelldrin Hell am I going to do with you, Khe-Hi?"

We solved that problem by both going up to the highest pinnacle of the Great Temple we could reach. There was no trouble. Among the sightseers were a number of soldiers; but they did not stay long. Ruathytu was under arms. Yet in the nature of cunning stratagem little evidence showed. And, the Hamalese did not know on which precise day we would strike. So when the first waves came in there was a breathing space before the reaction and Khe-Hi and I could be picked up. Kytun did the picking, as one would expect, flying a smallish waspish voller.

The Battle for a City is a somber, blood-chilling business. It is also riotous, uproarious, exciting and frightening. Much depends on the characteristics of the combatants. My Djangs are a blood-curdling lot, to be sure.

“This is the moment, Dray!” called Kytun as he stood with wide-braced legs astern of his pilot who raced the waspish craft between the Temple and the Hanitchik.

“Aye,” I said, looking up to where the Djang aerial armada swooped on the city. Hamalese airboats and saddle flyers rose to do combat and the sky filled with scurrying battle. “Thyllis is dead—shot by a villain unhanged—and Phu-Si-Yantong claims to be emperor now."

“Then he's next!” roared Kytun, face aflame as he watched his fellows hurtling into the attack.

Vollers cruised in low to slip the ground forces past the Hamalese defense. Regiment after regiment of Djangs leaped out and raced to take up positions. One thing was sure, they knew how to do that evolution in a way to make the swods who had exercised with Vad Homath look the coys they were. Hordes of flutduins with black beaks pointed, and wide yellow wings bearing them purposefully on, flew to tangle with the fluttrells and mirvols of Hamal. My Djangs were superb. After the first clash between the aerial cavalry we had no further problems with Hamalese saddle flyers.

The odd idiot might come flying over, screeching and waving his crossbow; but he usually didn't get back.

Make no mistake. The Hamalese fought and they used all the expertise and cunning and sheer professionalism of the iron legions. But they had very many mercenaries in the ranks now. The old iron legions, those men who had marched and conquered, were either far away or dead. I do not think of all the clashes that took place as the city was cleared, that the Hamalese won one.

When Seg's army arrived the end was certain. Acting on my strictest instructions fire was not used as a weapon against the city. We burned the skyships. The small agile fliers piloted by Djangs who were masters of their craft would fly up and over a monstrous Hamalian skyship. All her serried rows of varters would shoot, and sometimes the Djang would be shot out of the sky, sometimes he would get through to drop his pots of combustibles. We had more small nippy vollers than there were of enormous skyships.

So, working smoothly together, the forces from Djanduin and from Vallia together with those of Hyrklana and the Dawn Lands entered into Ruathytu, capital city of Hamal, and took it with all its buildings and walls and treasure.

Quite a day, from the first day to the last, for we had given the Hamalese no chance of creating a siege situation. One of the last pockets of resistance was by the Arena. Strong parties had already secured the palace and the Hanitchik and the Temple and now we rather fancied the Jikhorkdun.

A burning skyship had fallen across the north-south boulevard called the Arrow of Hork and black drifts of smoke fouled the air and visibility. Now I have deliberately refrained from detailing the regiments and the people involved in what came inevitably to be called the Taking of Ruathytu. Suffice it—they were there! Now Nath Karidge who was always the Light Cavalryman par excellence, said, “By the Spurs of Lasal the Vakka!” which is your light cavalryman'soath to the life and nothing mild about it. “Let us go straight into them with a yell!"

The Chuktar commanding a brigade of nikvoves reined up beside Nath Karidge, and resplendent they both looked, cavalrymen, used to getting on with the job. This Chuktar Nalgre was a Heavy Cavalryman and everything about him told you that, so I suppose you could say he was a strong cavalryman as he said, “By Rorvreng the Vakka! You lights would bounce. Let us heavies go in!"

“Tsleetha-tsleethi,” I told them. “This is an infantry party."

No need to ask or guess which infantry were here and raring to go in. Apart from a few unfortunate wights in the second regiments, they were all here. They dismounted and formed up, turning from cavalry into infantry as their feet hit the ground. Reconnaissance of the Arena, which was an enormous place, revealed forces dug in and ready to contest every last stone, every patch of sand. I turned to face the two regiments, ready and waiting, 1ESW and 1EYJ, and I decided I would not throw them away in a stupidity like this. There was no need to take the confounded Jikhorkdun.

“Let ‘em rot in there!” I called, making a joke of it, turning their minds away from the expected fight. And then, up there, bursting through the black shroud of smoke over the Arrow of Hork, a voller pitched end over end. She was surrounded by flutduins, and the superb birds were ridden by Djangs and Valkans. The voller crashed out of sight into the Arena. One of the flutduins planed away and glided in to land nearby. Jiktar Eriden ti Vulheim saluted and said, “The voller tried to escape, strom. There is something odd about her, for she was stuffed with damned Katakis and yet they tried to run."

So I knew.

“You have done well, Jik Eriden. The swods are going in and your flyers will give them cover."

“Quidang!"

So, with a heavy heart, I gave the orders my lads expected, curtailing their puzzlement over my remarks about not fighting for the Jikhorkdun. In there, trapped with his vicious Katakis, Phu-Si-Yantong stood at bay.

The mercenaries who fought were mostly Chuliks and Khibils, with a scattering of others like Brokelsh and blegs and a large number of numims who outnumbered the Fristles, which is unusual. Most of the other mercenaries had fled, prepared to change sides. There was a single group of Pachaks, about a dozen, and they fought until the end, their nikobi not to be dishonored.

We fought our way into the Jikhorkdun with the black smoke acidic and raw in our mouths and nostrils. The fight raged under the seating, through the tunnels, past the caged areas and so out onto the silver sand. No time now for thoughts of the Arena in Huringa in Hyrklana. We fought Katakis in the Jikhorkdun of Ruathytu, and they were driven on through fear of their Hyr Notor, Phu-Si-Yantong.

My lads of the Sword Watch and the Yellow Jackets got stuck in in splendid style. The Katakis, joined by others of their evil kind, withstood the first attacks. Tails swished and the bladed steel glittered. The suns were nearly gone and I wanted this business finished before they sank.

That was easier said than done. Darkness leached the light from the scene. When a city is taken, no matter how many orders are given, something is going to burn. Flames licked up from the houses and villas. The stars began to glitter down erratically between the smoke clouds. And still the Katakis fought to protect their lord.

No doubt the Wizard of Loh saw his people could not win. He had had every faith in Katakis as immensely powerful fighters; now that they were beaten he had no more time for them. Battling with half a dozen whiptails over the sand was not the kind of duty an emperor should concern himself with. I knew that. But when my lads went roaring into battle I couldn't lag in the rear. And I'd been picked on by six whip-tails out to finish me. The scrimmage was a pore-opening skip and jump and three of the bladed tails lay on the sand before the EYJ came in from the left and the ESW came in from the right, and a howling bunch of maniacal Djangs catapulted through in the center. So I could be hauled off by Khe-Hi who looked flustered and agitated and, if it were possible, walking along six inches in the air.

“Well, Khe-Hi?"

“Deb-Lu and I—we face a battle now such as you would not comprehend—look!"

And he turned and stared up at the empress's box overlooking the silver sand. The palanquin stood there, the cloth of gold curtains drawn back. A few torches threw liquid gleams on the gold and the purple, and drove clustering shadows about the form of Phu-Si-Yantong. He was indistinct. A hint of movement, of blackness with purple-gold, the glitter of gems. An arm lifted and something flashed.

At my side Khe-Hi drew in a ragged, gasping breath. He stiffened. His arms did not raise from his side as though he was about to go into lupu, rather he became inflated, taller, drawn up by a force he called down to him—fanciful notions? I do not know. I only know that between the two Wizards of Loh grew a circle of shimmering light in thin air, high between them, twisting and hurling off sparks, brighter and brighter, glittering. The disc of light moved back and forth as each sorcerer strove to overcome the other. This eerie manifestation of power is called the Quern of Gramarye. I had seen one destroy a bazaar. I stood back.

Sweat poured from Khe-Hi's face. His eyes glared and his teeth were gritted. He exerted his powers to keep Yantong at bay, forcing all his knowledge and art into the struggle. His teeth grated together, nerve-shudderingly, and then he managed to pry his jaws apart and to gasp a few words. “Deb-Lu! Deb-Lu-Quienyin! Deb-Lu!"

And Khe-Hi-Bjanching, borne down by the colossal supernatural power of Phu-Si-Yantong, fell. I caught him in my arms. His face was slack; but still his eyes glared and still the radiant disc of light spun and coruscated in thin air as the opposing thaumaturgical forces met and clashed. I held Khe-Hi gently and I did not interpose my head between his eyes and the Quern of Gramarye. A new look appeared on his face, a fresh resolution and a disc of light spun more rapidly and the light increased ten fold and bathed all the Arena in light. So I knew Deb-Lu had joined his comrade and together they sought to stem the onslaught. And then, again, the disc of light brightened, and Khe-Hi husked out: “He has another Wizard of Loh!” and they struggled on, occult powers pitted one against the other, seeking for the advantage, supernatural strengths revealed through the coruscations of light bursting from the Quern of Gramarye.

The unearthly light illuminated the gray stones, caught in the cornices, silhouetted the dark standards. It splashed like fire across those serried rows and ranks of empty seats. But no spectacle like this had been witnessed in the Arena, the silver sand did not shake to the stamp of iron-studded boots and shiver with the blood dropping upon it, it lay bathed in a light flaming from realms and dominions far removed from everyday.

This was the battle to decide our fates.

Wizards of Loh, locked in mortal combat, in the fight to the death.

Among the terrible scenes going on all about as a great city fell to her enemies, none could be more terrible than this sorcerous struggle.

The end came with unexpected suddenness and violence. Deb-Lu had often expressed his deepest respect for the powers of Yantong, and Khe-Hi would bite his lip if they were mentioned. Yantong had received sorcerous help from another Wizard of Loh and this more clearly than anything else indicated his own frame of mind. No more the tinkling tingling bells. No more the cloth of gold. No more the beautiful half-naked slave girls girt in silver and pearls. No more the snap of a finger to gain instant obedience.

Quick, sudden and deadly.

The Quern of Gramarye swelled, bloated, grew and smashed straight across the Arena. It crashed into the empress's box and blew everything there away. It roared on as an insensate fiery whirlwind. It carved an enormous cavern through the Jikhorkdun and walls and ceilings fell and smashed into the black gaps of its passing.

And as for Phu-Si-Yantong, no doubt he was a smeared black atom among all the wreckage.

Thus fell Ruathytu of Hamal, the great city.

Thus died Phu-Si-Yantong, Wizard of Loh.

Now we must spit on our hands and take a hitch in our belts and trusting in the pantheons of the gods and beneficent spirits begin to reconstruct the land against the greater perils ahead.

About the author

Alan Burt Akers was a pen name of the prolific British author Kenneth Bulmer, who died in December 2005 aged eighty-four.

Bulmer wrote over 160 novels and countless short stories, predominantly science fiction, both under his real name and numerous pseudonyms, including Alan Burt Akers, Frank Brandon, Rupert Clinton, Ernest Corley, Peter Green, Adam Hardy, Philip Kent, Bruno Krauss, Karl Maras, Manning Norvil, Chesman Scot, Nelson Sherwood, Richard Silver, H. Philip Stratford, and Tully Zetford. Kenneth Johns was a collective pseudonym used for a collaboration with author John Newman. Some of Bulmer's works were published along with the works of other authors under “house names” (collective pseudonyms) such as Ken Blake (for a series of tie-ins with the 1970s television programme The Professionals), Arthur Frazier, Neil Langholm, Charles R. Pike, and Andrew Quiller.

Bulmer was also active in science fiction fandom, and in the 1970s he edited nine issues of the New Writings in Science Fiction anthology series in succession to John Carnell, who originated the series.

More details about the author, and current links to other sources of information, can be found at www.mushroom-ebooks.com, and at wikipedia.org.

The Dray Prescot Series

The Delian Cycle:

1. Transit to Scorpio

2. The Suns of Scorpio

3. Warrior of Scorpio

4. Swordships of Scorpio

5. Prince of Scorpio

Havilfar Cycle:

6. Manhounds of Antares

7. Arena of Antares

8. Fliers of Antares

9. Bladesman of Antares

10. Avenger of Antares

11. Armada of Antares

The Krozair Cycle:

12. The Tides of Kregen

13. Renegade of Kregen

14. Krozair of Kregen

Vallian cycle:

15. Secret Scorpio

16. Savage Scorpio

17. Captive Scorpio

18. Golden Scorpio

Jikaida cycle:

19. A Life for Kregen

20. A Sword for Kregen

21. A Fortune for Kregen

22. A Victory for Kregen

Spikatur cycle:

23. Beasts of Antares

24. Rebel of Antares

25. Legions of Antares

26. Allies of Antares

Pandahem cycle:

27. Mazes of Scorpio

28. Delia of Vallia

29. Fires of Scorpio

30. Talons of Scorpio

31. Masks of Scorpio

32. Seg the Bowman

Witch War cycle:

33. Werewolves of Kregen

34. Witches of Kregen

35. Storm over Vallia

36. Omens of Kregen

37. Warlord of Antares

Lohvian cycle:

38. Scorpio Reborn

39. Scorpio Assassin

40. Scorpio Invasion

41. Scorpio Ablaze

42. Scorpio Drums

43. Scorpio Triumph

Balintol cycle:

44. Intrigue of Antares

45. Gangs of Antares

46. Demons of Antares

47. Scourge of Antares

48. Challenge of Antares

49. Wrath of Antares

50. Shadows over Kregen

Phantom cycle:

51. Murder on Kregen

52. Turmoil on Kregen

Visit www.mushroom-ebooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.