-----------------------------------
Scorpio Reborn [Dray Prescot #38]
by Alan Burt Akers
-----------------------------------

Science Fiction/Fantasy

Mushroom eBooks
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

Copyright ©1991 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.

Scorpio Reborn

Alan Burt Akers

Mushroom eBooks

Copyright © 1991, 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 Germany in 1991 by Heyne Verlag in German.

First English eBook edition by Savanti Press in 1995

This Edition published in 2008 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.

eISBN 9781843196938

Dray Prescot

For those unfamiliar with the Saga of Dray Prescot, all that it is necessary to know is that he has been summoned to Kregen, an exotic world orbiting the double star Antares, to carry out the mysterious purposes of the Star Lords. To survive the perils that confront him on that beautiful and terrible world he must be resourceful and courageous, strong and devious. There is no denying he presents an attractive yet enigmatic figure. There are more profound depths to his character than are called for by mere savage survival.

He is described as a man above middle height, with brown hair and level brown eyes, brooding and dominating, with enormously broad shoulders and powerful physique. There is about him an abrasive honesty and an indomitable courage. He moves like a savage hunting cat, quiet and deadly, sudden.

Having won his princess, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains, and having become the Emperor of Vallia with Delia at his side as Empress, Prescot has renounced the crown and throne. Any thoughts of a quiet life are foolish, as he well knows. Among the many problems besetting him, the most important are uniting the lands of Paz and beating off the viciously hostile raiders from over the curve of the sea, the feared and hated Shanks.

Scorpio Reborn is the first volume of the Lohvian Cycle. Flying a kite one moment, battling through an inferno the next, Prescot is flung headlong into fresh adventures under the mingled streaming lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

Alan Burt Akers

Chapter one

Handling a Valkan kite in any sort of breeze demands skill, nerve and strength. Young Inky had the first two in abundance; but the third ... Well, now, young Inky was only a little lad, full of fire and spirit and years away from growing into his full strength. Every now and then I swear his feet left the ground.

He was laughing. The wind snatched his curls and tumbled them about his flushed cheeks. The breeze freshened and the kite swayed and rose and Inky really did go up.

That, I decided, was enough. I turned my back on the panorama spread out far below the clifftop. Valkanium's new buildings gleamed in the light of the suns and the waters of the Bay spread in glittering magnificence. Up here the air held the combined perfumes of sea and land, the fresh salty tang mingling with the aromas of shrubs and flowers as the ruby and emerald lights of the twin suns mingled in streaming radiance upon the world of Kregen. Looking at Inky, I turned away, too, from the clifftop fortress and palace of Esser Rarioch, my home.

Inky stared up, fascinated. His bare feet trailed across the turf as the kite pulled. I hastened my stride. If he went over the cliff ... !

“Look!” he called, hanging onto the line, staring up. “Look!” His feet touched the turf and his bare toes curled and dug in. The line slackened. I looked up.

With sharp talons hooked over the top bar of the kite, a superb bird, all gold and scarlet, turned his fierce head sideways to glare down upon me. I knew him. Oh, yes, I knew this splendid bird. Inky could see him too and this did not surprise me. The Gdoinye, the messenger and spy of the Star Lords, may sometimes be seen by the innocent at heart as well as crusty reprobates like me. When he spoke, cawing down his truculent message, I do not believe Inky heard anything other than the cry of a bird.

“Dray Prescot! You are required at once! The Star Lords in their wisdom afford you this, for their demands are not to be questioned, yet—"

I felt the breath rush from my lungs. A mist fell over my eyes.

“No!” I started to shout, hearing nothing, seeing nothing save an all-encompassing blueness. Above me, gigantic, reared the phantom Scorpion, enormous through the swathing mists, his blueness enveloping me in coldness, darkness and a fate I could not avoid.

Head over heels, spinning, the Star Lords hurled me from the high clifftop by Esser Rarioch in Valka, hurled me—where?

The Star Lords were in a hurry. As I felt the coldness bite into my bones I knew what that haste meant. Someone had fouled up. A Kregoinye, sent to do the bidding of the Everoinye, had failed. So the Everoinye hoicked out their expendable, their trouble-shooter, the fellow they'd used many times to patch over a hole in their careful plans. I felt heat.

Flames roared and coiled all about me and smoke stung my eyes and choked in my nostrils. The transition had been quick, deuced quick, by Vox! I stood in a burning building. That was the emergency, then, and I had to find the person the Star Lords wanted rescued. Yet the first and most important item I noticed was simply this—I was fully clothed! I wore my decent russet tunic cinctured with my old leather belt with the dull silver buckle. This belt carried various pouches of use. From separate belts hung my rapier and main gauche. I wore no shoes or sandals, bare-footed as Inky had been.

The floor, I may say, was hot.

Wisps of smoke drifted from the floorboards to join the gusts of foul-smelling smoke jetting from the walls and ceiling. This was a sizeable hall with wooden pillars supporting a beamed roof. The wood flamed. The stink of some unnameable substance permeated the suffocating air. Blazing beams bent and collapsed and smashed down in smothering avalanches of sparks. Half-shielding my face and eyes I peered around, feeling as though I was a scrap of meat thrust too precipitately into the fire. Smoke writhed like phantom snakes and sheets and fangs of fire darted everywhere.

Spouting sparks, a beam crashed down making me skip out of the way most smartly. Beyond the hedge of fire two bodies lay in contorted attitudes. This was the reason for my summary arrival here at the behest of the Star Lords.

Trying not to inhale the smoke and trying to shield my eyes I leaped the blazing beam. The man was nearest. He had worn a mail shirt and carried two or three swords and daggers; now he was just charring. I turned my attention to the girl. She had not yet burned and as I bent closer I saw she was not yet dead. She wore an odd-looking outfit consisting of a green slashed jerkin and tights, daggers snugged in sheaths at her waist. Sparks smoldered in her dark hair and I stopped to bash them out. Something bright and golden winked beside the man's curled fingers and swiftly I picked up a golden trinket and stuffed it away in my pouch. Then I hoisted the girl and started to find my way out of the furnace.

A pillar wreathed in tendrils of flame abruptly bent, broke and collapsed. The beam it supported smashed into the floor, through the floor, and took with it the best part of the aisle between the pillars this side of the hall. I suppose I must have looked like a beast at bay as I turned to seek another way out of this blazing bedlam.

Head down, cradling the girl, feeling the heat blistering my feet, I started for the nearest aisle between the columns. Spouts and gouts of flame licked up the wooden pillars, scarlet and orange transparencies, moth wings of destruction. There was no way through there. I hauled up and a beam smashed down to join the burning wreckage cumbering the floor. There was no way out at my back and each side roaring columns of fire blocked off sight and sense. The incessant crackling noise battered at me. I realized I was doing a strange kind of dance, lifting one foot and then the other, performing a weird hornpipe trapped there in the fiery furnace.

No way out through the aisles or doors, certainly no way up—therefore the way out was down.

Smoke continued to jet from the joins in the floorboards. The floor had once been highly polished and the wood seethed with a brown boiling scum. I could see no railing around stairs down. By this time the smoke made seeing even more difficult, to add to the constant half-closing of my eyes against the ferocity of the light and the sheer heat of the place. I began to feel the Star Lords had this time landed me in it far up past my armpits.

“By Zair!” I said to myself. “There has to be a way down!"

Now, I'd no idea where I was. I did not wish to contemplate the awful possibility I might be back on Earth. No, I told myself sternly. No. I was still on Kregen, even if I didn't know where. Buildings are erected in as many if not more styles on Kregen, as they are on Earth. Now where would the logical place be for the cellar steps?

Alongside an entrance hallway, for one. And all the entrances were mere pits of fire.

I took a mouthful of stinking smoke and gagged. From the feeling in my eyeballs I now knew just how two fried eggs feel in the pan.

There had to be a way out!

With a crash that vibrated the floorboards beneath my feet a whole section of the floor vanished into a spouting volcano, dragging blazing beams into the pit below. I squinted to see past the hellish uproar, tears distorting my sight and refracting scintillant rainbow colors around the edges of vision. The damned floor had split three or four paces off and if I was right only smoke coiled up there, before the pit of fire began.

There was only one way to test that theory.

Taking a firmer grip on the girl's lax body I took those necessary three and a half paces and jumped.

Even as I sailed down through the smoke-filled hole so a beam burst across above and showered down a rain of stinging sparks. I hit not too clumsily and rolled sideways to shield the girl. Smoke wafted. Ahead the blazing debris from above walled off progress that way; but with a feeling of thankfulness I saw that the opposite direction, luridly revealed in the fire glow at my back, remained clear—for now.

The floor above sucked up smoke through the joins, and tendrils of orange fire ran all along under the boards. In almost no time at all that floor where I had been standing would burst into an inferno. I put my head down and ran swiftly through the last of the smoke, heading for the end of the building.

A narrow alleyway led between vast stone vats, rotund and gleaming in the firelight. The pungent smell of wine, full-bodied, ripe, permeated the air. At the end a wheelbarrow containing a spouted pot together with sundry measuring ladles and jugs revealed the purpose of this place.

The air was a trifle clearer here and I paused for a quick breather. Then it was past the wheelbarrow and up the narrow stone stairs beyond the trapdoor in the ceiling. As I mounted so the air grew hotter and the roar of the fire closer. Still, there was no going back. I had to go on.

The stairs turned sharp left and ended at a closed door.

This I kicked open and plunged through, bursting into a sheet of flame and trying to shield the girl as best I could. I roared on and through the flame and burst out into a corridor which was about to explode into fire in the next instant. Like a maniac I raced for the far end. A pair of double doors stood half open. A white and leprous light glowed beyond. The ceiling fell in an avalanche of sparks and spinning blazing brands at my back, making me hurl myself forward for the double doors. The girl moved in my arms and abruptly struggled with shocking strength. For that moment I was distracted, fearing her injured, and something ugly and hard—and hot!—struck me alongside the ear.

I fell down.

The complete blackout could not have lasted long. I was aware of heat and of hands dragging me and of my back scraping along and scratching confoundedly irritatingly on splintered boards. There was no smoke about me. No smoke choked down into my lungs. The heat materially decreased. My back scraped over stone and then grass. Above me lifted a tall blue sky with not a cloud in sight as my eyes cleared.

I was out of the inferno, and—someone had dragged me out.

My head felt as though it was not there, or had been lent out to someone else who had stuffed it with feathers and hung it out to dry.

When I shook my head I did not hear the familiar carillon of the famous bells of Beng-Kishi, rather, there echoed only a dull and empty shushing.

A juicy voice said: “And your friend?"

A girl's voice, very crisp: “He is dead."

I turned that empty noddle of mine to see what might be seen.

The girl I'd carried from the burning building and who then presumably had dragged me out in turn stood looking with an expression I could not then fathom at a stout, florid, important individual with a girth swathed in golden scarves. His face glowed and yet, even in my muzzy state of half-awareness, I sensed there was little of good humor in this man.

In the slanting rays of the twin suns shadows did not stretch far. As a backdrop to the important principals discussing the fire the crowd clustered with that particular air of satisfied fascination peculiar to crowds watching the destruction of a building by fire and flame.

The stink of burning smothered everything with the dry taste of ash. My eyes burned. Just how much skin I'd had burned off I was reluctant to discover. Another voice, hard-edged with habitual command, a woman's voice, said: “I am in his debt, for he carried me to safety. I could wish him alive so that I could reward him."

“I,” said the girl from the fire, “could wish him alive, also."

I did not miss that sharp rebuke.

By turning my head and ignoring that dull emptiness between my ears, I could see the woman standing on the other side. Yes, she was clearly important, and not just self-important, either. Clad in a chequered gown of green and yellow with enough gold to indicate her status, she bulked with good living. Her face did not partake of that plumpness of form, being hard-edged like her voice, with a rat-trap mouth and a narrow nose that, whilst it was not exactly a witch's hook, nevertheless gave one that impression.

A few burned rags on the ground at her feet and two slave girls hovering near explained the clean crisp appearance of her gown.

What in the name of Opaz had been going on here? The dead man in the burning building had rescued these people; as far as I had been able to see there had been no one else inside, so why had he gone back and thus caused this spritely young lady to risk her life hauling him out? He must be the kregoinye who had failed, and his friend had gone in to save him and the Star Lords had called on me to assist. Well, all that fitted.

The crowd shuffled feet and remained mostly silent. No one made any attempt to extinguish the blaze. The building was too far gone for that. It stood in an open dusty area by itself, so the flames would not spread. Four wide streets intersected here, flanked by white flat-roofed buildings. Trees grew everywhere, bright green and yet lacking the profusion of foliage of trees in Vallia or Valka. I began to form opinions about where I might have been flung by the Everoinye. Kregen is a whole world.

The important man said to the important woman: “Do not distress yourself, Lady Floria—"

She interrupted sharply: “I do not, Lord Nanji. Although, by Loncuum, when a pleasant evening's entertainment during a long unpleasant journey is thus summarily ruined, one is entitled to a little pique, sus?"[1]

[1 sus: nicht wahr? n'est-ce pas? A.B.A.]

Despite the fog swirling in my head the woman's words were confirmation that the burning building had been a dancing rostrum. That was easy enough to understand; but the long unpleasant journey? That sounded promising.

“Assuredly.” This fellow, Lord Nanji, let his fruity voice make of the syllables a veritable squish pie. “I will escort you to our lodgings."

Her hard face ridged.

“I think not, Nanji. We have few pleasures on this abominable journey. I intend to take every opportunity to enjoy myself before the lights."

“Very well. Then I shall accompany you—"

“If you wish."

She turned to her slave girls, decently clad in gray frocks with clean faces and not too many bruises, saying: “Follow."

Lord Nanji walked into my sight. He strutted. Well, that was to be expected. Following him a couple of husky guards, well-armed, lounged along as though saying there is nothing in this for us.

A number of interesting items had been learned in this short space of time. By talking of an evening's entertainment when by the position of the suns it was middle afternoon, mention of the lights, and the long journey, made it clear these people were part of a caravan and would turn in early and start early. Problem was: just whereabouts on Kregen was this caravan marching?

The guards’ weaponry gave some clues. They carried broad-bladed spears, a weapon often associated with mercenary caravan guards. They had no shields; but then, most Kregans do not carry shields about in civilized towns. Their swords were decently scabbarded, one a thraxter the other a lynxter.

Their harnesses were brass-studded leather with boiled-leather helmets reinforced with iron strips. Perfectly standard attire.

The crowd parted respectfully for them. The dancing rostrum would take some time yet before it burned out. I guessed the people were waiting to see the final crashing fall of the roof, always a high spot in fire watching.

I tried to sit up and could not.

The hollow emptiness of my skull was shared by my bones and muscles; truth to tell I could feel very little of myself right then.

Another voice spoke, a softer voice, yet one without hesitation, a voice accustomed to speaking thoughts well-formed before utterance.

“I add my thanks to your friend, my lady—"

“I am no grand lady. My name is Mevancy."

“Mevancy.” Did I detect a tinge of pleased irony? “He pulled me out. He was a brave man. I grieve when the world loses a single person not of Tsung-tan. I shall intercede for him in my prayers. It may be Tsung-tan in his gracious benevolence will smile and admit your friend to paradise. What was his name?” A little cough. “Mine is Tuong Mishuro."

“Rafael,” she said. “Just Rafael."

“And you knew him well?"

“Passing well. We traveled together. I grieve..."

By this time I'd managed to get my head rolled the other way and so could see these two. The girl, Mevancy, had her hand to her eyes. Not a nice time, when a friend dies, not nice at all.

Tactfully, the old buffer kept silent. He wore a decent enough gown, dark brown, open at the throat to reveal pure white linen blackened by smoke. His feet were encased in curly slippers in red velvet which delighted me more than I can say at that not auspicious period. His face was just such a face as you may see carved on Buddhas in many temples of our Earth. He wore no jewelry and no cap; probably that had been lost as he'd been carried from the conflagration by Rafael, who was a kregoinye working for the Star Lords and who was now dead in their service.

The thought occurred to me, and not for the first time, that maybe the Everoinye were remembering their humanity. Rafael had died and his friend and companion Mevancy had ventured into the blaze to rescue him and been overcome. With Rafael's work done, there had been no need for the Star Lords to concern themselves further. I was confident no one else remained in the dancing rostrum and Rafael had lost his life searching frantically for others to rescue. I knew what he must have felt. I, too, had searched for the person or persons the Star Lords wished me to assist. Would they, I wondered, have bothered to send another kregoinye after Delia if she had been overcome trying to drag me out? And the thought occurred, yes, perhaps they would. Perhaps the Everoinye were remembering their lost humanity.

With these profound meditations finding tentative lodgment in the vacuum that was my brain, I returned my attention to what was going on now. At the side of the old buffer, this Tuong Mishuro, stood a youngster in a ragged brown robe tied up with string, with bare feet. There was no straw in his hair; I felt there ought to have been. His face was heavy and dark with the beginnings of a beard, and his lips were full and red.

Very humbly, this youngster said: “Master, I must fetch clean linen for you. It is not seemly—"

“Yes, yes, Lunky, I agree. But there are more important things in life than clean linen."

“Of course, master. Good food and wine—"

“I shall fetch my switch, Lunky, if you continue."

“Yes, master."

Mention of wine did not afford a clue to my whereabouts. Well, not much of one. Wine is carried enormous distances on Kregen, of necessity, to those regions which do not grow grapes.

Tuong Mishuro half-turned and spoke in a friendly and enquiring tone of voice to a newcomer just out of my vision. “How are they, doctor?"

“They'll live, they'll live. Thanks to the man who pulled ‘em out."

Now I could see the doctor, a short, stout, bandy-legged man with sweat drops glittering on forehead and cheeks. He carried a leather bag, was clad in decent blue robes and was your Needleman to the life.

He saw me. “Oho. You've found some more, then."

Everyone turned as though operated by clever springs to stare down on me. The odd thing was, aware of their stares and that I ought to stand up, I felt no inclination to do so. I just remained sprawled out on my back. Equally, I felt no desire to talk to them. Oh, yes, I wanted to know whereabouts on Kregen the Star Lords had thrown me; but that could wait. Now, if only there had been a pillow under my head I'd be able to nod off most comfortably.

The doctor knelt and placed his bag on the ground. I was aware of his fingers, soft and strong, probing at me. He tut-tutted to himself and when he had concluded his examination, he stood up, puffing with the effort.

“Nothing wrong with him. A big fellow like that, no problem. I'll put some ointment on his feet; but he's not badly burned, not like lynxor and lynxora Shalang.” He shook his head. “Lynxora Thyllis will take some time to mend, I'm afraid."

Tuong Mishuro made a deprecatory clucking noise of sympathy. “A terrible tragedy, terrible. Still, in the expert hands of Doctor Slezen both will recover, I feel sure."

“I'll do my best,” said this Needleman Slezen. “Do my best."

“And,” said Mevancy, who had been looking critically at me. “This fellow?"

“I'd rather he didn't walk just yet. Carry him to your lodgings.” At that moment the roof of the dancing rostrum collapsed with an almighty roar and blast of displaced heated air and showers of sparks that gyrated and whirled upwards like an exploding volcano. To my surprise a great cheer broke out from the watchers. Well, fire watching is an obsessional pastime.

Tuong Mishuro said: “That is easily arranged. Lunky, find four stout fellows who wish to earn a silver khan between ‘em, and a blanket."

“At once, master."

Now I do not mind spiders as a general rule, unless they're poisonous or any of the many varieties of giant killer spiders of Kregen. So when a spider crawled up my arm and headed steadily for my face I took no real notice. I'd just shoosh him off gently, for I cannot abide louts who stamp on any little scurrying creature they see. He crawled up my chin and circled my mouth. I did not raise a hand to shoosh him off. Just as I thought to lift my hand Tuong Mishuro bent to me, not smiling but immensely polite.

“Llahal. I am Tuong Mishuro. Would you favor us with your name?"

I'd tell them some name or other. By Krun! I had plenty! I thought I'd just brush that little spider off my face first and then tell them the name I'd choose.

My hand did not move. My mouth did not open. I made no sound.

The reason for the lack of sensation all about me and inside my head became at once crystal clear.

I could not move or speak.

I was paralyzed.

Chapter two

“Dribble, dribble, dribble,” said Mevancy. “He's just like an overgrown baby."

“With shoulders like that,” observed Mistress Lingshi, wife of Nath the Landlord, “overgrown he surely is."

Mevancy wiped soup away with a yellow cloth and then filled the spoon again. Carefully, she tilted it over my mouth and some of the soup splashed between my lips. Thank Zair my inward parts still worked. And, too, I felt supremely fortunate that my eyelids could close and open. Utter torture would have resulted if they'd been as paralyzed as the rest of me.

Mevancy sighed and filled the spoon again and a little more soup trickled down my gullet. It was a soup I had not tasted before, rich but not as thick as it might have been. And it was not hot; these parts, then, shared the fashion of drinking soup cold. All I had seen after being carried here in a blanket had been sky, ceiling and a swift vision of wall and bed when I'd been turned over to be washed. As Mevancy had said to Mistress Lingshi: “I rescued him and so I feel responsible for him."

“But you and your poor dead friend rescued a whole lot of people—"

“True. But they're not like little babies, are they?"

“And you mean to go on with the caravan? The way is very dangerous, particularly at this season."

“Without being disrespectful to your delightful town, Larishsmot is not the place for me. I must push on to the coast—"

“But!” exclaimed Mistress Lingshi. “You can't mean to travel through Tarankar? Never! They fry and eat babies, you know."

“Well,” said Mevancy, and a trill lightened her words. “This one here would make a feast for them!"

“Tsung-tan in his majesty preserve us!"

“Well, I suppose I could leave him here—"

“Oh, I don't think you ought to leave him here with us, dear. Much better to be able to keep an eye on him yourself."

“Well, if you think that best—"

“Quite the best. Oh, yes, the best all round.” Mistress Lingshi sounded positive, alarmed and relieved, all at the same time. I swear I detected that lilt of mockery in Mevancy's tone.

“It's lucky,” said that young lady primly. “I've plenty of money so that's no problem."

“Of course, dear, if you think it better for us to look after him—"

“Oh, no, dear Mistress Lingshi, as you say it's best all round if I take him along. I couldn't impose on you in that way, money or no money."

“We-ell, dear—"

“Here is the soup bowl and spoon. Now I'll just plump up his pillows and then I must see Master Cardamon."

When a woman has a fellow helpless in bed the pillows become objects of desire for her. She is forever plumping them up. And I was paralyzed and couldn't dodge the barrage of straight lefts and right hooks that whistled past my ears. When Mevancy had gone a round or two with the pillows and got them thoroughly cowed and obedient, she let out a snort of satisfaction, and strode off with Mistress Lingshi trailing after.

The door creaked and then slammed shut. Shortly thereafter it creaked open and soft and furtive footfalls approached the bed. I just lay there, rigid as a brick wall. The seamed face of Nath the Landlord hovered over me. He held a spouted wine jug. He smiled and nodded but said nothing. He applied the spout and I glugg-glugged. When he judged I had swallowed enough he looked around furtively and then crept out and the door creaked shut.

Good old Nath the Landlord of the Jeweled Crook.

There are many Naths in the grouping of continents and islands called Paz. I blessed Nath the Landlord who had felt fellow-feeling for a man in distress surrounded by pillow-punching females.

My own feelings of lethargy persisted. I was well enough aware that having accomplished my mission for the Star Lords I could go home. I was absolutely confident this paralysis was merely temporary. All too soon I'd be up and about and this little interlude be over. And, I own, despite the pillow-punching propensities of Mevancy, I enjoyed this slothful lying down and doing nothing. She was an odd one, this Mevancy. Her face was not that of a great beauty; it possessed animation and aliveness. Her nose was finely shaped but her mouth was generous, far too generous for beauty. Her teeth were small and white. As for her eyes, they were dark and unfathomable. Her dark hair, from which I had bashed sparks, was usually caught up in a plain linen band. She habitually wore a slashed tunic and tights. The arms of the tunic were fastened down their length with latches giving a mannish Renaissance look. Her skin visible through the oval openings looked strange, almost granular, yet the skin of her face was real skin, smooth and silky, and nothing like a squamous or pebbled skin.

Nowadays there are two sapiens in our name; we are Homo sapiens sapiens, having recognized our old rivals Homo Neanderthalensis as being sapiens also. Homo sapiens sapiens on Kregen is apim. I wasn't certainly sure this strange girl Mevancy was apim. Just at the moment it didn't matter—unless she was from a race that practiced cannibalism.

When she returned she was practical and businesslike, all starched efficiency and bustle. “Master Cardamon will take us in his caravan and we must leave right away.” She stared down at me. “If you do not wish to go with me blink your eyelids twice."

I tried not to blink at all.

“Very well.” She turned her head. “Nafty! Pondo! Come and get him."

All I saw of these two was the back of one as they hoisted me, bed and all. By Krun! Mevancy had bought the bed off Nath and was taking it and me!

My own russets lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed and my rapier and main gauche hung from a bedpost at the head. They had attracted notice only as foreign weapons, known to these people. All I wore was the old scarlet breechclout. The money pouch on the belt had not been opened by Mevancy as far as I knew. That belt also supported the scabbarded seaman's knife.

As we went lolloping down the stairs and along the street to the Wayfarer's Drinnik and the blue sky passed overhead, I reflected again on the reasons for the Star Lords to dump me down with clothes and weapons, something that had happened infrequently in the past. Rafael, burned to death and now, I had heard, decently buried, had probably been deposited well-armed and clothed and with money. Well, he'd been wise to team up with Mevancy, for it was clear she was a young lady used to having her own way and with the wherewithal to pay for that way.

If, as I vaguely suspected, Mevancy was not fully apim, that would make no difference. On Kregen, if miscegenation could occur, people looked only to see if true love was involved. Cynics scoffed, of course; but cynics get their kicks from mistrust widely advertised.

The uproar from the Wayfarer's Drinnik was, as was usual and expected, prodigious. Dust smoked under the twin suns. I could see the sky without a scrap of cloud; yet I could see in my mind's eye all that was going on around me with absolute clarity.

The caravan of which Cardamon was Master was due to head west. This town of Larishsmot was more than a mere caravanserai. Here a caravan would rest up to make repairs and buy provisions and get ready for the next stage of the journey. Also, as lady Floria had said, this was a time to relax and snatch what entertainment might be found.

A shadow fell across me and against the light the form of Mevancy showed hard and edged, riding a zorca. I felt relief that this land knew of zorcas and, no doubt, as did everywhere else, cherish the wonderful riding animals.

“You will ride in the cart. It will not be comfortable. The quicker you regain your senses the quicker you'll ride easier."

Mevancy spoke Opaz's solemn truth, by the invisible Twins!

The damned cart was uncomfortable. Hideously uncomfortable. Yet I am an old sailorman trained in the toughest Navy the world of Earth has ever seen. I have been wounded before and carried home in a cart. Getting wounded in a battle is not to be recommended. This despicable example of the cartwright's art disdained springs. I do not believe the wheels were triangular, as might well be believed, but merely square. The thing jolted up and flopped down and threw me about like the ball a child tosses up and down in a handled cup. Now I might be paralyzed so that I could neither move nor talk; I could damn well feel, by Vox!

When this hoity-toity young madam had dragged me out of the fire I'd felt my back scraping along the ground. I reasoned that I must have hit the back of my head and neck on some hard projection thus to become paralyzed. I did not think the falling beam had done this. Anyway, I could feel. And I felt every jolt and jerk of that infernal cart. This was a physical torture to add to the mental torture of my situation.

I shall have more to say on this question of torture, which is often bandied about as though torture is a commodity to be purchased over the counter. Those people who traffic in torture are, of course, sub-human despite overt intentions, as has been exemplified in the teachings of San Iwanhan, who suffered at the hands of well-intentioned torturers. This cart was, indeed, a simple-minded example of torture, to be sure; at the time I raved mentally and cursed all the dark gods and spirits of Kregen for their vile habits.

In the nature of things much of that portion of the journey went away from me as though shrouded in mists. I was sponged down a couple of times, by which I knew the way was waterless. If I couldn't begin to move pretty soon sores would start to appear, and quite apart from the inconvenience to myself, I would shrink from inflicting the smell on those about me.

The two louts engaged by Mevancy to help proved an ill-assorted pair. Nafty giggled and fooled around a lot of the time; Pondo remained silent and surly. Once or twice I was turned on my side and could catch occasional glimpses of the outside world over the side of the cart. Mostly that was low dry hills, a few thorn ivy bushes, and the distant figure of an outrider. Some of these hired caravan guards rode zorcas and some a thumping six-legged waler of a saddle-animal with family connections to the sectrixes. But, mostly, when I lay on my side I could study the whorls and knots and weathering of the timbers of the cart's side and bed.

In that wood were whole worlds, maps of Kregen and of Earth, faces of friends and foes, a picture gallery that my mazed mind pondered for hour after hour. When I was turned over onto the other side I found a distorted mirror image; for my brain transcribed from the wooden markings the same faces and pictures although the maps were different. Then I would be rolled onto my back and so could study the even white blueness of the unchanging sky.

The twin shadows of the suns moved across the cart as the days went by, the jade and ruby lights streaming the mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio. Then I caught a few surly words from Pondo and a light bubbly rejoinder from Nafty.

“There'd be total darkness over the land, Pondo, if Luz and Walig waited for you to laugh before they rose of a morning."

So now I knew where I was.

It does occur to me that you who have listened to my story will already have reasoned out where I was. But you must remember I was not myself; I was not the true Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, late Emperor of Vallia. I was a poor creature who had been cruelly stricken down with paralysis of body and mind. I was sluggish. I'd seen people around with red hair, and some of the guards carried impressive longbows; but these are found all over the lands of Paz.

Still—Luz and Walig.

I knew the twin suns better as Zim and Genodras, or Far and Havil or any of the plethora of local names. Luz and Walig.

I was in Loh.

Loh, shaped somewhat like a Stone Age hand-axe, point to the north, is one of the continents of Paz and contains mountains, rivers, jungles and deserts just like any self-respecting continent. I could only hazard the guess I was in the south, for the central sections form the jungles of Chem and the northern pointed promontory forms the land of Erthyrdrin. That made me think of my blade comrade, Seg Segutorio, and long for him to be here where in no time his cutting wit would have me up on my feet foaming—and we'd have a wager on it, too! And, too, across to the east lay the land of Ng'groga and naturally that made me think of my blade comrade Inch whose tallness and thinness and lethal axe had figured in many a bonny adventure.

By the direction of travel of the twin suns across the sky I knew I was in the southern hemisphere of Kregen. Well, as soon as this confounded paralysis wore off I'd make my way back home. There was still a kite to fly with young Inky.

That little thought gave me pause. I marveled. Here I could dream of returning home to fly a kite when only a few seasons ago all the cares of the Empire of Vallia crushed down on my shoulders. My Delia, the divine Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains, had shared that burden with me and now we were both free of it. Drak and Silda had taken over, now they were Emperor and Empress of Vallia—and good luck to ‘em!

At the moment Delia was off on one of her secret and hair-raising missions for the Sisters of the Rose. Even if I could return to Valka this very minute, as ever was, Delia would not be there.

“Sink me!” I burst out; but silently, mentally, hotly. “We've got to come to an understanding with Delia and her Sisters of the Rose.” But I knew dismally enough that the Star Lords would whisk me off at any time, just as Delia went off with the SoR.

Information of any kind was hard to come by as I lay in that creaking torture-machine of a cart. From odd snippets of conversation I drew the firm conclusion that most of these folk were more religious in outlook than many of the people I had known. They referred constantly to Tsung-Tan in tones of respect, awe and affection and not in the usually Kregen way of a mouth filling oath or three. I overheard one quietly serious conversation in which the speakers sought to establish whether or no the theatres in paradise would close on Tsung-Tan's day, as they did here on Kregen. This paradise presided over by Tsung-Tan clearly was vividly real to these folk. They called their paradise Gilium.

On a day when a tiny cloudlet appeared in the sky early on, to vanish the moment the day's heat began to build, the cart jolted to a stop. I heard someone yelling and someone else screaming. The cart started up again and now it jounced and bounced and threw me about. I could hear the rattling patter of hooves, and more shouting, and smell dust flying up. I could visualize the caravan as rushing along in panic.

A trumpet brayed, hard and brassy, and a thin silver echo sounded some way off. Like a magician's stage trick, abruptly and without warning, a long arrow sprouted from the timber side of the cart directly before my eyes.

The shaft must have shaved over my body. The trajectory was flat. So the bandits were close, then. I could only lie there. All too soon the sound of tinker-hammering broke along the caravan as guards and bandits clashed. I could see it all in my mind's eye. But, as the caravan was attacked and the guards slain, I, Dray Prescot, simply lay idly on my back.

With a great roaring and splintering the cart threw itself over on its side. Helplessly, all atangle, I was flung out.

The ground smacked me across the face. Half on my side, sprawled, my arms outflung and my legs twisted, I lay there and I know I looked like a corpse.

My eyelids were half lowered and I could see slantingly upwards.

Hoofbeats hammered past. Dust drifted across. The last few shrieks scythed the hot air and the raw tang of blood mingled with the taste of dust.

And I just lay there.

If only I could move! If I could get to my feet, snatch up a sword, fling myself on these drikingers, these murdering thieves preying on the caravans! My right arm outflung was turned at the elbow and I could see my right hand. The fingers lay like that fabled bunch of bananas, limp and useless. If I could just move!

Intermittent noises spurted up as the bandits ransacked the caravan. My humble cart, broken as it was at my back, attracted scant attention. I expected the drikingers to take all the water they could lay hands on.

At length, eight tall spindly legs daintily moving up and down, moved into my vision. Two long spirally twisted horns appeared and then the owners of the legs and horns. Two fine blood zorcas, moving with all the lissom grace of that superb saddle animal, halted before me. Their riders were so different from their mounts as to form a blasphemy under the suns.

Yes, their faces were fierce and predatory. Yes, their lips curled with arrogant contempt. And, yes, the veneer of humanity and civilization had been stripped from them. But these are things one expects if one follows the drikinger's trade. Bandits are not nice people. They sat their superb zorcas staring down at the smashed cart at my back and at me, a corpse sprawled in the dust. One lifted his bow and drew the string back. The steel point, a broad flesh-cutter, pointed directly at me.

He smiled, black beard glistening with sweat. I could see one eye along the shaft, baleful, hard. For sport, he was going to skewer me.

“He's a gonner, Naghan,” shouted his companion. “Don't waste a good shaft on the cramph's corpse."

The bow string relaxed as this Naghan decided not to waste a shaft. In a heartbeat he could draw and loose and bury that steel head in my heart.

In that tense moment of waiting for his decision I saw a sight that filled me with two opposite emotions. I gleed with a fierce joy and I shook with a shattering horror.

Directly before my eyes my little finger was twitching, was moving, was curling in as the savage impulses to move at last stirred.

I could not stop that little finger moving and I could not move any other portion of my body.

If this rast saw my little finger moving he'd as lief shoot it off as a target shot, and then perhaps slit my throat with his knife.

That little finger curled like a piglet's tail.

“This caravan,” Naghan the Bandit said. He lowered the bow. “Not well guarded, Kwang. And why?"

Kwang said: “How should I know, by Lokush the Chuns? We've lost more shafts than we've gained. That I do know."

“Yes. You are right—for once."

“Hai! Have a care lest I lose a shaft in your miserable hide!"

Waiting, head in the dust, eyes half closed, I could feel many sensations—sweat trickling, the awkwardness of my position, the ground pressing hard and unyielding into my hip and back—yet the chief sensation was one of complete helplessness. That betraying little finger curled and stopped and these two zorca riders, Naghan and Kwang, swiveled their mounts and moved off. I knew I'd passed perilously close to the entrance doors to the Ice Floes of Sicce then. The experience was unpleasant—unpleasant!

I do not wish to experience too many like that, I can tell you.

Mevancy had taken my belt away and hung it on the bedpost. That belt held my Kregan belongings; besides the pouches it also held my rapier and main gauche. That belt was missing from the bedpost.

Useless to rage and fume. The thing was gone; so it was gone and one with Beng Dithermon the Gatherer. So I lay there in the dust, abandoned, robbed and left for dead.

Presently the bandits mounted up amid a great hullabaloo. I could hear screams and the sound of blows. Whips cracked. Then that hateful word spat out with all the vicious force of slavemasters. “Grak! Grak!"

The people who had ventured across this waste land in the caravan were now slave. They were being driven off into slavery. And the word to use to make slaves jump, and cringe, and rush to do your bidding was—"Grak!"

If you didn't grak then ol’ snake would curl over your shoulders and sting you through to the bone and teach you what grak meant.

The sound of carts and carriages rumbling off told me the bandits had made a haul of plunder even if they were short of shafts. The soft shushing of footfalls mingled with the harder staccato of hooves. Gradually the noises faded and at last died and I was left to silence.

The idea that it might have been preferable for that Opaz-forsaken drikinger to have shot me, to have placed that broad sharp arrow head clean through my heart, could not be allowed into my thoughts. I was not dead yet. Until I was dead I would go on struggling, for that is my way.

So I began to concentrate on trying to move that little finger.

The frightening deadness in my body complemented by the deadness in my brain had to be fought. I felt sweat on my face. This was a matter of mind over body; for Needleman Slezen had pronounced my body as being perfectly fit and healthy. “The knock has done some deep internal damage to his brain. Until that is rectified by an opposite force...” Slezen's opinion was cultivated. “He will remain a cabbage."

My reactions when the bandits appeared had motivated enough muscular energy to shift one little finger. By Krun! What would it take to make me lift that arm? The sack of a city?

A fluttering sighing sound heralded Rippasch's arrival. He strutted into my sight, ruffling his black feathers, turning his head from side to side, and the twin suns glinted in jade and ruby glory from the curve of his sharp and hooked beak. He eyed me. He was very sure I was dead and his belief was shared by a brother or sister. In a great swishing of wings another vulture landed beside the first. Well, that was one eye apiece so far.

I could visualize this scene as it might be witnessed by Rippasch himself as he sailed in the upper air, scanning the ground below. A litter of thrown aside goods all mixed up with broken carts and dead animals, the shafts capable of being loosed again cut out so the blood ran freely. Corpses lying about untidily—there are always corpses lying about after hideous incidents like the one just past. If I lost my eyes I wouldn't be able to see Delia again. That would be a punishment beyond bearing, I thought. Delia had a way of dealing with Rippasch the vulture. Oh, yes, Delia didn't stand any nonsense from them. Even so, I could not find it in my heart to wish she were here. Suppose, suddenly, I regained movement. I was stranded in the middle of the waste land without transport or weapons, without water.

The vultures flapped their wings and moved in closer.

Again I made a superhuman effort to move, and stirred not a single muscle—wait! My little finger. It moved. It curled and uncurled. And as I struggled so I saw the next finger curl and uncurl. The vultures came closer.

They turned their heads to the side and stared at me. Their beaks glittered in the light of the suns. Fluttering his wings with shooting downdrafts of sand spraying everywhere, one—the first one—alighted on my body. He bent to peer more closely at my face.

I couldn't close my eyes.

I wanted to see all there was to see until I saw no more.

I strained and struggled.

With a sensation of every cord in my body tearing free, as though my arm was pulling muscles, sinews and tendons clear out of the flesh, my right arm flapped up and over, like the jib of a crane, and flopped down across my chest. Rippasch let out a surprised and disappointed squawk and fluttered dust all over me as he took off, springing up into the air. His companion joined him and a long Lohvian arrow sprouted from the sleek black body.

A flushed face came into view.

Mevancy said: “So you're still alive, cabbage? Remarkable. I really shouldn't have bothered to come back for you; but you're just like a newborn baby."

I could say nothing. I simply closed my eyes.

Chapter three

Under my nose the dusty sand moved past at a steady walking pace. The saddle of the lictrix was not particularly well-adapted to a man's body slung over athwartships, head hanging down one side and heels the other. And six-legged riding animals—in general—are not as comfortable as four or eight-legged ones.

“Try moving your other arm, cabbage!"

I couldn't snarl back that, by Krun, I was trying, wasn't I?

My right arm possessed some movement, although it seemed to move of its own volition. I'd hit myself on the nose trying to wipe my mouth, for example. Now I was working away on the left arm, and hoping against hope that the little finger would vouchsafe me a sign of future success.

I hadn't heard Mevancy and the two lictrixes returning. I put that down to my utter concentration on what Rippasch was about to do, and of my attempts to move my arm. Certainly the vultures had not heard. Mevancy, I suppose because there was no other audience, had fallen into the habit of talking to me. She spoke not quite as a mother to a child, more like a person talking to herself. Now she said: “I dislike killing anything, cabbage; but I thought the vulture was about to feast on your eyeballs."

We rode along towards the west in the wake of the caravan. Mevancy had a filled waterbottle. I could only assume she had managed to escape from the bandits and steal the two lictrixes. Certainly, I warmed to her. She was brave and resourceful, that was clear. And she'd come back for me.

Of course, her tongue was more of a cutting instrument than a bludgeon; but she could deliver a few shrewd whacks with it, nonetheless.

“Well, cabbage, you've lost your fancy foreign sword and dagger. Now if you could use a sword at all we could fix you up with a lynxter, or a Havilfarese thraxter. If you know how to use them, that is."

After a space she went on: “If those Gahamond-forsaken bandits show up again—well, cabbage, we'll run. That's all we can do."

That was an eventuality I did not look forward to. Galloping face down over an animal's back is no fun way to ride.

And notice, please, that that was my first thought. Only second came the thought that I did not relish running away from foes.

I might have won a resounding victory and be able to move my right arm and my left little finger; but my head was still dazed and mazed and stuffed full with chair upholsterer's padding.

“Reminds me of the time old Kervaney the Wand's caravan was attacked. That was up in Snarlendrin. Right in the middle of it the Rains came down. Ha! Talk about mud baths. By Spurl! We were a bunch of mudlarks all thwacking away at one another. Nath the Onker's sword slipped out of his fist and stuck clean through the throat of the drikinger who was just about to strike Kervaney down. Flew through the air like he'd hurled it.” Here Mevancy paused and I imagined she was shaking her head in amused reflection. “Old Kervaney couldn't do enough for Nath the Onker who'd saved his life. And it was the making of Nath the Onker, too. Called him Nath the Volscreetz after that."

Whilst the anecdote possessed some vestigial interest, I quite failed to see what beautiful Rains had to do with the dry and dusty desert trail that was slowly desiccating us and sucking us into sere husks.

Like any sensible desert or wasteland traveler, Mevancy allowed no water drinking during the day. At the going down of the suns we could drink.

Surmising that she did not wish to close up too close to the bandits ahead I was not surprised when she ordered an early halt. Caravans are slow by their very nature. I assumed she'd halted just out of sight of the dust cloud up ahead. A few hard dry bushes grew in strips here and there and a couple afforded us cover. This particular species of wasteland had stretches of pure sandy desert interspersed with straggly bushes in strips and clumps as hills broke the flatness of the plain. It was not unlike some parts of Arizona. The people of the caravan had mentioned the Salt Desert to the west with some trepidation, and this I gathered was similar to the great salt deserts of western China.

She said: “One good thing, cabbage. I don't have to threaten you to keep quiet. These dumb beasts that are not so dumb are different."

Dumped off the lictrix I sprawled out on the dust behind a bush. Mevancy gave my head a twist on my neck so I could see along the ground and through the dry branches. I could hear her at my back and one of the lictrixes emitted a snorting whinny cut abruptly short. By this I knew Mevancy was tying cloths about their mouths. So we were in ambush, then...

Soon after that I heard them.

Soft shushing and harder hoofbeats, the jingle of bit and bridle, they were riding with assurance, confident of their own power and prowess. They rode into sight down the little incline past the dry bushes. They rode zorcas. They were mailed and carried slender lances and bows. Their helmets bore clumps of feathers, dyed bright red and yellow. In my life on Kregen red and yellow have been my colors more often than not.

I counted twenty-five of them.

The leader rode a blood zorca of superlative quality. His head was held erect and he laughed openly, a fiery red moustache curling up past his nose and his eyes creasing up in good humor.

“You speak sooth, Hangol. We will have these abandoned of Tsung-Tan by supper."

“And then, lynxor, we shall put them to the sword."

“I suppose so. It is just. Anyway, you will enjoy it."

“Oh, yes,” said this Hangol. He rode just that fraction of a space to the rear on the leader's left side. We were to the south of the trail so the party of zorca riders crossed from right to left. I noticed this Hangol held his head a trifle turned away and put this down to a fawning attention on his leader and paymaster. His zorca was fine and his armor resplendent, and among his plethora of weapons, in the good old Kregan way, hung thraxter and main gauche. This told me he was left-handed.

Mevancy stood up, strode out from the cover of the bushes, spraddled her legs, put her hands on her hips and yelled. “Llahal and Llahal!"

They all reined up as though they'd been shot.

I quite enjoyed that. Had I been that leader with the fiery red moustaches paying this fellow Hangol to be my cadade, my captain of the guard, I'd have his hide for failing to post point, outriders and flanks. By Krun, yes!

Bows were drawn and arrowheads glittered in the declining light, all aimed at Mevancy.

The standard-bearer had a little difficulty in handling his zorca, who jounced around and wanted to kick his legs a trifle. The banner, a tresh of red and yellow of intricate design and difficult to distinguish at that distance, fluttered bravely.

“Declare your intentions or you are dead!” shouted up this Hangol.

Mevancy laughed.

“I chose to stand forth and greet you. I could have chosen to shaft you. You do not know how many bows are here with me."

The leader leaned gracefully and spoke quietly to Hangol. Hangol's helmet bobbed and even at this distance and seeing the whole scene on its side, I saw the surliness of that response. The cadade shouted up.

“We give you the Llahal. This is Leotes li Ningwan, Vad of Sabiling, Paol-ur-bliem."

The leader favored Hangol with a swift look of sharp displeasure, and then recovered his good humor. So he was a vad, just one rank below a kov, a duke. Well, he was high and mighty then. Just what the significance of Paol-ur-bliem might be I couldn't fathom. Paol is generally regarded as the earthly part of vaol-paol, the eternal cycle of existence encompassing fate and destiny. Bliem is a word for life.

With her back to me Mevancy's expression might be anything; I rather fancied she was putting on one of her more genial looks.

“Llahal, Vad Leotes. If you're after those Tsung-Tan forsaken drikingers, then I shall ride with you.” She made a small gesture with her left hand. “I am Mevancy nal Chardaz. Lahal."

The vad lifted his hand. “You and your forces will be welcome, my lady."

“Now,” I said to myself, “Lady Mevancy nal Chardaz, let's see you get out of this one without moving!"

She simply hauled her lictrix from the cover of the bushes, mounted up and flung a word back to me before cantering down the slope.

“I'll be back for you, cabbage. Don't run off."

She must have impressed Vad Leotes, for they spoke together briefly and then they swung their steeds’ heads around to the west and galloped off.

I lifted my left arm and shook my fist after this hoity-toity miss.

Then I realized what I had done.

I lifted both arms, and clenched and unclenched my fists.

By Zair!

Now I could get to work on my legs.

My feet were now just about healed and if I could once get up on my pins I had no doubts whatsoever I'd walk. I'd damned well run!

Making muscles obey the dictates of my brain, telling sinews and tendons to pull, forcing my paralyzed legs to move at all—that was the trick.

As I lay there under the sere black bush and struggled to move, the twin suns steadily declined. Zim and Genodras, which here in this part of Loh are called Luz and Walig, cast long and longer shadows, emerald and ruby, smoking in the dusty light. There is no need to belabor my pains. At the time I heard a caravan approaching from the east, I felt the first bendings of my knees. By the time the caravan was in sight and preparing to make camp I was up on hands and knees, and when the first tents went up I went up too, to stand totteringly, reeling, dazed—but up on my own two feet.

After that it was a matter of climbing up onto the lictrix's saddle, a feat rather like climbing a peak in The Stratemsk, and of gently ambling down the incline towards the caravan and the camp. I was stopped very quickly, naturally. A man put a long polearm up at me. I saw it was a strangdja, a weapon of Chem, much feared.

“Whereaway, dom?” he said, in no hostile way, for I think he had the wit to guess from whence I came.

I smiled at him.

“Llahal, dom,” I said. “I'm from the caravan that was attacked."

Then I stopped speaking.

What actually issued from my mouth was something like: “Lla—l—mm—mm—cvn—tat—"

So. I was still unable to speak.

The guard—he wore brass-studded leathers and a leather cap—put his strangdja on the ground and reached up. “Here, dom. You need attention, and we've the best Puncture Lady this side of Tarankar.” He caught me as I fell off. His nose was ripe and large and possessed fissures like those of a river system as it enters the Delta. His mouth was wide and mobile. I felt the limber strength of him as he caught me. He yelled: “Hai! Nath! Scrimshi! Come and give this poor devil a hand."

Three bulky leather-clad men hauled me up and carried me into a tent where the sweet scent of palines growing in a tub made my mouth water. I suppose the efforts I'd put out just recently had drained some other reserve of energy quite distict from whatever lack caused the paralysis. They gave me a handful of palines and I devoured the yellow berries knowing that in themselves they could cure a mighty lot of Kregen's ills. I stood up, swaying, it is true, and again essayed to speak, with the same dismal result.

The Puncture Lady wore a neat blue dress with a yellow collar and cuffs. She bustled in ready to order, organize and generally boss people about. Her face showed all that in its straight lines, its angle of jaw, the tightness of the prim mouth. She started to punch me, here and there.

“Nothing wrong with him,” she pronounced. “I'd think him drunk if he smelled of liquor. He's fit. You say he's from the caravan we found?"

“We think so, doctor,” said the fellow with the strangdja.

“Where else can he have come from?” said the one called Scrimshi.

The one called Nath said: “Maybe he ran off and hid and pretended to be sick.” He nodded wisely. “It is known."

I started to swing my arms about like a windmill in protest. The Puncture Lady grasped both my wrists and put my arms down by my side. She had no difficulty in doing that. I tried to resist and could feel her pressure on my wrists inexorably forcing down my arms. By Krun! I was weaker than a woflo!

“I dunno—” said the fellow with the strangdja. “I wish we could understand what he's trying to say."

“Well, whatever it is, it does not alter the fact that there's nothing wrong with him."

I tried to throw my arms about again and she simply held them fast.

The tent was furnished in this section more as a doctor's waiting room and I supposed there were sick in the caravan. A carpet of a weave unknown to me covered the floor. There was one chair and table of plain bent wood. I could see no paper or writing equipment.

These three caravan guards quite probably could not read or write and so did not think to communicate with me in that way. But surely this doctor would? She looked tired beneath her hard professional veneer. I surmised that Vad Leotes demanded much from his people.

“What shall we do with him, Doctor Fenella?"

“Oh, find him a corner somewhere. If he's run off from his duty the vad will want to see him. Oh, yes, assuredly so."

“Come on, Llodi, give us a hand,” said Nath. The man who had first halted me tucked his strangdja under his arm and helped Nath and Scrimshi haul me out of the Puncture Lady's tent.

Already a little queue of sick folk was forming.

Outside, twinned shadows lay long, with that effect peculiar to worlds with more than one sun of each shadow being, as it were, re-lit by the other sun. They carried me along with my head hanging down; I knew where we were going for I could hear the animals, the whicker and snort through wide nostrils, the stamp of hooves and the slap of rope against picket.

“Bung him down among the calsanys,” said the one called Scrimshi, and he snickered. I'd marked him as an unpleasant sort of person.

“Naw,” said Llodi. “What with him being sick, an’ all."

“Then sling him here.” Nath settled it by dumping my feet onto the bare ground. I toppled around and fell onto a heap of fodder bags.

“That'll do."

Llodi bent to me. “You stay here, dom. You'll be all right."

“We'll tell the next watch to keep an eye out.” Scrimshi breathed in, swelling his chest. “You'd better not run off. The vad'll want you."

They went off about their guard duty. I pondered. Well, now, I was in no state to take the lictrix and make off. Anyway, I didn't really want to. I own I felt unease about the safety of that young female tearaway Mevancy. What she recalled of the fire I didn't know; what I surmised was that she had little memory before she dragged me out. As far as she was concerned, she really had rescued me. I would go along with that.

So I made myself comfortable on the fodder bags—and went to sleep.

Chapter four

“You call me notor,” said Strom Hangol ham Finral as I wheeled to a halt facing him with guards either side of me and prodding me on from the rear. “You are accused of deserting the caravan you were sworn to protect."

He sat at a table on which rested a large double-bitted axe and a clepsydra just turned. The water dropping down was stained a pleasant pink color. Around us in the early rays of the twin suns, the caravan breakfasted preparatory to moving off. Smoke and cooking odors wafted. The day would be fine. Also, if this buffoon of a strom sitting in judgment on me couldn't be made to see sense, it could be the day on Kregen I breathed my last. Or, at the least, suffered some horrendous punishment.

I said: “I did not desert,” and the sounds were like those of a bosk with his snout in the trough.

“The fellow is an idiot as well,” observed the thin-faced ascetic in the blue robe standing just to Strom Hangol's rear. His face would have served as the model for the chunk of cheese one places in the mousetrap.

“Or he just pretends, San Hargon."

As Hangol spoke so the early suns light flashed from the silver mask covering the right side of his face. That had not been visible when he'd trotted past below and Mevancy had stood up. The metal might be a mask; equally it could be a replacement skin.

The easy assumption could be made that the disfigurement necessitating the wearing of a mask had scored deeply into Hangol's sanity, that he would like to serve the rest of the world of Kregen as he had been served. Well, just because easy assumptions are that does not automatically debar them from accuracy. I own I rather wished Vad Leotes had been sitting there in judgment on me; my impressions of him had been cautiously favorable. Whilst I realize the following remark must expose my own overweening self-importance which I deplore and which had been very necessary during my time as Emperor of Vallia, I saw that as an emperor I could have turned Vad Leotes into a useful and loyal noble devoted to the crown. Still, those days were gone. Now I had to manipulate these nobles in other ways.

“Give him a prod, you,” said Hangol to the guard on my left. He obediently thrust the butt end of his spear into my side. I was not bound. My hands were free. I moved to slide the blow and ease the spear away and the butt end thwacked me in the side. I let out a gasp. By the Black Chunkrah! I was abso-zigging-lutely useless!

I opened my mouth and gargled, trying to force coherent words out.

The ascetic in the blue robe spoke primly: “An idiot."

“It seems you are right, San. No wonder the caravan succumbed with onkers like this to guard it. It is quite clear the fellow is of no use.” He picked up the double-bitted axe. “Take him away and execute him."

I tried to shout and the guards twitched me around with contemptuous ease. Strom Hangol rose from the table, turning to speak in a perfectly normal voice to the ascetic. “I trust our discourse today will yield sweeter fruit than yesterday's, San."

To which San Hargon replied in a smooth and smarmy voice: “It is my intention to take chapter eleven of Beng Loshner's ‘Active Principles’ as our starting point.” The two walked off, already oblivious to anyone else.

So I tried to struggle and was hoicked up like a chicken and carted off feet first.

How incongruous my megalomaniac thoughts regarding emperors and their handling of lords, and my present position, in which a vad hadn't even bothered to sit in judgment on me and had left it to his assistant, a strom!

They took me a little way off among thorn bushes. No doubt they did not wish to disturb the stomachs of the breakfasters. This was the first breakfast; the second, if taken at all, would be taken en route. I saw Llodi with Nath and Scrimshi walking up to the guards holding me.

“I'm not surprised.” Scrimshi gave his opinion heavily. “The fool deserves all he gets."

“Better for him, really,” said Nath. “To be out of the way."

“I dunno.” Llodi's magnificent fissured nose shone in light and shadow like a mountain range. His cheeks were leathery, fissured, and shone in a similar if less formidable way. “Pity for him, being an idiot an’ all."

“You wanta do the job,” snarled one of the guards holding me. “You do it. Otherwise push off, schtump!"

Scrimshi snarled in reply: “I'll have your liver and lights one day, Nalgre the Pock!"

The guards were no longer holding me. They dropped me onto the dusty ground. As I fell I managed to twist so that I might have a grandstand view of the coming brawl. I quite cheered up.

These caravan mercenaries were sensible enough not to draw weapons one against another. No doubt long held resentments had to break out every now and then. Human nature is petty at times, and as these guards were all apims they could knock one another down with a gusto that had nothing of inter-racial prejudice about it. Dust rose. I managed to stand up and started off for the shelter of the nearest bush. I saw Llodi give a big bull-headed fellow a roundhouse to the jaw and then jump and kick him in the guts and I winced. Scrimshi was down and Nalgre the Pock was sitting on him and bashing his head against the dirt. I nodded sagely.

Once I had the bush fairly between the brawl and me, I paused to try to think what to do next. By Krun! I was in a pretty pickle and no mistake!

The animal lines were busy as the outriders saddled up. Breakfast fires were being doused. Tents that before had risen in considerable numbers were now absent, and the last few were coming down in billows of canvas. Noise and smells and dust and slanting suns shine, all was a flicker and a bedlam to that side; this side lay only the open wasteland.

I had aims in life.

Quite apart from the necessary aim of staying alive, I had grand visions of what might be made of our grouping of continents and islands called Paz upon the surface of Kregen. I wanted diff and apim to live together in harmony in all the lands, and not just in those already with liberal policies. I wanted to make sure the evil cult of Lem the Silver Leem was abolished never to be resurrected to the torture and destruction of little girls. I wanted to make of the Kroveres of Iztar a band of people devoted to furthering these grand aims of making of Kregen a better place—given that better in this context meant what I and my friends considered better. Perhaps above all I was committed to resisting the invasions and wanton slaughter by the Shanks, the fish heads from over the curve of the world. In this last, I knew, I had the blessing of the Everoinye.

Oh, yes, by Zair, there was so very much I had yet to accomplish in this terrible and beautiful world of Kregen, four hundred light years from the planet of my birth.

I stared at that open wasteland.

To venture out there, even if I had health and strength, a fleet zorca and a full water bottle, would be an enterprise fraught with peril. No. Despite all seeming, I had a better chance within the caravan—if I could so arrange matters to my own advantage.

The brawl roared on, blood flowing from noses, eyes closing, fists lashing, knuckles skinning. Nalgre the Pock was down with Llodi sitting on his head as Scrimshi scrambled up, blood flowing from his nose, roaring. Nath gave his fellow a shrewd blow betwixt wind and water and, suddenly, it was all over. Llodi let Nalgre up and he and his two fellows ran off.

“Well,” said Nath, feeling a newly loose tooth. “I quite enjoyed that, by Lohrhiang of the Waters."

“I'll do for that Nalgre one of these days,” growled Scrimshi, exploring his nose. “And we're left with the prisoner."

“Is that our business?” demanded Nath.

“Fambly! Of course it is. We've stopped a detail carrying out a duty and we'll get it in the neck when Strom Hangol finds out. So—"

“So,” said Llodi, and he spoke heavily. “We must carry out that duty ourselves.” He looked around. “At least, we can send him off to the Death Jungles of Sichaz all clean and tidy. That lot would've played with him first, the shints."

The Death Jungles of Sichaz. That was what folk down here in Loh called the Ice Floes of Sicce.

“Aye,” said Nath. “Unhealthy folk, those."

“They get pleasure out of it,” said Scrimshi, wincing as he felt his nose. “Well, we'd better get on with it."

They picked up their strangdjas and walked across to my bush and I realized how ludicrous and pathetic had been my attempt at escape.

So I stood up. In that moment blazing anger was replaced by black amusement. That I, Dray Prescot, with all these resounding titles and all these fabulous deeds to my name, should be chopped in the dust of some forgotten desert somewhere in Southern Loh. Well, wherever death finds you out, that spot does tend to figure large and importantly in your scheme of life.

“I just hope he don't make a fuss,” mumbled Llodi.

“He's big and ugly enough for two, anyway,” said Nath. “I'll hold him."

Scrimshi took his strangdja in two fists and gave a couple of preparatory swings. The strangdja varies in form, pattern and size; essentially it is like a large holly leaf fashioned from honed steel cunningly sharpened and mounted on a shaft. It is, indeed, in skilled hands, a feared weapon.

The ferocious holly-leaf shaped head glittered blindingly in the light of the suns as Scrimshi swung the weapon up. Beyond his upraised arms I saw a small cavalcade of riders pace into view past the thorn bushes. In the lead rode Vad Leotes deep in conversation with Mevancy. The riders looked disheveled, many no longer had their lances, and some were wounded. They headed towards a marquee that had not so far been pulled down. This would be Leotes’ tent, I surmised. I opened my mouth and croaked garbled sounds.

Nath said, sharply: “Get on with it, Scrimshi! There's the vad and we want this done before he finds out."

As he spoke Nath gestured vehemently, releasing me.

For me to try to shout was totally useless. I could not run, for I could barely totter. I just hoped my strength was up to the trick that was all I had left to play. These three would butcher me without thought as a duty that must be performed. I bent down.

There was no time to be fussy. I picked the first stone to hand, stood up as tall and straight as I could, and hurled the stone. It struck Leotes on the side. I gasped. Thank Zair my aim was good! Scrimshi roared in frightened anger and slashed the strangdja down.

With a tiny fragment of my Krozair skills I managed to stagger sideways and the blow missed. Nath jumped for me to pinion me like a chicken for the chop. Scrimshi was making a frightful noise through his squashed nose.

Leaning sideways I surged the other way and had as much chance of avoiding Nath's clutching arms as a ponsho has of evading the jaws of a leem.

Twisted around and held fast, I saw the glitter of the strangdja. I tried to kick and could not. The leaf-shaped spikes would rip my head off.

“Stand perfectly still, strangdjim!"

The brilliant head wavered, descended, and then held steadily aloft.

I swallowed down.

By Krun!

“Bring him over here."

Llodi was the first to obey the vad's orders. He took me by the left bicep and ran me across to Leotes. I say ran, I tottered and Llodi held me up.

Up on his zorca and blazing in the early light of the suns, Leotes looked impossibly tall and resplendent. His red moustaches curled splendidly.

“Is this the man, Mevancy?"

“It is, Leotes."

Oho! I said to myself. They're on first name terms already, without the lord and lady. Very cozy!

She leaned from the saddle and looked at me.

“We have been searching for you for a long time, cabbage. I told you not to run off."

“For your sake I am glad the man is found. Now, by Beng Trunter the Nosher, I am famished! Let us eat both breakfasts in one before we resume our journey. The caravan may proceed ahead of us.” Leotes lifted his gauntleted hand. “Give this man food and drink and clean him up and bring him to me when I rejoin the caravan."

“Quidang, lynxor! At once, Lynxor!"

Oh, yes, this Leotes ran a tight ship, all right!

Mevancy favored me with a long downdrawn look; but she said nothing further. She looked just a little frazzled around the edges, a mite tired. I own I had to feel genuine gratitude for her actions. Clearly she'd returned with Leotes from their attempt to rescue the captives from our caravan and, not finding me where she'd left me, had persuaded the vad to search. Yes, a resourceful, persuasive and most high and mighty miss, this Mevancy!

There was no difficulty in guessing why the three strangdjims took such good care of me after that. They had been deputed to care, so they did. Also, and with my knowledge of the tricks of a soldier's or mercenary's life, best exemplified by the mythical figure of Vikatu the Dodger, I could see by devoting themselves to me—on the vad's orders!—they got out of other and much more unpleasant duties.

So we all settled down to a splendid feast of the left-overs from the cooks’ tent and when we'd bloated ourselves out I had a dry-wash and my hair was brushed and I began to look presentable.

The last few carts were trundling off and only the beasts and carts that would take the vad's gear remained. Nath went off, to return shortly with one zorca, one lictrix and two preysanys. Here was revealed a distinction between these three mercenaries. They were all three ordinary mercenaries; none wore the silver pakmort or golden pakzhan at throat, pinned up with silk. Scrimshi mounted up on the zorca and Nath on the lictrix. So that left Llodi and me to straddle the preysanys.

These three might be only ordinary mercenaries, hired caravan guards; they knew the ropes. When the vad at last indicated that he was ready to proceed we trundled gently along with the other riders and carts, and these three hadn't done a stroke of work in getting the caravan under way.

They'd stick to this duty like glue, keep out of everybody's way, and hope their lazy life would continue for as long as the journey.

A corpulent, choleric, contuming Deldar rode up astride a zorca and started shouting. Well, of course, that last remark is superfluous. All Deldars shout. It is habitual to them to pass on the orders from the higher officers to the men.

“You three lolly-gagging layabouts! I'll have you. Where have you been hiding? Get on about outpost. You, Scrimshi, take point! Bratch!"

“Can't do it, Del.” Scrimshi sounded as though he was in pain, so much was he enjoying himself. “Direct orders from the vad. Gotta take care of this fambly. Daren't let him outta my sight."

“Do what?"

“That's right, Del,” amplified Nath, expansive with good humor. “The vad detailed us special. Can't leave him."

The Deldar's leather harness swelled. His beetroot red face went redder. He took another rib-straining breath. “I'll give you three heart beats to get on duty. One! Two!"

“Del!” interrupted Llodi, urgently. “Don't say Three! It's true. We've gotta take this fambly to the vad soon's we rejoin the caravan.” He gestured. “Well, look at him. He ain't all there and what with the vad's new fancy lady looking out for him an’ all—"

“Yeh,” said the Deldar. “I saw her."

“You see?"

“You've got away with it this time. But there'll be a next time. I'll have you three, I'll have your ears toasted for breakfast."

After the Deldar had taken himself off to rouse out some other unfortunates to ride point and flank, Scrimshi and Nath rolled about in their saddles laughing. Llodi laughed, too.

They were chortling so much they were quite unprepared for the presence and the voice that flayed across like an icicle knife.

“What is this creature doing here, alive, instead of dead and Rippasch meat?"

The change in demeanor of the three strangdjim was remarkable.

Their laughter ceased abruptly. Their faces tautened. They stiffened up in their saddles. They made the rote response.

“Lynxor!"

“I asked a question, shints! You—” he pointed at Llodi. “Speak!"

“Yes, lynxor. We must care for him—"

“I gave orders that he be executed at once.” The voice softened. “Why did you disobey my orders?"

“The vad, lynxor! He told us. We must report to the vad with him."

The streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio flashed off the silver mask covering the right side of his face. That glorious suns light looked cold as though the reflection drained the color and brilliance.

Strom Hangol ham Finral stared at me. He was arrogance personified, of course, a person who reveled in power over others; now the name of Vad Leotes held him in check. His look would have withered the stoutest heart of the wrongdoers paraded before him for punishment.

“I shall not forget this,” he said, and his voice shook with passion. “I shall remember you, rast, and see you are put where you deserve to be. By Lem, I'll not be thwarted by the likes of a yetch like you!"

With that he slashed with his riding crop full at my face.

Oh, yes, I was suffering from the effects of the paralysis, I was weak, without strength; all the same, I remained a Krozair of Zy. I still possessed the old Krozair skills, even if my puniness diluted their shattering effectiveness. I moved my head sideways and the blow rattled down on my shoulder. I reached up to take the crop away from this fellow; but he was far too quick and the crop whistled up beyond my reach. Then his zorca reared and he fought the reins and clung on.

Llodi called: “Your pardon, lynxor! We must take him to the vad in good condition!"

Hangol's nostrils pinched in. His helmet framed the viciousness of his face. Oh, of course, one can see his point of view. His authority, he would think, had been undermined, without thinking beyond his own immediate self-importance. But had he been your proper officer in the first place, this humiliating contretemps would not have arisen.

Without another word he galloped off.

“A nasty one that,” said Llodi, shaking his head. “If he's your enemy, then may the wise and good Tsung-Tan have you in his keeping."

Chapter five

“Get your tongue up behind your teeth, cabbage! No, no—shut your black-fanged winespout! If you stick your tongue out again I'll bite it off!"

“Th—th—” I mumbled.

“It's not th you great fambly! It's t—t—t!"

Some people would welcome the preliminaries to Mevancy biting their tongue off. That was my incongruous thought. The tent Leotes had placed at her disposal had belonged to a stromni who had died of blood-poisoning some way back east. The tent was comfortable, well-furnished and pleasant. I sat on a figured rug and drooled, trying to learn to speak all over again as I had done at my mother's knee all those years ago four hundred light years from Kregen.

Although I had no personal stake in the people who had been taken by the bandits, I was pleased that Leotes had rescued them all. I did not enquire what had happened to the drikingers. On Kregen one knows what happens to the bad guys in general, because for all its beauty and culture there is on that wonderful world this old barbaric streak that demands an eye for an eye. Now all those people I had met in Larishsmot after the fire who had gone with Cardamon's caravan had been incorporated in Leotes’ caravan. Well, no doubt they would be asked to pay. There is little one gets free on Kregen, as on this Earth.

What I had received free from Mevancy was truly splendid, although I might have paid ahead of time in carrying her almost out of that fire. I wondered how bashing the back of my head and neck when she dragged me so that I became paralyzed would appear in the balance of payments. Still, that thought was churlish, and not worthy of a Koter of Vallia.

“Try again, cabbage. T—and get your tongue well in."

I tried. “Th—th—"

She threw a cushion at me. “Never mind. Maybe it'll come back of its own sweet will, some day. Let's look at your muscles."

She walked over to me with that lithe swing of the hips that can so injure a fellow. She wore a casual lounging robe of blue silk; I noticed she had chosen one from the wardrobe of Leotes’ women that had long sleeves. She took my left bicep between her fingers and rolled as though kneading dough.

“It feels strange, cabbage. Like a bladder that instead of being blown up hard is flat and flaccid. H'm. I'd guess you once were quite strong."

She dropped my arm. That is a correct description. I managed to get enough power into my muscles to stop the back of my hand hitting the carpet. She snatched up the paper and writing implements. “Now, cabbage, tell me more about yourself."

I'd written a theosophical pack of lies about my history. At the first shot at writing communication I'd been pleased that these people of Southern Loh used one of the universal scripts of Kregen that reflected the universal Kregish, imposed from Outside forces. I'd been a fool of course; incautiously in response to a request for my name I'd started with: ‘Dra.’ I advance for my stupidity my state of mind, the paralysis and the fuzziness of my thoughts. There was little chance that these people would not have heard of Dray Prescot, the puissant Emperor of Vallia. And I didn't want the hassle of claiming I'd been named for the emperor. So I used one of my familiar use names. I simply added Jak to the Dra. I was Drajak. Then, out of homesickness, I suppose, I wrote that I was Drajak ti Zamran. I felt any references to Vallia or Valka would be inopportune. Zamran was a pretty market town in my island kovnate of Zamra, just north of Valka. Mercenaries traveled the world of Kregen; origins oftentimes were less important than current loyalties. Oftentimes; not always, by Krun!

“Zamran,” she'd said. “No, I don't know it. I know Zamrarn, of course, where the black pearls come from."

I'd scribbled a swift little story about being swept overboard in a storm and the subject of just whereaway Zamran was was buried.

So, now, I elaborated on my fictitious history and was able to use a number of real events that had occurred in my life. When I asked about her she laughed and refused to be drawn.

One item that intrigued me Mevancy answered casually.

“Paol-ur-bliem,” she said, reading where I had written. “Oh, I'm not sure. Something to do with their religion. Leotes was reticent."

So Mevancy didn't come from these parts, then.

She made me exercise cruelly.

I had to pump my legs away, run on the spot, lift weights. Weights, ha! It took all my strength and effort to lift a chair from the carpet. As for an amphora of water—no chance. Mevancy persisted; I felt no answering increase in muscular powers.

The two louts she'd hired on, Nafty and Pondo, had not been slain when the bandits attacked. Now Nafty stuck his head around the tent flap and in his laughing way said: “My lady.” Mevancy went out at once.

By the time she returned the caravan was packing up for the next portion of the journey across the wastelands.

“You'll have to ride the preysany Leotes was good enough to find for you, cabbage. You lost the lictrix of mine—” She stopped herself, and laughed in an odd way. “The lictrix you were riding."

Mounting the preysany, whose name was Tuftytail, proved easier this day than it had been yesterday. I took no false comfort from that. Mevancy would ride with the vad. Scrimshi, Nath and Llodi had been relieved of their special duty and gone back to riding escort. My interview with Leotes had been short and—given the circumstances—sweet. He'd simply consigned me to the jurisdiction of Mevancy nal Chardaz with firm orders that her instructions were to be obeyed. The black look on Strom Hangol's face at this might have been rewarding; it was also a thundercloud warning of difficulties ahead.

During this period of travel through a portion of the wastelands that was relatively pleasant, we could find water and ample wood and grazing. Also, during this period, Hangol began to get the hang of being unpleasant to me in ways that outwitted Mevancy. He didn't mark me, of course. Every attempt on my part to prevent him was swept aside as an adult with a child. He took to being ingratiating with Mevancy. And, a sight that saddened me, I saw all three of those strangdjim, Scrimshi, Nath and Llodi, stretched out on the flogging frame. They were not flogged jikaider, for which small mercy I was thankful. But they were given a regulation number of lashes for some supposed dereliction of duty. Everyone knew this was Strom Hangol in his mean way getting his spiteful revenge.

Truly, when a great lord puts power into the hands of his cadade, it behooves him to choose wisely and well!

I'd asked Mevancy for full details of the rescue from the bandits, and from the way she replied I gathered she'd played a large part in that venture. When I asked about my kit and the rapier and dagger she shook her head. My belt had been found, around the waist of a headless corpse; Mevancy said she'd not seen the weapons. As I have said, no fighting man ought to rely on just one special weapon or set of weapons. Your true warrior can snatch up any weapon and get on with the fight. All the same, I was sorry to lose them, for they were a finely matched pair given to me by Prince Varden, a blade comrade.

As we traveled towards the west it was noticeable how the folk tensed up. They were bracing themselves for an unpleasant experience.

Between us and the city of Ankharum lay the Great Salt Desert. Deserts are often unpleasant places; salt deserts almost invariably so.

Unable to admit to any joy in traversing so inhospitable a place, I nevertheless at this time took delight in discovering the sobriquets of the three mercenary strangdjim.

Back home no doubt they'd be called spearmen, rather than strangdja-men, and they were among the lowest paid of all mercenaries. Scrimshi, I discovered, was known as Scrimshi the Sturr. This, remembering the Moder, enchanted me. Nath was called Nath the Arm. Well, as it is said, there are as many Naths in the world of Kregen as stars in the sky. I'd known a Nath the Arm before, a kaidur trainer for the Jikhorkdun in Huringa in Hyrklana. Much later I heard he'd managed to retire on his winnings to a little farm out by Halphen, an area noted for first quality Pombolims. Mind you, I'd never have believed he could ever leave the excitement of the arena and of shouting for the Ruby Drang. As for the here and now, Llodi rejoiced in the nickname of Llodi the Voice.

Mevancy deigned to answer my scrawled questions and told me that Llodi possessed a fine tenor voice. He'd sung in his local temple's choir in his youth and had then run off very sharpish when the priests had wanted to castrate him to preserve and encourage his splendid voice. I didn't blame him.

On the journey with Leotes’ caravan, when the dust did not rise too thickly and we had filled water bottles with the prospect of a water hole or oasis ahead, Llodi would sing as we rode along.

And, indeed, his voice was surpassing beautiful.

He was fond of ‘Carnation Pink and Iris Blue’ a song of Houdondrin in Loh. He had an extensive repertoire. I jotted down a note to Mevancy, and she sniffed and went off to find Llodi the Voice. So, to my request, he sang all through that famous old song ‘The Bowmen of Loh.’ If I thought of Seg then, why, you will understand, I am sure.

Then, just before we were due to essay the crossing of the Great Salt Desert, another Opaz-benighted band of drikingers attacked our caravan.

A riderless zorca pelted in, all that was left of our point.

Immediately a tremendous hullabaloo started up.

Mind you, as I thought then, this attack showed the lamentable lack of intelligence of these creatures who had taken up the bandit trade. Had they waited until we'd crossed the Great Salt Desert we would have been in poor shape and in no great case to resist their attack. That is what I thought then, without experience of the Great Salt Desert.

They rode in with a whoop and a holler, driving their lictrixes hard. A shower of javelins produced a few casualties. Dust smoked up and already it tasted salty on the tongue. Our bowmen shot in their superb Lohvian longbows and took out mount and rider. Dust gouted. Shafts crisscrossed. Despite my undignified position aboard a preysany near the tail of the caravan, I saw more than one heroic deed. The bandits closed in near my position and I felt my fingers twitching. I'd be as useful as a week-old baby out there right now. I saw Nath the Arm whirl his strangdja and a bandit's arm fall off. There was no sign of Scrimshi the Sturr or of Llodi the Voice. I trusted they were still in the land of the living, even Scrimshi, who had lived up to his cognomen of the Sturr. As for Nafty and Pondo, if they were not defending their mistress, the Lady Mevancy, with their lives, then I'd have to have a word with them—and this I thought, then, in the heat of the fight when I was still half paralyzed.

Strom Hangol roared past cutting a swathe from the flank through a bunch of the bandits. He actually took time out to notice me. And as he galloped on he sneered. He actually thought it important enough in the middle of a brisk little action to show me his contempt.

By this time, having heard other folk talking in unguarded moments, I had to come to the conclusion that Strom Hangol was not worth contempt.

This conclusion is always saddening, however just. One does not like to lose a human being in the sight of whatever gods may be believed in.

The drikingers fought viciously and hard for a time; then the fire went out of them.

Right at the end, a bandit flogging his zorca on roared in towards me in the final throes of the battle rapture that gripped him. He was a Rapa, beaked and feathered, and his sword glittered as he swung it down towards me. I saw Strom Hangol past the Rapa in a perfect position to give the killing thrust with his lance. Hangol hauled his zorca back. His face was a mask of glee. Here was where without effort he repaid the slights he imagined he'd suffered at my hands. My paralyzed hands, by Krun!

That half silver mask of Hangol's with the mingled emerald and ruby lights splintering from its edges, covering only the right side of his face, complemented the glee transfiguring the fleshly half of his face.

The bandit screeched in unholy gloating as he whipped his sword down at me. I tried—of course I tried!—to slide the blow as the Krozair Disciplines aided me. I was looking straight at the Rapa. His feathers bristled green and red. The sword glittered. He was gloating in this last moment of killing lust before he made his getaway.

Crimson spurted from his left eye. Instantly crimson spouted in a gout from his right eye.

I watched, fascinated.

The Rapa screamed. He dropped his sword and clawed at his face.

He could not see. His eyes were ruined beyond redemption. I fancied I could see a thin stick-like object, like a needle, sticking out of each of his eyes. He was screaming and yelling and rocking about on his zorca, clearly a man without hope in this world, and it was a mercy for him that Mevancy rode up and sliced her lynxter neatly across his throat.

The Rapa fell off his zorca, spraying blood everywhere. Strom Hangol rode off in urgent pursuit of the remnants of the bandits. Mevancy reined up by me.

“Why can't you keep out of trouble, cabbage? You are a sore trial to me."

I said: “You just wait!” but all that came out was: “Yo-js-tt."

“Oh! You Drajak!” she said.

She slid a slim leg over her lictrix and jumped to the ground. She was highly capable with the dead Rapa's zorca, seizing the bridle reins firmly, letting the animal see who was his new master, gentling him, stroking his nose at the root of the proud spiral horn—zorcas love that. He quietened down. She turned a flushed triumphant face to me.

“Hai! Now I have a mount!"

I nodded and pointed to her lictrix.

“Oh, yes, cabbage, of course—only do try not to lose this one."

Just then, Vad Leotes rode up with his escort. He looked puffed up with excitement, bursting with rich blood running through his veins, and his red moustaches fairly bristled.

“My Lady Mevancy!” he called. I gathered he'd been worried about her in the fight.

“My lord!” she said, laughing, mischievous.

Instantly he was himself. He smiled and bowed gallantly. “I see you have won a fine zorca. You may keep him, if you wish."

Now Mevancy wasn't fool enough to go shouting that she'd won the damn beast and so therefore of course she'd keep him. She knew as everyone else knew that any loot obtained by people of the caravan belonged to the vad.

She smiled. “Why, thank you, Leotes. It is a generous gift."

He made some fustian gallant reply but I wasn't listening. I had my mind set on climbing up on that lictrix and of essaying a few swings of Mevancy's lynxter. Mevancy mounted up and, indeed, she cut a fine figure. Nafty appeared and was told to transfer her kit from the lictrix to the zorca. This took no time at all and then she and the vad rode off followed by the escort.

Well, I tied old Tuftytail to a cart and took hold of the lictrix. I managed to mount him without too much trouble and I sat back, taking a breather, wondering and hoping that this was the beginning of the end of the paralysis.

A little breeze began to blow warmly from the northwest, bringing with it the unmistakable tang of salt. That made me feel pleased that the idiot drikingers had made this lictrix available for me to ride through the Great Salt Desert. I gave him a little rein and walked him about and began to feel quite at home. The caravan was getting itself back in order now and the calsanys were quietening down. Some of the slaves were already preparing graves for the dead of the caravan; what they would do with the dead bandits I did not know. There was a quantity of shouting and a few trumpet calls. This activity and the new mount had taken my mind off an investigation I had intended to carry out as soon as possible.

Now I rode back to where Tuftytail was tied up and dismounted. The dead Rapa lay where he had fallen, weltering in his own blood. I bent to that beaked vulturine face, not without a quiver of ironic appreciation that this vulture-headed man had perished through the loss of his eyes. I looked. The orbits were already congealing with blood, puss dribbling. If I had seen a small stick-like object it was not there now.

As I straightened up, Nath the Arm walked up. Blood stained his legs.

“Hai, onker,” he said, heavily. “Scrimshi. I had to—he was sore wounded. He begged me. D'you understand, onker? He begged me!"

I gargled out stupid ineffectual words.

“Oh, shut your black-fanged winespout, if that's all you can do!” Nath the Arm had been badly affected. “Well, he's well on his way through the Death Jungles of Sichaz. I just hope the spectral syatras don't get him."

Scrimshi I had put down as an unpleasant person on first acquaintance; still, he'd improved with time and I felt sorry for him.

I didn't try to speak again but pointed to my mouth and then did an imitation of a man singing.

“Huh?” said Nath the Arm. Then: “Oh, I see. Dunno. Last I saw, he was in a right old ding dong with a couple of Fristles. By Yakwang! He put one down so fast with the strangdja hoicking off his arm the other shint ran off screaming. Then I had a pestiferous Brokelsh to deal with after he'd done for Scrimshi. Well, I suppose Tsung-Tan might have him in his keeping if you believe in Gilium."

Nath the Arm went off trailing his strangdja, that wicked holly-leaf shaped head glistening thickly with blood, not all of it red. I knew he'd start to clean and polish that up soon and I also knew—well, trusted more than knew for a certainty—that he'd soon be over the death of Scrimshi. The mercenary's trade brings passing comrades and death in liberal portions.

The caravan's Saddler, a little Och called Tanki the Stitch, did not tut-tut overmuch when presented with the new saddle requirements. Most folk of Kregen with the wide array of splendid saddle animals are philosophical about the different saddle requirements. They cope without fuss with saddles of different specifications. All the same, it was more convenient for Mevancy to swap the Rapa's saddle for one more suitable for a lady. Her old lictrix saddle, again, would not suit, as it was adapted for a six-legged animal. It was a tight fit for me and Tanki the Stitch altered it for me—Mevancy paid.

Certainly, I'd had my belt back from the bandits who'd stolen it; the pouches were empty of money and most of the bits and pieces a fellow carries around. Unable to work, penniless, I had perforce for the moment to rely on Mevancy's generosity. She must have been clever and quick to have got her own money back when she escaped from the drikingers.

One of the guards, Deldar Gurong, that same Deldar who'd tried to order Scrimshi off to point duty, rode in carrying a parcel of weaponry taken from dead bandits. Among the swords, so Mevancy told me later, were weapons belonging to the lords Tawang and Shalang. This trading of weapons is commonplace among any fraternity of fighting men or sorority of Jikai Vuvushis—even if their trade is banditry. I felt a spark of interest and wrote my question and she raised one round shoulder. “Can't say, cabbage. I saw no rapiers or daggers."

She saw my face and said roughly: “Well, cabbage, it was only a thin sticker of a sword and a clumsy great dagger. That scum Hangol wears ‘em, I notice, though I've yet to see him use ‘em in a fight."

I didn't bother to write that often it is better to use a stout fighting sword rather than a rapier in these kind of rough-house combats.

Vad Leotes might have employed a miserable specimen for a cadade; his choice of Caravan Master couldn't be bettered. Master Pandarun held that dark aloof dignity of those who spend long periods out in the great wastelands of the world. His face was not as seamed or craggy as that of Llodi's; but it reminded you vividly that this man had slept under the stars more often than under a roof. He wore loose flowing robes of a fawn color and a mass of white cloth perched on his dark hair. When he spoke his caravan crews jumped.

Master Pandarun told us that in Meimgarum, the oasis city on this eastern side of the Great Salt Desert, we would spend a few days preparing for the crossing. His thin mouth curved only slightly as he said: “All the saddle animals are sold there and we hire—"

“All sold!” exclaimed Mevancy. “But my fine new zorca!"

“It would be cruel to try to take him across the Salt Desert, my lady."

Her lips compressed. Her nostrils flared. She glared at me and said: “And you needn't laugh, either, cabbage!"

I couldn't say anything sensible. “But,” I said to myself, “by the disgusting putrescent protruding pot-belly of Makki Grodno! The injustice of the woman! I wasn't laughing at her discomfiture, by Krun!"

Truth to tell, there was precious little to laugh about at all as we trailed into Meimgarum between white flat-roofed houses and drooping trees. And to cap that, of course, as everyone said, the Great Salt Desert was no laughing matter at all.

Chapter six

Well, as I may have remarked before, any desert is unpleasant to the unwary and salt deserts are worse than most. This specimen of salt desert was referred to bitterly as the Gleek Frankai. The good folk of Meimgarum made a living preparing travelers to cross the desert and of repairing them once they had crossed from the west.

All our saddle and draught animals were sold and the carts and carriages with them. No great noble would bring his own personal coach on this journey knowing it must be sold. We hired slounchers, animals that, I suppose, must be regarded as Loh's form of camel. Being of Kregen, of course, they had eight legs and three humps; but otherwise their morphology followed the necessities of desert living, like an Earthly camel. Some were exceedingly bad-tempered and others docile. It was known that they would kill anyone who attempted to molest their young. As a consequence slouncher handlers had to be a tough breed of people when it came to training time in a young slouncher's life.

As for clothes, we all bought light airy robes, and massy turbans, and sand scarves. In this part of Loh sand scarves were called flamins. We all dressed up and looked one another over critically, and there was a quantity of high-pitched, nervous laughter at our appearances.

I remained pathetically weak and had a deal of trouble scaling the high side of the mount allotted to me for the crossing. He was called Flamdi and I hoped against hope he had a placid temperament.

Mevancy dealt with her slouncher unhesitatingly, and the animal seemed to me to understand the rider on his back would take no nonsense from him.

Despite my weakness and inability to speak coherently, when I heard that on the western side of the salt desert a large river ran southerly through Ankharum, I made up my mind to take it down to the southern coast of Loh. There was bound to be a port and shipping and I could arrange passage home. I brushed aside any consideration of the problems involved in that course of action. I had finished the work the Star Lords had brought me here for. The quicker I got myself home to Valka the better.

The thought had not escaped my attention that Delia might also have finished her work, for the SoR, and be high-tailing it for Esser Rarioch.

“By Makki Grodno's disgusting diseased left eyeball!” I said to myself. “That's the plan, and the plan will work!"

Oh, well, as they say in Sanurkazz, Zair lays many a trap for the unwary feet of the boastful.

We did not, of course, carry very much money across the desert. The family with whom Master Pandarun dealt were known to him from previous transactions. We sold our carts, carriages and animals to the representatives of the Nuong-Hi family in Meimgarum, and received bonded receipts which would be redeemed in Ankharum for conveyances and animals of similar quality. The force of greed might well impel bandits to operate within the desert if a caravan was foolish enough to carry the money it had received in the sales. Families like that of Nuong-Hi materially lessened that risk.

I do not wish to make a song and dance about the desert crossing. It was difficult and it was unpleasant but only three people died, and two of them through their own fault. We emerged dust and mica smothered, encrusted with salt and longing for baths and drinks. Perhaps the most impressive aspects of the Gleek Frankai were the solid pillars of salt forming white cathedral aisles, a bewildering maze of alleyways stretching fingerlike, fashioned by the twin powers of erosion and wind. Yes, an unhealthy place, that Great Salt Desert of southern Loh.

Why some people are as they are is a mystery of life, known only to Opaz the Fashioner. Everyone agreed with Master Pandarun that we should spend a few days in Ankharum recovering. For his part, the salty crossing appeared to have made no difference to him at all. So we saw about buying fresh conveyances with our bonded receipts. Mevancy obtained a good class zorca for herself and a nice lictrix, called Swiggletoe, for me. Lord Nanji Tawang could be heard from here to the coast, I shouldn't wonder, as he bellowed his outrage.

“My rig was first class, a genuine Porstheimer! Now, by Loncuum, you have the effrontery to offer me this rubbish in exchange!"

Languin Nuong-Hi spread his brown hands in apology. A thin and lugubrious individual, he had done his best to provide us with kit similar to that we had parted with to his cousin in Meimgarum. “It may not be a Porstheimer, lord; nevertheless it is a first class rig."

“It is rubbish! I demand proper recompense!"

“There is not a Porstheimer in all Ankharum at this moment—"

Lady Floria said: “And these people have the effrontery to call themselves honest merchants. They are cheating you, Nanji."

“I know. Well, they will rue the day they started that trick. You, tikshim! I demand a cash settlement of the difference."

Again Languin Nuong-Hi spread his hands. “If that is your wish, lord. The difference is fifty mings."

“Fifty mings! Fifty gold pieces! Are you makib, bereft of your senses!"

“No, lord. This rig is a Merkaller, the equal to a Porstheimer. The difference in cost is fifty mings."

Mevancy caught my eye and jerked her head. Leading our animals we walked outside Master Languin Nuong-Hi's establishment. I'd not much idea of the cost of either a Porstheimer or a Merkaller. That wasn't important. This petty incident, despite Nanji Tawang's real cause for annoyance, showed the fellow up in a bad light. He was a trylon and so of some exalted state, between a vad and a strom. He was the Trylon of Fuokane. His rantings displeased Mevancy.

“A boring boor,” she pronounced, nodding her head. “They'd give cramphs like that short shrift back in Chardaz, I can tell you, cabbage!"

I managed a smile. I knew my folk of Valka would do likewise.

However they settled that matter between the family of Nuong-Hi and Trylon Nanji na Fuokane, settled it was, for the fellow appeared sitting in the coach and wearing an expression of constipated disgust. What intrigued me was to see that the Lady Floria Inglewong shared the coach with Nanji. Well, I would be rid of them in a couple of days once I could arrange transport down the River of Oneness. Written enquiries elicited the information that flatboats, barges and fast packet slikkers, boats similar to dhows, plied the river, and with gold passage was easy to obtain.

I wrote for Mevancy: “When we finish this journey, where do you go then?"

She said tartly: “The journey has to be finished yet, cabbage."

Patiently I wrote: “Yes.” I wanted to know where I might send money in repayment for that I had had from her. Also I would like to repay the cash I intended to borrow or steal from her in the immediate future. “I have to know where to send to repay your generosity."

She said, roughly: “Don't worry your head about that."

I started to scrawl: “But I do—” when her firm tanned hand closed over mine and squeezed. I had no strength to resist. She looked at me, gave me a twist of her supple lips that approximated a smile, and almost snarled: “I said it doesn't matter. Forget the gold!"

She flounced off, then, and I stared at her shapely back and legs as she vanished among the zorca lines. She did care for the beasts she employed. The thought occurred that she regarded me as just another beast to be looked after.

Llodi the Voice walked up head turned from where he'd been watching Mevancy. I'd been really pleased he had not been chopped in the bandit raid; but along with Nath the Arm he had become subdued after Scrimshi's death. Now he turned back to look at me. “I'd make myself scarce, if I was you, Drajak.” He hawked and spat. “Strom Hangol's on his way over here."

The avoidance of a confrontation with that rast was imperative. I gave Llodi my parody of a smile and took myself off.

One odd thing about that brief period in Ankharum was the growing feeling of doom surrounding this caravan. There seemed to me no rhyme or reason for this feeling; yet I sensed that Llodi shared it, and Mevancy, too, by her sudden abruptness at times. We'd made a successful crossing of the Great Salt Desert. Our financial standing was good, despite the tantrums of Nanji and Floria. We had a top class caravan master in Pandarun. We had a powerful noble and his retainers as escort. Yet—yet no one seemed light-hearted, not even Nafty. As for Pondo, his surliness turned his face lemon sour. No one could find a good word to say about our prospects of onward travel to the west. Doom and disaster permeated everyday life in our caravan.

All this merely strengthened my determination to go downriver. I could not work for lack of strength, and could not really cope with the job of a stylor, for although I could read and write, I could not tell what I read or carry on a conversation—although, come to think of it, maybe they were exceedingly good reasons for me to be employed as a private secretary. Mulling this thought over in my still sluggish mind took a couple of the days we were due to spend in Ankharum. I'd have to make a decision soon, and find finance.

Do not imagine that I was blind to the ironies of my present situation when compared to what it had been such a short time ago!

Whilst I thus fretted over my best course and made firm decisions one day only to scrap them for something else the next, a freak storm swept the city. Ankharum, whose wide avenues, cluttered back alleys, houses with flat roofs and white walls, presented a pleasing sight, was further graced by many ancient trees. Tall serene trees lined the wider avenues, and all the courtyards had their own ornamental or shade trees. The gale broomed brutally across the city. The houses mostly escaped unscathed except where trees fell on them. The trees were mercilessly scythed down. They lay in droves as though brought low by the reaper's sickle. They looked like pathetic giants fallen from grace.

The gale lasted for most of one tormented night. From our lodgings we could hear the wind bellowing and blustering and shaking the whole building. Casements rattled dancing skeletons. I suppose that to a fellow like myself from northern climes the absence of rain in all the uproar and violence of the storm gave it its most macabre aspect. The wind howled and roared and next morning clearing away of the trees began slowly. Nothing like it had been known for season upon season. No one could even remember hearing of a similar storm in the past.

Mevancy put her head in the door, beaming most evilly, to say: “A wonderful great tree has fallen full on Trylon Nanji's Merkaller. Squashed it flat. Such a shame."

And I said: “Such a shame."

What came out, what sounded, was: “Susha shame."

“Cabbage!” exclaimed Mevancy, delighted. “You're making sense!"

“Sense but no strength,” I more or less said.

“Keep trying. Keep the old tongue mobile!"

“Yesh,” I spluttered.

The loss of Nanji's carriage delayed the caravan's departure. This I welcomed for I could thus postpone the final decisions about my own plans. Despite incredible exertions and body-shattering exercises, I gained no strength. I remained as weak as a woflo.

“Still,” said Mevancy in her newly-rough way, “you can talk a bit now and you can lift a pen. You'll do. I'll give you the gold you need.” She screwed up her eyes at me. “I don't feel responsible for you any more, Drajak."

“I give you my thanks,” I mumbled. “I will arrange passage."

“Well, if you change your mind, do it soon. Master Pandarun won't wait for laggards who can't afford to pay for the privilege."

So I went down to the levee and fixed up a passage aboard a flat-boat.

Now I had no inkling. I'd done my work. I was not myself as a result of that task, and resented that, I can tell you, by Krun! I said goodbye to Mevancy and I own I felt a pang. I owed her much, a damn-sight more than mere gold. She gave me a nice lynxter and the sword was a parting gift I knew I would treasure. We made the remberees and I walked off towards the river.

“Remberee, Drajak, cabbage!” she called after me again.

I turned. “Remberee, Lady Mevancy nal Chardaz!"

The words sounded almost as though uttered by a human throat.

Llodi appeared at my side and said he would stroll down to the levee with me, as the Deldar had gone off with a local girl for the afternoon.

A giant of a tree lying athwart the roadway was being cut up by gangs of slaves. It had fallen just short of the river and its leafy branches spread their debris alongside the landing stage where was moored my flat boat. Llodi stood back for me to pass around the stump end of the tree. This had been wrenched out of the ground to form a round saucer-like mass of earth and broken roots. Incongruously, still adhering in a ring to the flat surface, now on its side, neat rows of flat pavement tiles formed a wall instead of a road. So I inched my way around past the earthy bottom of the tree and a brick wall. The passage was narrow by reason of the gaping semi-circular hole the uprooted tree had left in the pavement.

That it should be at this precise point that I collided with Strom Hangol came as no surprise whatsoever to me.

This confrontation had been long in the making. This seemed a spot picked by the invisible referees of the Hyr Jikordur for the ritual initial insults.

Hangol simply snarled: “Out of the way, shint."

Well, now. I stood still and silent for a moment, and in that tiny space I heard Llodi call soft and urgently for me to withdraw. I supposed in that moment of indecision and self-mockery that, indeed, I would have to withdraw. I was in no case to fight this cramph now.

He took my indecision as a calculated insult.

He slashed at me with his riding crop.

To say that I dislike people who go around hitting other people for no reason, with riding crops or anything else, is a grave understatement. In the normal course of affairs I'd have taken the whip away from him and wrapped it around his head. But, as before, I was slow and weak and he caught me a slicing slash across the shoulder. Instead of staggering back, I thought to be clever and use an old ploy. So I gave a stentorian bellow of pain—and the fakery in that was minimal, by Krun!—and surged forward as though falling helplessly.

He was very quick.

He stepped back sharply so that I ran stumbling on, almost losing my balance, for five or six long paces. As I went past him so he hit me again.

I regained my balance and turned. Llodi came into view around the uprooted tree stump, a look of intense sorrow on his face. Hangol faced me and slowly thrust his riding crop down his belt and drew his sword.

“I have suffered under your insolence, you rast, and now will repay you."

There was no point in my hanging about. Already I was late for the flatboat, delayed by fallen trees, and I knew I would not last two passes in my present state if I allowed this brawl to develop into a sword fight. As I reached that insalubrious conclusion Hangol advanced on me, sword poised.

He wore a plain yellow tunic, with a fawn robe carelessly caught over his right shoulder. His face expressed the most lively anticipation of enjoyment.

He dropped his sword. He clapped his left hand to his neck, and he let out a surprised yell. I thought—I was not sure—I spotted a tiny stick-like object protruding from the side of his neck between his fingers.

Someone yelled fiercely: “Run, onker!"

So I ran.

I helter-skeltered down the side of the fallen tree to the levee. The master of the flatboat stood at the top of the jetty steps looking back. When he saw me he waved an urgent arm and I fairly flew along and clattered down the steps into the boat.

“You come finely on your time, dom,” he growled and his crew poled off.

Chapter seven

I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, was far from a happy fellow that evening as I sat dangling my legs over the boat's bows and watched the twin suns go down.

Strom Hangol had run after me, yelling and waving the rapier he'd ripped from its scabbard. I had not waited. Rendi the Keel, the master, had decided he would not hang about, either. So, I had run off from a foeman. Well, I've run away before, and by Vox I don't doubt I'll run away again in the future. I am no longer the headstrong Dray Prescot who first came to Kregen under the Suns of Scorpio. All the same, it rankled...

And I can be even more headstrong and violent now than ever I could. The passage of the seasons has tended to channel the direction of those efforts.

The river burbled on and I settled into a fresh acceptance of my lot. The banks were flat and varied greatly in height. All away to the east lay flat desertland. The irrigations of the city persisted some way along the margin of the west bank, interspersed with buildings and little villages. They would soon peter out. I supposed this River of Oneness to have its sources in some vast range of mountains among the jungles of Chem. If it carried me down to the west of the South Lohvian Sea I could then sail eastwards and visit my kingdom of Djanduin. That appeared to me a particularly appealing prospect.

In floods and sheets of crimson and jade, of orange and emerald, with spears of gold and umber striking upwards, the twin suns sank. Luz and Walig vanished beneath the horizon and still light bloomed in the sky as the stars came out and the two second moons of Kregen eternally orbiting each other cast down their fuzzy pink moons light. The scent of Moonblooms reached me from the eastern bank. The smell of the river, dark and pungent, secret with secrets old before man ever sailed these waters, wafted upwards as the prow cut southwards. Well, then, I was sorry to part with Mevancy; but I would force myself to be content with my fate in that, and press on with what had to be done on Kregen.

In the last clash of colors as the final rinds of suns sank and the stars winked out and the Twins circled above I saw vaguely through the green and the crimson and the pink a wash of blueness steal between me and the stars.

The blueness swelled and bloated above me and the gigantic form of the phantom Scorpion leered down. I felt coldness. I was lifted up, gasping, for a crazy topsy-turvy instant seeing the flatboat sailing along over my head, and then down I went, splat! into the dirt.

My first action after I spat to clear the dust from my throat was to feel for the sword. It still swung at my belt. The blueness vanished and with it the spectral Scorpion. I sat up. Now where was I?

“By the revolting dangling left eyeball of Makki Grodno!” I said, breathing hard. “Now what the merry hell are the Everoinye playing at?"

For I was sitting in the dirt of a village street and from the shape of the church or temple at the water's edge I recognized a village we'd sailed past just a short time ago. So the Star Lords did not wish me to leave.

But—not leave what? I did not groan as I got to my feet; but I'd felt that thumping great arrival here. Was I supposed to stay with the caravan? With Mevancy? Here in Ankharum? Or perhaps one of the folk in the caravan was the target of the Star Lords concern. I just didn't know.

As to that, then, as I started to walk back, I'd find out.

With sensible rests and a good pace and a careful lookout the walk back through the narrow alleyways through the irrigations and past the occasional village took me round almost to the rising of the suns. I crawled into our lodgings and found a straw-heap by the downstairs door and flaked out.

Something hard and pointed jabbed into my ribs and I rolled over and saw it was a toe with a round pink toenail trimmed and shining.

I looked up. Past the pretty pink toenail the rest of a shapely foot and then a perfectly turned ankle and a calf of superb curve and proportion led my gaze to the edge of a violet towel obscuring the balance of a rich thigh and a swell of hip.

She said: “You nurdling great onker! That shint Hangol has sworn—he was foaming—he'll kill you on sight. You utter nincompoop! What the hell have you come back for?"

The fact I noticed was the smooth shining silkiness of her skin. I looked up at her face—a face not remarkable for beauty but noteworthy for strength of resolution and conviction—and saw black thunderclouds there that would have brought a whole regiment of aerial cavalry down in flames.

“Well,” I said, and then paused, and said, again: “Well,” and so said no more.

“Well?” she snapped, twitching the violet towel more securely around her. That smooth loveliness seemed somehow different on her forearms and the grainy look caught the light differently.

I'd absolutely no story prepared to explain my return, and I could not think of one on the spur of the moment. She saw me looking at her naked arms and her face flushed up—making her look suddenly vastly more attractive.

“Oh, you!” she flared out. “All right, cabbage. We'll have some breakfast and then I'll have to see Rikky Tardish. It might just be that I can save your bacon for you, you get onker you!"

So after she had dressed we had breakfast in the upstairs room and fine fare it was, too, to a poor wretch like me who had marched famished all night. The sleeves of her tunic were fastened more tightly than usual so that only small oval shapes of grainy skin were visible. If she'd suffered some accident as a child, say a nasty scalding, she ought not to be ashamed of that. Somehow I had the firm impression that had she suffered an accident and been disfigured she would not be ashamed but angry and defiant.

“Don't you care what happens to you, cabbage?"

“Usually,” I said, equably. Truth to tell I was pleased to be able to join in conversation again, even though I've always been more of a listener than a talker. “But there are priorities. At the moment, breakfast is the top priority. After that I'll start thinking of ways not to get killed."

“I have already thought. You must keep out of Hangol's way—look at you! You're hardly strong enough to slice that loaf!"

She exaggerated; but not, by Krun, by much!

She went on, her nostrils pinching and flaring: “We have to cross the Farang Parang to reach the capital. Once we get there we can—"

“P'raps we'd better think what to do when we get there when we get there."

She glared.

Then: “You, Drajak, are damned rude. But I suppose you're right."

“Who's this fellow Rikky Tardish?"

“Ah!” She perked up and I caught a distinct impression of a small girl planning mischief. “He thinks of himself as a sly rogue; but everyone takes outrageous advantage of him. He runs a traveling entertainment troupe."

So, at once, I saw what she planned.

I did not exactly groan. So far I'd avoided the old cliché, found in so many stories of Earth and of Kregen, of the famous hero or heroine hiding in a circus or troupe of players. The nearest I'd come had been with Rollo the Circle and his artists. I am not enamored of circuses. Still, she had the right of it in this: I had to steer clear of Hangol for a time yet.

“You will have a green face and a red nose, with ears of a size."

She did not exactly smack her lips at this prospect; but her eyes were bright and her lips curved in such a way as to show her deep mocking enjoyment.

“You,” I said, trying not to snarl, “are worse than a Witch of Loh."

Of course, I did not mean that in any literal sense—naturally!

Her face clouded. “Do not,” she said, and she spoke seriously. “Do not speak of the Witches or Wizards of Walfarg to Rikky Tardish.” She blew out her cheeks, and added: “He was englamoured of a Witch of Walfarg once, and did things he tried to forget, things that give him nightmares."

I thought of Kov Vodun Alloran who had been englamoured of a witch and had caused grievous harm in Vallia before Drak and Silda had saved him. Kov Vodun had raged against Hamal, like Cato and his refrain delenda est Carthago. Now Vallia and Hamal were allies, delenda est Carthago—or Hamal—was long put aside.

This reminder of the outside world did not depress me. The Star Lords had sent me here for a purpose which was still unfulfilled. Here in this vast stretch of country in Southern Loh the people were isolated from the greater outside world, it is true; but they had their ways and civilization and religious beliefs. They were not barbarians. What might depress me quite apart from the weakness upon me was the notion that I couldn't get away from here until I had first discovered what the Everoinye wanted done—and then doing it. For a time yet, I, Dray Prescot, was prepared to be patient. After that, mind you ... !

“If,” I said heavily, “this Rikky Tardish has been fooling around with a Witch of Loh, a Witch of Walfarg as you call ‘em here in Loh, then he deserves everything he gets."

She eyed me sharply.

“You sound as though—"

“Oh, no,” I said, somewhat hastily. “I'm not that much of a fool."

I was not prepared to go into details of my own war with Csitra, a Witch of Loh. And, by Zair! Didn't that seem a long time ago now!

“Well,” she said brightly, popping a paline. “Let us go and find the green paint for your face. And ears as large as maybe.” She rose from the breakfast table, brisk and businesslike. With a groan, I followed.

When a girl can't thump your pillows for you she'll find some other way of devilry to torment you. A Green face! And Ears!

Well, I thought sturdily as I trundled along abaft Mevancy, I'd damned well take comfort from the red nose, by Zim-Zair!

Rikky Tardish was all the things Mevancy had said. Lively, sparkish, thinking of himself, as a later age would express it, as one hell of a guy, he was three times ripped off even in the short time Mevancy and I talked with him. Once a decrepit object borrowed silver and went off whistling. Once a girl said she had a headache and was excused and was later seen with her lover in a low tavern. Once a coper swore the mytzer he was selling was in perfect condition, and that draught animal later expired of advanced colic.

“All the time, Mevancy?” said Tardish.

“All the time,” said Mevancy, with great firmness, “until you reach Makilorn."

I opened my mouth to speak and Mevancy snapped: “Shut your black-fanged winespout, Drajak. All the time! Dernun?"

“But,” I got out. “The ears? Not the ears!"

“The ears, cabbage."

I groaned. This strong-minded female lady was condemning me to walk about by day and sleep by night with a green face, a red nose, and wearing enormous ears. Quite apart from the ludicrous costume I must wear.

“Strom Hangol, in the short time I have had the misfortune to know him,” said Rikky Tardish, “strikes me as a—a—"

“He's all of that,” said Mevancy. “And he will strike you, as Tsung-Tan is my witness, with or without the slightest excuse."

“A green face,” I said. “Jeehum!"

“As I said, cabbage, I no longer feel responsible for you. If you continue to improve and keep your red nose out of trouble, by the time you reach Makilorn you should be recovered. I repeat, I want no recompense. Now—"

“You're leaving!"

“That's right. I'll bid you Remberee, Drajak. I'm sailing downriver. My flatboat's waiting and I'll be gone long before the hour of mid."

Chapter eight

I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor, Krozair of Zy, King of Djanduin, Hyr Kov of Zamra, Strom of Valka, Vovedeer (and a lot else, Opaz forgive me!), ex Emperor of Vallia, solemnly daubed green greasepaint all over my face, donned a large and scarlet false nose, and finally hung huge donkey ears about my own. I dressed myself in a confection of red and green and yellow and blue, of bows and folderols, of laces and ribbons, and, finally, I took up a parti-colored stick with an inflated bladder attached.

Thus armed, I strode out onto the stage to entertain the good folk of the caravan.

I was, as you will readily perceive, the butt of the farce.

Very quickly my bladder was taken from me by a succession of actors and actresses and I was thoroughly and repeatedly hit over the head with it.

In the natural course of development, Theatre on Kregen varies widely. And, as you know, at this time when I refer to Kregen I am really talking about our grouping of continents and islands called Paz. Here entertainment has progressed at different speeds in different parts and stands at varying levels within nations as well as between country and country. Shadow plays are popular, mimes and dance, a whole slew of weird singing plays are known and loved. The Italian commedia dell'arte gave rise to subsequent greatness—who greater than Jean Baptiste Poquelin?—from its knockabout beginnings. So here farce and comedy and tragedy mingled and gave rise to the great works of Kregen dramatists. Some of these and their works I have mentioned from time to time.

Do not for a single instant believe that the sublime dramatic works that are the glory of the Kregan stage were even dreamed of by Rikky Tardish's traveling company. Oh, no! A green face, red nose and a pair of donkey's ears—why, yes, that was the level. And that was the level Rikky Tardish intended to keep. He knew the majority of his audience. I guessed that Leotes and one or two of the others merely humored the mob in thus sitting prominently in the front row and applauding—just a fraction of a second after the other groundlings. Strom Hangol was lapping it up. Yet, the rast, he'd appreciate other more refined fare. And, even as I leaped about and cavorted and tried to avoid the bladder blows, so I knew that this farcical stuff was good of its kind. Improvisation upon a basic scenario was all; the more inventive the comicalness the louder the audience applauded.

Tiny Tanch pranced on in a piebald outfit to hit and be hit. He hailed from Ng'groga and was scraping eight foot tall. A quantity of tomfoolery ensued between him and Fat Naghan and I could step back for a moment. The smell of greasepaint, the tang of dust and oil and the mere hint of sweat combined to form a bouquet to remember. I looked at Hangol. If one wished to be uncharitable one would say he laughed the loudest at someone's misfortune. His silver mask flashed. He was enjoying himself.

The whole caravan had turned out for this show, glad that Tardish's Troupe was accompanying them and hopeful of a fresh show each evening.

I'd overheard Hangol talking in a bitter raving kind of way to his cronies. He'd been reviling Vallia. It turned out he'd taken his facial wound at the Battle of Ovalia. I remembered that fight—well, by Vox, would I ever be likely to forget? My Vallian Eighth Army had bested and beaten the iron legions of Hamal and their fanatical allies. We'd swung the thorn ivy trap on them and shattered them. Their commander had been Kapt Hangrol in the alliance with the traitor Layco Jhansi. Well, they were all smoke blown with the wind now.

In what would be the orchestra pit, Tardish's little band scraped and blew away. He had no less than three punklinglings, melodious instruments, and they should not be called plunkings as some ignorant folk do. There were tabors and trumpets and in all the band produced interesting sounds. The girls danced on in their frilly skirts and beads and little else kicking their legs, arms across one another's shoulders, smiling. Oh, yes, Rikky Tardish insisted on the chorus girls smiling, smiling...

Strom Hangol slouched back in his chair and spoke out of the side of his mouth to one of his cronies, a beetle-browed fellow with black hair and a bad skin, known as Gandil the Mak, who habitually carried sword and axe.

After the girls had done their dance I was to be hit over the head again. Tiny Tanch, towering up and up, slipped over and fell on his bottom and drew a roar from the audience. He struggled up and swung a sword at me. I dodged. I flung up my hands and looked all about, trying my best in the pantomime, and the audience picked this up quickly and started yelling.

“A sword! A sword!"

Rikky Tardish himself trotted on, smirking, swishing a sword about. I do not think there was a soul in the audience who did not know I was the fall guy and no matter what I did I would come out with the sticky end.

Then I saw the weapon Tardish proffered me. I ought not to have been surprised. After all, the bandits’ loot had been recovered, and here was my own rapier. It was perfectly clear why this particular weapon should be chosen. I was the clown. Therefore I could have an odd, foreign, unfamiliar and therefore funny weapon. Strom Hangol leaned forward, shouting something, and Leotes called out and Hangol sat back.

A girl—she was Fashti, a shapely Fristle maiden—ran out and hit me over the head with her stick and the bladder caught one of my ears and knocked it off.

I think, even in that moment, I knew Strom Hangol would recognize me.

His attention had been drawn by the rapier and no doubt he had protested that such a weapon should be used in so low a farce. Touchy, he'd be, the cramph, about that. He edged forward, staring at me. Then Tiny Tanch, eight foot tall, took a swipe at me, making a grotesquerie of it, and caught me a whack across the buttocks with the flat. I jumped. They were falling about down there in the audience. My green face and red nose and one ear told them I was the butt of all this. The remaining ear fell off. Strom Hangol rose from his seat and I, of course, like the veritable onker I was, stared at him. Tiny Tanch gave me a buffet that knocked my stupid stuffed hat off.

I saw the expression on Hangol's face.

There is the old tradition that members of the audience in some of these congregational farces join in the action. No one would have been vastly surprised when Hangol jumped up onto the stage. Perhaps Leotes might have felt a stab of mystification in this act of his cadade. Hangol flourished his rapier.

“Let one who knows show you!” he bellowed.

“Strom, strom!” the crowd bellowed. “Teach him! Teach him!"

This suited Hangol's book.

He shickered his blade before my face. Then he said in a hissing fashion: “Shint! I know you! Rast—you are going to die!"

I didn't bother to waste breath on him. I was in poor case here. Oh, yes, I held a rapier I knew. I did not have a left hand dagger. My strength was such that at the first pass Hangol would brush my blade aside hardly noticing the beat or the pressure.

Just how good a swordsman was he, anyway?

Since my escapade with Mefto the Kazzur, all my old feelings about sword fighting had been enormously reinforced. No longer was it a case that one day I might meet a better swordsman—I'd already met him. So, maybe, this Strom Hangol was another. Unsettling, that kind of thought. If I was to have any chance at all in this fight then that chance would come only from my skill. If this bully boy was any kind of fist with the Jiktar and the Hikdar, the rapier and main gauche, then I'd not escape without serious injury, a ghastly maiming or, if he wished, my quietus.

I grasped the rapier awkwardly. When I tell you the thing felt as though it weighed like one of those monstrous two-handed swords of the Blue Mountains, you can gauge of my weakness and muscle-power. I swished it about.

The crowd applauded. Hangol laughed. He said: “I shall not kill you at once. Slowly is the way to do it."

Abruptly he drove in and with a flickering glitter of steel he slashed down and a bright green bow fell off my gaudy costume.

Well, a beginner can do that after he or she is shown how.

“Parry him!” yelled Rikky Tardish from the side. “Make a show of it!"

“I shall make a show of you, rast,” said Hangol in his vindictively genial way. “I shall enjoy this."

I swashed the rapier before me as he struck again and his blade knocked my own away and seared on to remove a yellow bow.

I did not have a main gauche. He had not drawn his as yet. Well, that was an advantage. I got my left hand onto the knuckle bow of the rapier. I gripped the pommel and knuckle bow in a clumsy grip, a pathetic apology for the two-handed grip I'd use on a Krozair longsword.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if I had sufficient skill then a rapier used in two hands might just get me out of this scrape in one piece.

It was vitally necessary to do a great deal of prancing about the stage. I kicked my heels up and danced this way and swung that, managing to keep my two-handed grip, swashing the rapier around in exaggerated circles, and the audience howled. Hangol breathed hard. He wanted to get in a few pretty strokes yet, to toy with me further; but in very short order I had sussed him out. His skill was average. He had not, I fancied, swaggered as a Bladesman in the Sacred Quarter of Ruathytu. And he most certainly had never, ever, been to far Zenicce to face the Bravo Fighters there.

So, what with all this skipping and jumping, and the use of all my poor strength in that extraordinary two-handed grip, I kept his blade out.

Oh, yes, it was known for a rapier fighter to grab hold of his hilt and slash two-handed; that would not go far if the opponent kept his head and used his skill and so thrust home.

What would my Krozair Brothers have made of that exhibition!

The farce could not go on long. For one thing, the audience would rapidly tire if some satisfying knock-about conclusion was not quickly reached. Always the crowd hungered for new sensation; after the girls had danced and Slender Varankey the juggler had done some tricks, they'd be ready for another bout like this. As it was, knowing this, Hangol would press hard to finish it. As it was, knowing this, I had to finish quickly before all my puny strength leached away.

One of the strangest things about that strange fight as Hangol whipped out his left hand dagger and brought that into play, was the use of two-handed Krozair sword artistry with a rapier versus a rapier and main gauche. I discovered some new tricks there, by the Blade of Kurin!

He was really trying now. I wondered just how many people in the audience realized this Strom Hangol was really trying to thrust home, was really trying to finish me. None, I'd guess. Even Leotes was unfamiliar with rapier work. The uproar was prodigious. People were stamping their feet and yelling and applauding. I could feel what little strength I had draining away.

In the end I used a half-complex routine from the Seventh Circle of the Artifices of the Sword written by San Zefan some two and a half thousand seasons ago on the island of Zy in the Eye of the World of Turismond. San Zefan, Krzy, did not fail me. As I completed the preliminary movements I checked the second passage in which Hangol's sword would fly from his fingers. Instead I transferred the pressure and so, letting out as loud a shout as I could manage in my state, and stumbling forward with a tremendous bustle, I stuck the rapier through the rast's right thigh.

Instantly I endeavored to withdraw and, of course, the pesky thing wouldn't come out cleanly with my level of strength. If he had the courage and strength of will now, he could finish me.

Instead he let rip a scream of pain, dropped both rapier and main gauche, and staggered back, thus freeing my blade, and clapped his hands around his thigh from which the dark blood welled. I managed—and to this day it is a marvel, by Krun!—I just managed to stop my blade striking for his throat.

I turned away, capering like a loon, and Leotes was bellowing and Rikky Tardish was catching me by the elbow and yelling that it was all a mistake. His face sheened with the sweat of fear. He dragged me off, as Hangol's cronies leaped to the stage and carted the strom off. For a space there was considerable confusion and uproar and then, with his showman's gifts fully deployed, Tardish had his girls out there prancing with flashing limbs and flaunting feathers and the inevitable dazzling smiles.

Tiny Tanch leaned down.

“You'd better clear off a bit, dom. Let things simmer down."

I shook the rapier and a drop of blood flew.

“You are right, Tiny, and I thank you."

Truth to tell I felt as though I'd been pushing a sixteen ton load up a hill for ten years straight. I wheezed. I felt my muscles burning. By Krun! What a burden on a fellow it is in life to be weak!

Rikky Tardish hove up, sweating, shaking.

“Make yourself scarce, Drajak. Oh, that I listened to the smooth tongue of that Mevancy! I knew she'd bring me trouble—"

“Blame that shint Hangol!” I said, sharply. “Mevancy paid you gold."

“Aye, aye, by the mercy of Tsung-Tan she did. Now clear off, schtump!"

Nothing loath I took myself off and wandered among the tents and carts. I could still feel the reaction after that ludicrous fight. My Val! To fight like that! It was a wonder I wasn't stuck clean through.

Out past the last line of tents I walked along, swishing the rapier about, looking for a proper clump of grass or a wide-leaved bush to clean the blood from the blade.

Blueness grew in the air. I sucked in a startled breath, looking up.

Blueness, high in the sky, washing down in a broadening belt of blue radiance ... “What in a Herrelldrin Hell do the Everoinye want with me now?” I said. “I suppose, you Scorpion, you've come to dump me down where Mevancy has gone."

The shape of the enormous phantom Scorpion glowed above me in fire. I knew I'd never seen him from quite this angle before. He seemed somehow removed from me. The shape dropped lower. All the ground before me radiated blueness. Yet I could hear the chirp of insects in the grass and feel a gentle breeze. The shape of the giant Scorpion wavered before me, pulsating, diaphanous. The shimmer melted, flowed, dissipated and within three heartbeats the phantom Scorpion of the Star Lords was gone.

I let out my breath.

I was standing quite still, and staring, and not believing. Oh no, by Vox. I certainly didn't believe this.

For out from where the blue radiance of the phantom Scorpion had died a woman walked towards me.

As I stood with my eyes sticking out like organ stops, Mevancy walked out from the Scorpion of the Star Lords.

Chapter nine

“It really does look as though I can't go off and leave you, cabbage, without you running your fool neck into trouble. I was sure the shint wouldn't recognize you in that remarkable get-up."

“Well, he did.” I mumbled something about Tiny Tanch and the Fristle fifi Fashti. We sat in her tent. But I was not really there. I was still standing out there on the edge of the plain as the blue radiance died. I remember with absolute clarity that the scent of Moonblooms mingled on the air with someone frying momogrosses. A girl was singing in a tent close by. She sang “Oh for the Sword of my Lover", which is a sad little ditty filled with long cadences and the drawn out vowels of sadness. Whenever I hear that song I am transported back to that dusty grass plain outside Ankharum where I first saw another being moved through space by the Star Lords.

How well aware I was of the importance of this occurrence!

I had met other kregoinye laboring for the Star Lords.

Once Pompino had staggered back to me, thrust there to do his duty. But this—this was altogether different. And, into the bargain, this was no kregoinye. This was a kregoinya.

Mevancy nal Chardaz was a kregoinya!

I shook my head, there in her tent, and heard as through a veil her testy words. “I cannot go down to the coast now, cabbage. So I'll just go along with you to Makilorn."

“To be sure,” I mumbled, and then found I was not at all sure of what I was sure about. She'd certainly hauled me the last few feet out of that damned fire. I'd thought that had conferred responsibility upon her by transference. All the time it had been her duty from the Star Lords. They wanted me to look out for Mevancy, I believed. Now, it appeared, they wanted Mevancy to look out for me.

I thrust that idea aside.

This was turning out to be more like the jobs Pompino and I had done together. The Star Lords recognized the need for a team, at times; in some of the more tricky situations they threw their kregoinyes and—now—kregoinyas.

“You're mumbling, cabbage. I thought you were getting better."

“It is very good of you to come all this way back to look out for me, Mevancy.” I thought I'd try a gentle boot in. “I can't imagine why."

“How do you know it is all this way back?” she demanded.

“I just supposed."

“H'm. Well, just be thankful I was able to persuade Leotes that it was all just an accident. Hangol was—upset."

“He tried to stick me through, to kill me."

“No one, if you bray that out, will believe, will they?"

I breathed heavily. “Llodi would, for one."

“Of course. But everyone else will question why a high and mighty lord, a strom no less, should worry his head over a clown."

“It is known—"

“Yes, it is. And if you get Llodi involved, then his head will roll."

“Well, I'll just have to watch out, that's all."

“You'll watch your front and you hope Llodi and me will watch your back?"

I mumbled around that one, and she got the drift I was grateful.

“It is quite clear this shint Hangol will try to kill you or have you killed. If we can reach Makilorn safely we'll stand a chance."

On that rather insubstantial note she said she was retiring and told me to clear out. Her cart, tent and gear were all here correct. She had worn her proper clothes when the Star Lords had brought her back from her trip downriver. I wondered if a folk tale might grow of people who took passage on flatboats down the River of Oneness and then disappeared.

As I bid her goodnight I reflected that the Everoinye looked after those kregoine they favored. Me, they'd fished up out of a Savanti reject. The old feelings I'd had of the Star Lords, that if they'd supplied me with a shield and a helmet and a spear, I'd think the less of them, seemed now, whilst still true in the savage barbarian code, hardly applicable to Mevancy.

I found myself a corner and a bit of straw and slept the sleep of the mightily abused of the world.

All the same, as I awoke, my second thought was a gleeful reminder that I'd kept the rapier. If you do not know my first thought by now, well, as it is the same as the last thought of all before I sleep ... and if you still do not know, I can only say ... !

Mevancy seemed to me a trifle down as we ate the first breakfast. I surmised this might be because she'd been dragged back here by the Everoinye to nursemaid me when she clearly had other plans. Mind you, Pompino's other plans always went up in smoke if the Star Lords called on him.

The sense of doom surrounding the caravan had been lightened only temporarily by last night's entertainments. Mevancy just toyed with her rasher and loloo's eggs. “You'll have to keep well out of the way, cabbage.” She heaved up a sigh. “I suppose I'll see some more of Leotes, now. He at least among these people appears a person of culture and—” She interrupted herself sharply as she caught my eye. “And you needn't mock, you fambly!"

“Mock?” I said. “Mock? What, me mock a grand lady like you?"

She threw a piece of bread at my head. I caught it, reached for the butter, spread it, said: “Why, thank you,” and popped the morsel into my mouth.

She sniffed.

“At least your reflexes are improving."

I did not feel in the mood to explain to her that they and skill were the only things that had kept me alive last evening.

Following on that thought convinced me that Mevancy had not been flung back by the Star Lords to take care of me. Had they considered that then she would have arrived before Hangol began his antics.

So, therefore, that line of argument carried me, what difference was there between this last return of Mevancy's—not to rescue me—and the occasion when she had returned in time to knock off the vulture—clearly to rescue me? Or was I wrong in that, too? Her explanation of her escape from the bandits rang hollow, a matter of biting through bonds and sneaking out and of finding the two riding animals. Oh, no! The Star Lords had hoicked her out of the bandits’ camp, provided her with animals, clothes, weapons and money. Truly, I had been a starveling beggar where the Star Lords were concerned. Well, I could see changes there, startling changes, as you shall hear.

“You look as though you've lost a zorca and found a calsany,” I said, a trifle sharply. “I do appreciate your concern for me, but—"

“But nothing, fambly! Oh, you! You remind me of old Pontior when I was looking after him and I had to dress him up as a woman.” She put her head on one side, sizing me up. “No. I can't imagine you dressed up as a woman."

“I have done so,” I said, equably. “And no doubt will do so again.” Then I essayed a nasty shaft. “Do you make a habit of going around taking care of people?"

Her head went back. The piece of bread, butter and marmalade halted before those ripe lips. “And if I did, does that concern you?"

I felt a mean beast.

Just why I had not told her outright and at once that we both worked for the Star Lords I can only attribute to my natural secrecy where my hide depends on caution and a testing of the way. I would tell her, clearly, one day. Right or wrong, I judged that day had not yet dawned.

“Not my concern,” I agreed, which was a lie.

Llodi popped in to tell us that Strom Hangol had taken to his litter. His wound was turning septic and the needleman was concerned that septicemia would set in under the difficult conditions of the journey. Llodi did not smile when he told us this—well, not outwardly.

“It's a shame for him,” said Llodi solemnly. “Him being a lord an’ all."

“That Hargon—oh, yes, I know he likes to be called San—” snapped Mevancy. “Him and Hangol are thick as thieves. Leotes is too easy going."

“Yes, my lady,” said Llodi. “Hargon was beside the litter early this morning. What they talk about an’ all, I dunno."

“I've a nasty feeling I could make a shrewd guess not too far from the truth."

She sounded heated. How far, I wondered, had the friendship between her and Vad Leotes prospered?

With the incapacitation of the strom helping us we were able to arrange matters for me to keep out of sight, what today would be called a low profile. I continued to help Rikky Tardish; I was not called upon to venture upon the stage again. When I say I was heartily glad to be rid of the green face, the red nose and the donkey's ears, I understate my feelings. And yet—and yet, if farces are demanded and paid for then someone has to dress up like that. Why should I imagine I was above that? What! I'd been the buffoon for a damned long time and only very recently had I been gaining a different view of the Star Lords, an understanding a little better than an inkling of their purposes.

The caravan wended its way westwards across southern Loh. Far to the north sprawling across the equator lay the jungles of Chem. South of them were the savannah type lands, grassy and open plains, filled with a teeming wildlife as well as roads and cities and civilizations. As the character of the land changed, its vegetation, its soils, its climate, people adapted themselves. This trail we were following, the Old Lorn Trail, traced a course at the interface of grass and desert. I asked questions, naturally, and was told the peoples of the north compressed these folk of Tsungfaril so that their homes were built along the rivers and in the oases. They ventured in guarded caravans across the true deserts to the south to reach the broad and fertile coastal plains to carry on a lively trade. Ng'groga, Zamrarn, Din'nagul and other nations, prosperous countries all, were regularly visited in the way of trade. To the west, to Tarankar, the folk of Tsungfaril did not go. Was it not well known that the evil beasts of Tarankar roasted and ate human babies?

Despite this trading activity, and also despite its scattered nature, the land of Tsungfaril was relatively cut off and isolated. The people kept to themselves. Well, that is known. My Djangs do not often care to venture abroad save on the most urgent of errands.

During these questions the name of people referred to as paol-ur-bliem cropped up. My natural queries were met by averted eyes, a shake of the head, and either silence or a change of conversation. Llodi did say, before walking off rapidly: “You must speak with a dikaster, him being a diviner an’ all."

“Where do I find him?” I shouted after Llodi.

“I couldn't tell you."

“Couldn't or wouldn't?” But he vanished around the lictrix lines and I did not follow, for Strom Hangol's tent wasn't too far off and his cronies were to be reckoned with in my puny state.

To refer to that side of this trip for a moment, Mevancy had spoken to her friend Leotes and the word had gone out. Hangol and his cronies’ hands were stayed for now.

All the same, Vad Leotes was far too easy going. His red moustaches bristled up in fine good humor, and he laughed endlessly. Well, by Vox, he had every right to, didn't he? He was rich, pampered, was served hand and foot, didn't do a stroke of work, and from what I gathered could do nothing at all he didn't want to do—save in one thing.

“The queen sometimes presses him hard, cabbage.” She shook her head. “Leotes is vastly loyal to her. Why, why else do you think he'd venture out on the Old Lorn Trail if it wasn't because she sent him?"

“Is he married?” I said brutally. I knew marriage as an accepted form of union existed in Tsungfaril.

“He was. His wife died. He has children, though—"

“Then I'm doubly sorry for him, and also glad."

I knew she had the wit to understand what I meant. She cocked her head on one side. “You have children, then."

“Yes.” I wasn't prepared to tell her that Drak was the Emperor of Vallia, Zeg was the King of Zandikar, and Jaidur was the King of Hyrklana. Nor that Lela was still prancing around Prince Tyfar of Hamal, the pair of them a couple of loons. Nor that Dayra was—well, where was Dayra, Ros the Claw, and what was she up to? And little Velia—well, little Velia was no longer little but a full fledged member of the Sisters of the Rose along with Didi.

Oh, yes, I had children all right; yet I felt young, young, and could still act with all the thoughtless enthusiasm of youth when I forgot the cares of empire. She gave me a long look, and the subject was dropped.

We crossed the Farang Parang, sticky but nowhere as unpleasant as the Great Salt Desert. In somewhat better land to the north, a ferocious nation of nomads effectively barred the easier route. Sometimes those who attacked the caravans were not just disaffected bandits but members of these nomad tribes, the Glitch Riders. They were also a pain to the civilized lands to the north.

What she did say, once when referring to children, was that Vad Leotes’ children seemed unimportant. Singularly unimportant, Mevancy said.

The subject of children came up when I tackled Rikky Tardish about the missing left hand dagger to the rapier he'd given me.

He spread his hands, soulfully.

“The vad had all the loot from the bandits, as is his right."

Somewhat crustily, for as close to the main gauche as this I was annoyed to be baulked of it by some damned vad, I said: “And I suppose it'll stay in his family for generations and his kids will have it—"

“Yes and no,” said Rikky Tardish.

“What's that supposed to mean?"

“Here in Tsungfaril,” he said, and averted his eyes, “we praise Tsung-Tan and we would prefer not to talk about the paol-ur-bliem—accursed to foreigners. Even those of good heart."

He would not be drawn any further so I took myself off wondering why Leotes, as he was one of these mysterious paol-ur-bliem people, should be accursed.

Rikky Tardish's long eight-wheeled plains wagon dropped its front two off-side wheels into a stone-strewn gulley and smashed the pair of them to flinders. The twelve mytzers hauling the wagon were unhitched after they'd hauled the wagon out and Rikky stared glumly at the wreck. Leotes sent word that the caravan would camp for the night here and now, as he wished to visit the abandoned city of Ivory Lorn. Rikky puffed out his cheeks.

“The vad is a good man, Drajak."

“Aye,” I agreed.

As a world Kregen is a remarkable place. Yet geography and natural causes, unless interfered with by savants, operate in much the same way as on Earth. The River of Drifting Leaves ahead of us on which stood Makilorn had once flowed southwards here. Its course was still broadly marked in the dust. Once both banks of the river had flourished with vegetation, rich with produce and fat cattle in the water meadows, the irrigations giving life to support the splendid city whose ruins now exerted so powerful an attraction upon the mind.

Mevancy, glowing, said: “Leotes and I are going to explore the ruins, cabbage. I suppose it is no use you trying to help Rikky?"

“Not much."

She laughed and walked off with that lithe swing of her hips and I saw her and Leotes mount up and gallop off towards the abandoned city. Well, if that was the way of it, then it was no business of mine. I felt that little itch of puzzlement over Mevancy; I still wasn't sure she was apim. Not, of course, that it would make any difference if the races were compatible.

The short day's travel left me feeling restless and it was in my mind to have a look at these ancient ruins myself. When the river changed course the people had simply taken what they could carry and left what they couldn't and traipsed off to find the river again to the west. The city left in the dryness still stood, in surprisingly good condition. Some of the temples remained impressive buildings, towering against the afternoon sky.

The lictrix Mevancy had provided, Snuffles, gave me a leery look as I unhitched him from the lines to which he'd only recently been led. He pawed the ground; but he used his near side middle leg, so he wasn't too upset. I had my foot in the stirrup when Master Pandarun hurried up, calling: “Drajak! A moment. Have you seen the vad?"

“He went off to the ruins."

“I know but—"

“Yes, I saw where he went."

“Zorca riders have come in. There is an urgent message from the queen. The vad must be informed at once. Will you—?"

“Of course.” I mounted up, touched Snuffles, and set off thinking only that this was a reasonable excuse for me to have a look at the ruins.

The city of Ivory Lorn must have been a tremendous place. I found myself comparing the pile with lost cities of two worlds. Ivory Lorn ranked high. As I rode gently down a broad dust-choked avenue flanked by the facades of still impressive edifices, I spotted two figures high on the flank of a temple. They'd tethered their mounts and climbed up to get a panoramic view. They were sitting close together, dangling their legs over the side. I found myself thinking that Vad Leotes wouldn't mind if I shouted up.

A projecting cornice obscured the two figures as I rode on, and when I'd passed that building and cleared the cornice away, there was no sign of them.

My feelings were not wholly of annoyance. I wouldn't mind climbing up and taking in the view. I tethered Snuffles and started the climb which was easy.

Always I walk with a light tread, as silently as I can; it is a habit. A noise of a slide of loose stone took my attention back to the avenue. Three figures ran out and vanished into shadows opposite. I frowned. One of those men was Gandil the Mak, the second San Hargon and the third another of Strom Hangol's cronies, Nalgre the Frunicator. I went back to climbing with great urgency. I felt a thickness in my throat. By Zair! If ... I stopped that thought and climbed frantically.

When I reached the place where I'd spotted them, there was no sign. I called: “Mevancy!"

A voice directly ahead called back: “Cabbage!"

I moved forward cautiously on that high platform and looked over the edge. Mevancy clung to a narrow ledge, a decoration in the stone, just an arm's length below. She had the fingers of both hands hooked onto the ledge. Leotes had his arms wrapped about her waist and hips, hanging from her body. The avenue stretched a killing distance below them. Mevancy's fingers slipped. There was not much time. Her head tilted and her face looked up, taut, strained, yet she said: “Lahal, cabbage. Can you do anything?"

I lay down on my stomach, stuck my head over the edge, staring down. We were a long way up. One slip and it would be squashed tomato down there.

I put both my arms down and could just reach her wrists. In the instant I grasped her, her fingers slipped again. She gasped. I felt her weight pull on me and my body scraped three inches forward over the platform.

“We will pull you over too!"

“Just hold on, Mevancy—"

“My fingers are done for—"

“I'll hold you."

“You, cabbage! With your woflo strength!"

I felt myself slide forward again. There was absolutely no way on Kregen I was going to pull them up. There wasn't even a decent toe hold.

For the first time Leotes spoke.

“We will pull us all over. I do not want you to die, Mevancy."

She took what he meant instantly.

“No, Leotes! You can't! Help will reach us—"

“You forget I am paol-ur-bliem, my dear.” He tilted his head back and I could see his fierce upturned red moustaches. “I just regret the time wasted. Still, youngsters grow fast when there is a reason for it."

I didn't know what he was burbling on about. I did know that if help didn't come damned quickly then I had a most horrendous decision to make.

With a kind of snorting gasp I managed a hoarse bellow.

“Help!"

Mevancy took up the shouts, fiercely: “Help! To the vad! Help!"

Leotes cut in. “We are slipping down. Help will not reach us in time."

She stared up at me and blood rushed into her face. “Don't you dare drop the vad, Drajak! Don't you dare!"

She must have felt some movement of his arms about her, for she screamed again, almost incoherently: “No, no! Leotes! No!"

My body scraped forward again, nearer to the edge where I would topple helplessly over.

I'd be a red puddle down there unless I let go.

And, truth to tell, I could feel the strength leaching away from my fingers and wrists. In all Opaz's Truth, I couldn't hold on much longer.

I think Leotes saw that in my face.

What he couldn't see was the guilt I would bear for ever after, for I knew without the shadow of a doubt where my loyalty lay. The noise of my belt scraping over the stone sounded hideously. In only a moment or two I would have to act or die.

Mevancy calmed down. She said something in a low voice and Leotes laughed—a weird jolly laugh, full-bodied and without mockery, devastating for a man in his position. “You will wait, my dear?"

Mevancy said: “Of course, my love."

And Leotes let go and dropped down and down and splattered on the pavement.

I felt the difference at once and knew I could hold Mevancy.

So that was the way they found us when rescue at last arrived.

Chapter ten

Mevancy said: “There is no one in the caravan we can rely on who has power sufficient to hold the shint. Hurry, fambly! We must ride for the city and lose ourselves there as fast as maybe."

She was upset and hurt, that I could see. I believe she had a little cry in the privacy of her tent before she blazed into action. She was not distraught. She acted, and the impression I gained was clear, as though there had been an interruption in her plans.

A tragedy of this dimension, one would think, would drive her crazy with grief. But, no, she remained calm and firm, taking control and organizing us for our flight through the desert to Makilorn.

Master Pandarun had found us, and the zorca riders from the queen had hauled us in. There was no chance, given the scene, that we would be thought guilty of the vad's death. That, of course, would not stop Hangol; for a space he would have a free rein and he'd revenge himself. I, I may say, packed very smartly for the off.

We felt little surprise when Llodi the Voice said he would fly with us. Strom Hangol had Llodi marked for destruction just as we were.

We didn't bother with the cart and Mevancy found a lictrix from somewhere for Llodi. We took plenty of water, enough food, our weapons and ourselves and we set off, running for our lives.

I do not know by how much we scraped clean away before Hangol's cronies started vengefully to find us; it must have been by precious little, by Krun!

We rode hard and sharp into the night, heading west for the River of Drifting Leaves and the great city of Makilorn in which we would hide.

What had passed between Mevancy and Leotes was privileged to them; I had heard only scraps. If I couldn't make head or tail of this information yet, that is not to be wondered at. Ideas drifted around in my skull; but nothing seemed to make sense. This concern must have been the reason that I completely missed the obvious. I failed to see what was going to happen in our lives with sudden and unopposed authority.

Poor old Llodi! He would, as I knew, probably see nothing.

In the event it turned out somewhat differently from what one would expect, given their ways.

The Maiden with the Many Smiles was up, shining refulgently down upon the waste of the Farang Parang. Stars glittered in their multitudes. The night was cool but not unpleasantly so and the hooves of our mounts thudded muffled in the dust. Ever and anon I threw a searching glance back.

Reivers of the Glitch Riders might be out on a night like this, hoping to take a caravan by surprise. Ordinary bandits operated in this area also. We might spot dark shapes under the Moons and not know who they were. We'd know only one thing; they did not wish us well.

Mevancy had said that San Hargon had laughed most cruelly when the other two villains had pushed her and Leotes over the edge. He'd looked down and at the obvious question had answered that the two victims should be left to fall on two counts: one that the deaths would be accounted accidental, and, two, that he would enjoy the thought of the suffering before death.

A cold, reptilian creature, this ascetic Hargon.

So, when it happened and I finally got the message into my stupid old vosk skull of a head, I let out a shattering bellow of mingled chagrin and rage.

And, as I have said, it happened as it had never happened to me before.

The phantom shape of the giant blue Scorpion bloated above us. Llodi rode on, head thrust down, completely oblivious; he might have been asleep.

I tensed, expecting the coldness, the rushing sensation of falling, the thump of landing elsewhere. Suppose, just suppose, the frantic thoughts cascaded through my head, just suppose they hurled me back to Earth!

The silent, invisible uproar ceased. Llodi still rode on ahead; there was no sign of Mevancy.

The blue Scorpion had vanished.

Instantly I reined up. Hell's Bells! I'd have to ride back now.

I needn't have bothered.

The blue Scorpion re-appeared, vast, filling the sky, leering down on me. Expecting, this time, to be snatched up and whirled end over end I was once more astounded to find myself still astride Snuffles. Together, we went up and end over end. Just what the faithful lictrix thought of this behavior I didn't know; I damned well knew what I thought of it, by Krun!

We came down with a thump, not too demanding on Snuffle's six legs.

Against the stars reared the dark outlines of Ivory Lorn. Directly ahead stood the rows of tents, the animals lines, the carriages. So, this proved the point absolutely. The Star Lords required Mevancy and me to protect someone in the caravan. Problem solved.

Ha!

Looking about carefully in the pink moonslight I saw no trace of Mevancy. Now, where would the girl go? Probably she would discard the idea of going to her tent or cart. She might sneak into the marquee where the body of Leotes lay in state. That would be dangerous; it would be like her. Then I took the notion that from what they'd said the corporeal body was of small importance once dead. Mevancy was not of Tsungfaril; I fancied she'd taken up with Tsung-Tan.

What a mess! Here we'd made a perfect escape, got clear away, and the damned inconsiderate Everoinye had just tossed us back into the fire!

Rikky Tardish—well, that was the best bet.

He'd be shaking in his shoes and not liking it one little bit; I thought he'd care for Mevancy, even if he turfed me out.

His girls lived in the eight-wheeled plains wagon and it suddenly struck me that Rikky might hide her there. The other performers lived in their own vans or in tents. I didn't want to hitch Snuffles to the animal lines for a saddle would stick out like a sore thumb there and, just in case we had to gallop off hurriedly, I wanted Snuffles all saddled up. If we did ride off, this time I'd damn-well shout up that we were trying to preserve our necks for the sake of the fool Star Lords. So I pulled the reins over his nose, patted him, and said in his ear: “There's a good fellow. Now, stay!"

We Clansmen of the Great Plains of Segesthes have ways with animals...

Leaving the lictrix standing still I crept off through the fuzzy pink moonslight towards Rikky's tent. Two of the minor moons were up, hurtling low over the surface of Kregen. In the shifting illumination I saw shadows moving, and then, sharp, stark, poignant, a voice: “By Spurl! You cramphs all deserve to die, you Gahamond-forsaken bunch of shints!"

She sounded fierce and brave. A coarse laugh answered her, and then Strom Hangol, rich and fruitily unpleasant:

“Take the shishi to my tent—” He saw me in the instant I saw him.

He rode a zorca and his leg stuck out. His cronies surrounded him, bold, swaggering, ruffianly fellows who'd slit a throat more for the love of it than for the gold. “Take him,” he said, and he spoke quite softly.

Rough hands seized me. I struggled. That was like a bird in a wire snare. Mevancy called: “You onker!"

Hangol lifted above me astride his zorca. He carried a blatter, a nasty stick for hitting people, rather like the balass rod of office and chastisement carried by some foremen. The zorca curveted. Hangol handled the animal adequately and reined in beside me. He stared down.

The fists grasping me were not to be dislodged by muscles of milk and water. Hangol gloated openly. “Now,” he said, “now we can redress the balance. Bring him along with the girl. We shall listen to them scream for a long time, I think, by Lem, yes!” He lifted the stick. “And this to keep you quiet, shint!” The stick slashed down at my head.

I tried to duck and turn away. The blow smashed down on the back of my head. I felt it. I felt the stick strike down into the base of my skull and the top of my spine. I yelled; I couldn't help that, and fell forward in the grip of the men holding me, unable to move.

As I toppled I saw as it were the stars going around in a circle, I saw the Maiden with the Many Smiles floating serenely away up there, I saw Mevancy with her arms cruelly twisted up her back, I saw Strom Hangol laughing and riding off, grand astride his zorca, swishing his stick.

Then I felt as though I had been tossed into a vat of boiling oil.

My body jerked. My mouth opened in a rictus of agony and no sound came forth. My limbs shook. I vibrated like the plucked string of a harp.

And boiling oil washed all over me and pain lapped me and exploded in my skull like a bursting shell of Earth. I shuddered and trembled, and then I screamed. I yelled. I shrieked. Silence came back as I forced my mouth shut, to be followed by the laughter of Hangol's cronies holding me.

Gandil the Mak and Nalgre the Frunicator stood in front of me as their two colleagues held me. I brought my arms in together, dragging the two men with the movement. I twisted my wrists. My hands were free. I took these two unhappy wights around each one's throat and bashed their heads together. I dropped the bodies and started for the two in front.

Gandil the Mak just ran.

Nalgre the Frunicator was either slower or more stupid. I twisted his neck and dropped him and started off after Gandil the Mak.

So far the knowledge of what had happened was simply there, in my skull, not yet to be thought about, studied, gloated over. By Zair, though!

Strom Hangol's tent was indeed a splendid affair. Well, naturally it was, since up until this evening it had been Vad Leotes’ marquee.

Two of his cronies stood guard before the flap of the opening as Gandil ran up, yelling. They were both armed with strangdjas. Gandil vanished into the marquee. The two guards leveled their weapons at me as I ran up.

I didn't even bother to draw the rapier the Star Lords had so considerately left me. I ducked the first strangdja, kicked the other fellow betwixt wind and water, smashed the first's face in, and turned back to finish the one who was doubled up and whoofling.

Without pause I went on past the flap and into a wide canvas-floored area, clearly the ante-room to the marquee where boots would be cleaned before stepping onto the Walfarg weave carpets and rugs of the interior.

Strom Hangol and Gandil the Mak were just emerging from the far curtained opening. They saw me. They moved forward over the canvas and Hangol unlimbered his rapier and main gauche, the only weapons he wore. Gandil drew his thraxter, the straight cut and thruster of Havilfar. They advanced on me.

“Your death shall be even more painful for you and edifying for me,” quoth Hangol, his dark eye bright, the silver mask glittering in the light of the samphron oil lamps. “You and the shishi will prove greatly entertaining, and, by Lem, you will be sorry!"

I suppose the old intemperate, hot-headed, headlong and harebrained Dray Prescot must burst out now and again, Opaz forgive me. I freely admit to a vice that I abhor overcoming me in this situation. I played to the audience—oh, the audience wasn't either of these two bastards. The audience was invisible, in my head yet perfectly visible there all about me, watching what went on with small shakes and nods of the head, pursing of lips, murmurs of approval—or not, by Vox, given that they knew me, they knew me!

The old sailor knife over my right hip slid out with only the faintest of hisses of oiled leather. In the next heartbeat the knife was in the air and in the next its broad blade was buried in Gandil's throat. He fell down.

“By Lem!” screeched Hangol. “You yetch! I shall teach you—"

Reflectively, as I drew my rapier, I said: “You nulsh! I have burned many temples to Lem the Silver Leem."

He goggled at this, and then he cursed, vilely, and bore in determined to win quickly, to disable me, and then to enjoy his torturing fun at his leisure. I was not naive enough to imagine he cared a whit for his dead cronies.

Because I played to that invisible yet immanent audience I knew I would not slay this kleesh. He was a mediocre swordsman, and I do not care to slay in cold blood. I have signed Execution Warrants. I know. So I swirled a circle with my blade and we set to.

He was absolutely confident—well, he would be. Was he not a notor of Hamal? Was I not a clown? Did he not know the rapier and main gauche, the Jiktar and the Hikdar? Was not the rapier I wielded a weapon of ridicule?

Yet he must have puzzled over my reference to Lem the Silver Leem.

Mind you, I rejoiced in the feel of the blood singing through my veins, the sensation of muscles responding, the whole corpus proper to a fellow.

Truth to tell, I was disappointed that this evil rast Hangol was so poor a hand with a rapier. I would have welcomed a hard fought fight. Still, I have my own philosophy when it comes to the arcana of sword fighting. I know what I know. I wouldn't deign to play with him, even though the feel of blade against blade and the screeching chingle of metal aroused all the fire in me: no. I'd just use a simple passage, twirl him around—like so, as his rapier flew through the air—then grasp his right wrist with my left, striking past his dagger—as the dagger in his right hand tried to degut me.

Because he was left handed, because he wore a silver mask on the right side of his face, he was kack-handed. Instead of a clean disarm, he suffered, through his lack of experience of fence, a blade through him. I withdrew at once, feeling annoyed. He did not immediately fall down. He stared at me, his one eyebrow drawn down, both hands holding his guts. No blood yet stained his lips.

I didn't even bother to kick him as I ran past.

Three carpeted openings further in, Mevancy lay bound on a divan. There was no one else around. I breathed a shaky sigh, shook my head, and started on her bonds. Her eyes flashed enormously upon me above the gag. Studiously, I worked away at the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. Even then, even in that moment, I noticed the granular, smooth yet spikey effect of her forearms.

When her right hand was free she ripped the gag away.

“Oh, you! Cabbage!"

“You're all right, then."

She drew a breath.

“Strom Hangol?"

“He might be dead, he might not be. I'm not sure."

“Oh? We'd better know, or else—"

“There was a deal of confusion outside,” I said, telling the truth and knowing I used it to lie. “You get ready. I'll go and look."

Before she could protest I hurried back to the entrance. Gandil the Mak still lay there and I put my foot on his face and pulled the sailor knife free. Hangol had gone. Thoughtfully I cleaned the sailor knife and sheathed it. The rapier had more than half-cleaned itself as I'd withdrawn from Hangol's body on his clothes. Yet he was not here. Was the cramph still alive, then?

As I stared about, Mevancy joined me.

“Good riddance to offal,” she said, looking at Gandil's corpse.

“Hangol was wounded,” I said. “I thought sore wounded. But he is not here, as you can see."

“What army was it?” she said, in a half-joking fashion, half-serious. “Or did the drikingers attack again?"

“I couldn't say."

“And how did you get here so rapidly—or know where to come?"

“Easy enough to guess—” I began. Then I stopped. This was footling.

She was staring at me, hard, her face tight-drawn.

I said: “The Everoinye sent me."

Chapter eleven

She reacted to that.

Her face, taut as it was, tightened still further.

“Well, you hulu! Oh, you!"

“There's no time to explain now—” I began, using the time-honored formula. “We have to—"

“I agree explanations can wait.” She had had a shock. Well, that was easily understood. By Djan! When you found out somebody else besides yourself served the Star Lords, was a kregoinye, well, that came as a body blow, believe you me! “You've kept this from me all along. Still—” here she glanced towards the exit. “Still, it does explain a great deal. All right, cabbage. If the Everoinye have sent you along to assist me, then assist! We'll have to clear out of here right now."

With that I perfectly agreed.

I said: “The worry is Hangol. It seems we must remain with the caravan. That is clear. If Hangol—"

“I'll do the thinking. What I cannot understand is why the Everoinye should employ a weakling, and why, by Spurl, they should saddle me with him."

She gave me no time to answer. She padded over to the outside flapped opening, glanced through, didn't turn her head as she said: “Come on, cabbage."

Shades of Strom Irvil of Pine Mountain! At least Mevancy hadn't thought to call me a body slave, as Strom Irvil in his bluff numim way had, and into the bargain calling me Zaydo, as he called all his body servants Zaydo.

She slid through the opening and again I admired the slim suppleness of her, lissom and lithe, straight after being lashed up like a carcass.

She of the Veils had risen and washed down her pink and golden light as I followed Mevancy. The camp was relatively quiet, with the stamp and snort of beasts, the odd noises that seem to have their origins in no known source, a dog barking—that was Lady Floria's obnoxious little white thing, all belly and jaws. She stepped over the two guards, daintily, without a word. The questions I wanted to ask her boiled up in my head as, clearly, the questions she wanted to ask fizzled in hers. Well, all that could wait. We had to decide what to do—rather, Mevancy the kregoinye was going to decide what to do!

In one sense the most important thing to know was—just who did the Star Lords wish us to protect?

Mevancy headed off to her own tent and cart, abandoned when we'd cut and run.

Over her shoulder she snapped: “Get your gear. We'll take what we need and follow the caravan at a discreet distance. If anything happens we'll be within striking distance."

Yes, well, and of course. That was one solution.

For all her hoity-toity ways, this girl was a genuine; I sensed that. I liked her anyway. So I gave up any notion of a showdown to see who was boss.

“Right,” I said, and cut along to where Snuffles still waited.

Mounting up I swung his head around and trotted towards Mevancy's tent.

Now I wouldn't have been in the least surprised if, when we rode out, the blue Scorpion had arisen balefully over us and thrown us back into the camp.

That did not happen.

Maybe the Everoinye could understand what we were doing. Maybe they just trusted Mevancy far more than they had me. Although, mind you, that last was changing. I'd ask her if she'd been in that confusing place of metal boxes.

“This'll do until the morning,” she said, reining up and dismounting. “If we stay behind this ridge they can't see us. I'll take the first watch. Get to sleep. I'll wake you when it's your turn."

I looked at her, and then dismounted. “Mind you do,” was all I said.

Sleep came easily enough and I awoke to her hand on my shoulder. By the stars and the Moons I knew she'd judged half the night. I said: “Mind you sleep, my girl—"

She lay down and spoke in a composed way. “I am not your girl, and you will speak with civility. I can manage without your assistance, so do not forget that.” She turned over and in a changed voice but one she knew I could perfectly hear, she finished: “What rubbish the Everoinye do employ!"

It indicates a great deal of my feelings that I immediately took it that she teased me. I didn't think she was built of vindictive stuff.

All the same, her earlier remark remained true; she was running this show and I was content that it should be so.

Nothing happened for the rest of the night and in the morning we breakfasted cold as we watched the caravan pack up and get under way.

“They will take Leotes back and bury him with great pomp,” she said. “I shall attend the ceremony. That is settled. You need not, cabbage."

I said: “I'll just reserve my decision."

She swallowed bread and picked up a handful of palines. “Tell me, Drajak, whilst we wait, all about yourself and your life. And this time, tell me the truth!"

So I told her a farrago, a lot of it true, and mentioned the time I'd had to rescue old Mog from the Manhounds of Faol. “I wasn't sure who I had to hoick out of it, and took out a number of the wrong people. The Everoinye allowed me to see each to safety before dumping me back among the Manhounds."

“Reminds me of the time old Suringlas couldn't make up his mind who was the target—"

“Suringlas was a kregoinye?"

“Well, of course, fambly! We stopped a gang of footpads bashing the kov, and all the time it was the kovneva we had to look out for."

I thought I'd essay a little test. “You'd think, would you not, if the Everoinye are so all-fire powerful and wise they'd have the common sense to tell us who they want—"

“Cabbage! Have a care!"

Her face expressed a lively appreciation of imminent catastrophe. I sighed; but to myself. Here was another like Pompino, then; devoted to the Star Lords, believing they could do no wrong, kow-towing all over the place. Pompino thought they were gods. I had an idea Mevancy might not believe that. What she did believe was written on her face; the Everoinye were above criticism. They demanded absolute faith and obedience and they got them. Queyd-arn-tung![2]

[2 Queyd-arn-tung: No more need be said! A.B.A.]

She composed herself and was about to speak when I said: “Have you discerned any pattern in your work for the Everoinye?"

“Pattern? I'm not sure I know what you mean."

I judged she had not been a kregoinya for very long. And, it was clear, she'd been out as Number Two. This Suringlas and poor Rafael who was dead, had been in command. Now she was compensating for that, and taking command of this new team. I didn't mind that.

“Some of the people I've rescued have done things that revealed why the Star Lords wanted them kept alive."

“We-ell,” she said, screwing up her eyes. Then: “No. No, I can't say I've noticed anything like that."

“For instance, a religious teacher and prophet I saved has been getting a better deal for the gentler kind of diffs. They don't get put on so much now."

“That was not in Loh!"

“No. In Hamal."

“Oh,” she said. “That's in Havilfar."

So I gathered a new impression; Mevancy hadn't been to the great continent of Havilfar across the sea to the east.

Talking of this reminded me of Strom Irvil again and his wondrously amusing numim ways; amusing to me only, of course, for he was very strict with his body slaves, as he said, very often. And the thought followed from what Mevancy had said in her immediate comment that that had not been in Loh. There was more food for thought there...

We talked more as we waited for the caravan to move off; both of us were cautious in what we revealed. At last the carts and carriages rumbled off and the lines of pack animals trudged rhythmically through the dust. Two figures still stood where the camp had been, each holding the reins of a Lictrix.

“What are they waiting for?” demanded Mevancy, fretfully.

I stood up.

She started to rap out: “Get down you—"

I said: “That's Pondo and Nafty. They're waiting for you."

“What!"

She couldn't believe this. She started to say something, changed her mind, stood up, shaded her eyes to stare at her two employees.

“What in the name of Gahamond the Wise do they think they're doing?"

“Earning their hire. Looking out for you."

“But nobody knows we're here, you onker!"

A shadow fleeted across the dust and grit, over the ridge, flattening towards us, separating into two shadows as it neared. The twin suns cast light into the other's shadow: one flying object threw this twinned shadow.

I said: “Here is someone else who knows we're here."

She looked up.

That expression on her face! It mirrored the expressions worn by Strom Irvil, by Pompino, when they thus stared up at the Gdoinya, the spy and messenger of the Star Lords.

She swallowed. Abruptly, she looked radiant. Then she astonished me. She waved cheerily at the giant raptor, glistening up there in his golden coat of feathers, scarlet and black, proud and arrogant, circling in hunting circles above us.

The Gdoinye planed lower, wings stiff, and then he swept upwards with tremendous velocity. He let rip a single squawk. Then he was a dot and then he was gone.

“The Gdoinya,” said Mevancy, letting out her breath. “We are in good hands!"

She said Gdoinya quite clearly, using the female form. That made sense, I'd always suspected that there was more than one spy for the Star Lords, and already had some evidence for that. She, like myself, knew that Pondo and Nafty could not see the Gdoinya. Now she went on: “Well, that is good. Let us find out what those two famblys want."

With that she looked at me. “Well, cabbage? What are you waiting for?"

So I trailed off down the back slope and brought up her zorca and Snuffles.

We mounted up and rode towards her two men. Nafty greeted us with a laugh and Pondo even managed not to growl too much.

“Lahal, my lady!” called Nafty. “We are to tell you it is safe now."

“How did you two hulus know I was there?” demanded Mevancy.

“Why—we were told, my lady."

“Who by?"

“Tuong Mishuro,” said Pondo. “The creepy one."

“He's not creepy!” protested Nafty.

“Well, how did he know?"

They started a wrangle, and Mevancy snapped, hard, “Shastum! Silence!” Then she said: “Tuong Mishuro told you I was out here, and to say it was safe?"

“That's right, my lady,” said Nafty, somewhat subdued.

“Like I said,” repeated Pondo as we started to trot after the caravan. “The creepy one."

Neither of these two fighting men expressed surprise at their employer creeping off into the wasteland, apparently hiding. They'd kept clear of involvement with Hangol. They were not slaves, being caravan guards hired for pay; but what their lady employer did was what she did. That was no business of their's unless they had to draw sword to protect her.

This line of thought made me say quietly to Mevancy as we trotted along: “I hope Llodi is all right. He'll be wondering—"

“If he's got any sense he'll ride on to Makilorn."

“Probably."

“And what does that mean, Drajak?"

Had I been other than I am, I'd have laughed easily, casually, and made some light evasive answer. As it was, I said: “I value good comrades."

She rounded on me like a spitfire.

“Do you mean to stand there and suggest I don't—"

“I'm sitting in a saddle,” I said in a mild voice.

By Vox!

She let me have it, as we'd say on Earth, she let me have both barrels.

The feathers flew.

After a space she halted to draw a breath. Her face was flushed clear to the hairline. She had a strong face, not beautiful but pleasant with her wide generous mouth now compressed into a thin line after she'd drawn breath. Her eyes were bright. The flush of color in her face was high, very high. The red pulse of blood under the skin surprised me with its brilliance.

I decided to try to calm things over. Ha! I, Dray Prescot, decided! It makes me hoot with laughter to think of it. I said: “Calm down, Mevancy. You'll burst with blood pressure."

My Val!

She started all over again, ranting and raving and calling me the lowest of ingrates, the stupidest of onkers, the most heinous of hulus. In the end I touched my heels to Snuffles and cantered on ahead a space and joined Nafty and Pondo.

“And don't think I won't let them know!” she yelled after me.

As far as reporting me to the Star Lords was concerned, which was clearly what she referred to, she didn't understand my relationship with those mighty and lofty but essentially lost superbeings. They knew by now they could discipline me. They flung me back to Earth for twenty-one miserably awful years; because I disobeyed. Now I felt I'd reached a better understanding. All the same, they knew how I contumed them, them and their Gdoinye. Oh, no. Poor Mevancy with her awe of the Star Lords had no conception of the way I treated them.

Mind you, it was probably true to say that I was the onker in these relationships. Past humanity though the Star Lords were supposed to be, it seemed to me they still retained enough petty humanity to treat me as they habitually did instead of in the far more generous way they treated Mevancy. Again, I could be completely wrong in this mean estimation of them; and I suppose to be honest in my heart I realized I was. Perhaps, I promised myself, perhaps next time I might not indulge in a slanging match. Mind you, that perked up the old bloodstream no end, by Vox!

This silly squabble with Mevancy meant that I could not ask her the questions about Leotes and what he had meant just before he willingly fell to his death.

Anyway, the hoity-toity miss probably wouldn't tell me, a weakling onker wished on her as a stupid assistant.

We rode gently on and caught the caravan and Tuong Mishuro, half-smiling, did not explain but simply said that San Hargon had spurred ahead to the city. Hangol had been hurt and they sought better medical attention than that afforded by Doctor Slezen and Doctor Nalgre the Needle, Leotes’ doctor. There had been unexplained murders and everyone was a little jumpy. Still, we should reach Makilorn soon, and then everything would be all right.

“Who did the killings?” demanded Mevancy.

“No one knows,” replied Mishuro. “Also, I do not think anyone cares."

As you may imagine, that depressed me. When I was Emperor of Vallia I found out what I had known before. It is everyone's duty to care about what happens in a country. It's no good leaving it to the other person.

Mevancy said: “Thank you. Lynxor Mishuro—"

“You may call me san,” Mishuro interrupted mildly.

“Of course.” Instead of a lord, this Tuong Mishuro was a san, a sage or dominie, master. Mevancy went on: “Thank you, san. We will sort things out when we reach the city."

So we went on our way and in the fullness of Tsung-Tan's time we reached the River of Drifting Leaves and the great city of Makilorn built upon its banks. I, for one, rode in wondering what the hell happened next.

Chapter twelve

“I must make a list,” quoth Mevancy nal Chardaz. She spoke with a fine confident ring of authority. We sat in the upstairs room of Lulli Quincy's lodging house. The remains of the first breakfast lay upon the table, the radiance of the suns slanted in the square windows, and Mevancy was all business.

Shades of G&S! I said to myself. I've gotta liddle list!

“This is serious, cabbage. I've not forgiven you yet for—"

There must have been a curve to my lips, thinking of G&S and their liddle list, that she mistook for a smile. “I agree it's serious,” I said, and I tried to make my tones portentous. “Can you remember all of them?"

“Of course, fambly."

“If you recall, I was lying flat on my back, rigid."

“Oh, I remember dragging you out all right."

I started to say what I'd done, and then stopped. That was not what a gallant koter of Vallia would say to remind a lady. Instead I said: “I picked up a little gold or brass ornament poor Rafael was trying to reach—"

“You did! Well, where is it?"

“Drikingers."

She started to swear in her ladylike way and then checked. “That means it could be with the gear Leotes brought back from the raid on the bandit camp. You know, when we got that rapier you carry about like an onker."

“What's so all-fired important about the trinket?"

She frowned. “I don't know. And that's the truth. But San Tuong Mishuro was very upset that he'd lost it. He kept on about it."

“H'm. Well, he's on the list, then."

She wrote the name down at the head of the paper. “And Lady Floria."

“The Lynxora Floria Inglewong, yes. And Lynxor Nanji na Fuokane."

“Nanji Tawang,” she said, and made a face. “Yes, I suppose so. Him too."

“There was mention of a lynxor and lynxora Shalane."

“Oh, the obese Thyllis. They remained in Larishsmot."

“So that's all—?"

“No. If you wish to work for the Everoinye you must be smarter than that, Drajak. There were the servants and slaves. Also there were Olipen, a merchant, from Guishsmot, a young newly-married couple, Listi and Larrigen Parfang of Makilorn, Margon the Ron, a zhanpaktun, and mistress Telsi, a lady of uncertain occupation. They were all with the caravan."

“And were safely rescued?"

“Of course."

“Well,” I said, a little stuffily. “It's not a liddle list anymore, is it?"

She tapped the paper. “One of them has to be protected..."

I spoke up. “In my view it has to be San Tuong Mishuro. He is the obvious kind of person the Star Lords look out for."

“Your views will be taken into consideration when I make my decision,” she said with grave equanimity. I did not burst out laughing.

I busied myself with the pottery dish of palines. At least, they were real in this situation which, in my view, was rapidly becoming unreal.

All the same, this was reality. I knew that if I fouled up the Star Lords would have no compunction in flinging me back to Earth.

And yet—and yet, as I had been thinking recently, maybe they wouldn't...

“Yes,” she said. “I rather think our zhanpaktun, Margon the Ron, fits the bill."

Carefully, I said: “Have you had much experience with mercenaries?"

“I know a person who wears the pakzhan glittering gold at the throat is a great fighter and renowned as a warrior."

“Well, some of ‘em."

“Oh, you!” she flared up. “What does that mean—besides sour grapes?"

“You mean am I jealous of ‘em—no.” I felt my lips ricking back. “Oh, no."

“Well, we'll find out where he's lodging and see what is to be seen."

“As the leader of the expedition,” I said, “you can't say fairer than that. Lead on, my lady!"

Now this great city of Makilorn was remarkably small by the standards of cities I knew—Ruathytu, say, or Vondium or Zenicce. There were probably not more than a hundred thousand or so inhabitants. The city stretched out on both banks of the river, a place of architectural surprises. Many of the buildings reminded me of the tomb of Genghis Khan: domed, jutting of eaves, eight or six-sided, solemn—what one would call po-faced. Yet they were not tombs but the bustling homes of a busy people. The tombs were out in the wasteland which here barely merited the description of desert. The land rose in an escarpment and following customs old before mankind left the caves, the folk buried their dead in mausolea and tombs cut from the living rock. When I visited the city of the dead out there in the wasteland I was not reminded of the majestic tombs of Egypt; rather I called to mind the mysterious city of Petra and the riches there to be discovered. After all, Jean Louis Burckhardt, rightly credited as the first European since the crusades to see legendary Petra, was there for only one day, sacrificing a goat to Haroun. Some of the glamour brushed off on Makilorn. Oh, yes, in the fuzzy pink Moonslight of Kregen, the place was easily mistaken for ‘the rose-red city half as old as time.'

For, by reason of the ivory City, this city was relatively young.

Mevancy lost no time. Brisk, smart, she set about her work for the Star Lords in fine style.

Perforce, I tagged along after.

Yet I felt cruel, even then, in the way I mentally mocked the poor girl. She was a natural. This thing had to be done; ergo, she would do it perfectly.

There weren't many flowers in Makilorn. The folk used every square inch of land to the utmost in growing food, either crops or animals. Some of the grander places might have a few earthenware tubs with flowers growing in grudgingly provided dirt. Palines, of course, were the most common pot plants. Some of the temples were enormous. Tsung-Tan, the universal deity, was well-served. When I saw processions wending along I thought of back home where the great processions traverse the boulevards and avenues beside the canals, and the fervent chants of OO-lie O-paz! OO-lie O-paz! rise in long sonorous waves to set the doves twirling among the towers. Here, the religious beat gongs and rang bells and chanted for Tsung-Tan, yet the religious practices were worlds apart. In Vallia, Opaz and the spirit of the Invisible Twins is a deity revered as the great beneficent overlord of humanity, with ramification upon ramification in the devotees’ interpretations and practices. Here in Makilorn in Tsungfaril, Tsung-Tan was revered as the great provider who had reserved your place in the paradise of Gilium. The people did not go so far as to claim that the experience of life here on Kregen was the experience of living in hell, not in general. There was one large schismatic sect which did so claim. There was little friction between adherents; everyone agreed that to be taken up to heaven into the place reserved for you in Gilium by Tsung-Tan was the sole aim in life.

This tended to create a lack of interest in the here and now much beyond satisfying immediate needs.

The folk of Tsungfaril appeared to Mevancy and me to be gripped by a lassitude that extended into every aspect of life.

Foreigners bustled and got things done, in employment or on their own account. I'd tackled Mevancy on the subject of paol-ur-bliem, conscious that I trod painful ground in talking of Leotes. Yet he bustled, and he was of Tsungfaril. She'd put me off. “I expect one day I'll tell you, cabbage."

Some of the foreigners in the city were from Walfarg. Walfarg had once conquered all Loh, Pandahem, vast lands in the east of Turismond. Now all that sprawling and splendid Empire of Loh was swept away. Pockets of culture and custom survived here and there. Tsungfaril showed a few evidences. But their religious beliefs and isolation maintained a distinct and different culture. I saw women walking with veils of many patterns and colors covering their faces, women from other parts of Loh. In the city there was an enclave of houses built in the Walfargian style with hidden walled gardens where these veiled women might rest and relax.

The idea that Mevancy might need to wear a veil struck me as comical.

The Old Lorn Trail continued on to the west and arrangements existed at the southern end of the city to provide a proper ferry service. The area which in a normal city would be the Wayfarer's Drinnik had here been grudgingly provided, just like the dirt in the flower pots. If you couldn't grow food on any piece of ground it was worthless; if you could then you grew food. Oh, no, the folk of Makilorn understood this. They charged sky-high rates to cross the River of Drifting Leaves. You could quite see their point. Mevancy didn't, and got into a heated shouting match with the ferry operators.

I wandered across and leaned on the stone wall and looked over the river.

“Outrageous!” Mevancy was leading off. “Just two people, with no baggage, and returning this afternoon, a guaranteed double passage? And you try to charge me a whole ming! Are you mad? A whole gold piece?"

“You may swim if you wish, lady."

The ferryman wore a lopsided turban of some grayish cloth; he was not slave. The slaves tailed onto the lines with which the ferries were hauled across. Flat bottomed rafts, really. When a vessel wished to sail up or downriver past the ferry the lines were slackened off and dropped to the bottom. There was a fair amount of traffic, and slikkers were racing one another just for the dare of it, their sails billowing.

Mevancy choked and pointed to the water. “Swim? With them?"

The twinned black fins cutting the surface did not look inviting. There were not a lot of them; one of them would have jaws enough to make swimming a one way affair.

Shades of the River of Bloody Jaws! I stopped myself thinking of Seg and Milsi and adventures along the Kazzchun River.

Mevancy snapped out: “And how much for a single person, you black-hearted drikinger?"

He didn't look in the least discomposed. His brown face, seamed and cunning, sized Mevancy up. “You need not lay your tongue to me, my lady, for I am Aron the Ferry, son of Aron the Ferry, and my belief in Tsung-Tan is unshakeable.” Then, like a striking risslaca: “Forty five silver khans."

I thought Mevancy would have a stroke. Her face bloomed with blood. She shook her fist under Aron the Ferry's avaricious nose. She stuttered and spluttered. “There are sixty silver khans to each gold ming!” she raved. “You are a—” She whooped in a breath and waved her arms about. She whirled about and stared balefully at me, leaning on the wall.

“And you needn't stand there looking smug, cabbage!"

I had the sense to say nothing.

The last of the carts and animals and passengers for this trip of the ferry were crowding onto the flat deck only a foot or so above the water. Aron the Ferry stretched and hitched his fawn robe about himself. He had a nasty-looking curved dagger at his belt, somewhat after the fashion of a Havilfarese kalider. That could slide in your guts and burst your heart.

“You must make up your mind. We cast off now."

The flat and ugly crack of a whip smacked into the hot air. The slaves groaned and got themselves together and laid onto the lines.

I had to remove my sensibilities quickly. There was absolutely nothing I could do, here, about the detestable institution of slavery. One day, Opaz willing, my friends and I would eradicate it everywhere in Paz.

“Oh, by Spurl! Very well, then. You robber!” With that, Mevancy fairly hurled a gold ming at Aron and pushed roughly past. I followed.

I said to Aron: “Will it be a ming to return?"

“Assuredly, walfger.” He did not address me as lord, walfger being one of the Lohvian words for mister, equating with the Havilfarese horter and the Vallian koter.

I wasn't fool enough to threaten him, or to say I'd make enquiries about the ferry prices the other passengers were paying. I'd find out.

The west bank differed subtly from the east mainly, I fancied, because there were fewer temples and more laboring areas. There did exist the maze of narrow streets and alleyways that are to be found in most cities; but here this tangled confusion of living and working accommodation hardly merited the description of the aracloins, the all-embracing term for the warrens and souks.

We found the address, a large lodging house with almost as much style as Lulli Quincy's establishment, and as we went in I pondered on this fresh revelation of Mevancy's character. She must be paying very near the top price for our lodgings; she protested at a single gold ming for the ferry. Mind you, I felt pretty convinced Aron the Ferry, spotting a likely pigeon, had swooped.

I knew all the people on our little list—or I should say Mevancy's list—from the days spent with the caravan. Mevancy had told me that she and Rafael had herded most of them out in one parcel, finding a way through the fire which, so far, had been mostly smoke. Later the flames had bitten.

A large slatternly woman chewing cham told us that that hulking great brute of a paktun had taken himself off and good riddance. Now I own here that I was vastly satisfied at this news.

Not sure just what Mevancy intended by this visit I'd envisaged a nasty scene. I mean, did the girl intend to mount a day and night guard on Hargon the Ron? She stood there watching the woman's fat cheeks go round and round with the cud of cham. At last, quietly, she said: “Thank you, walfgera,” and walked away as calmly as you please.

I said: “Strike one off."

“I assume so. He's gone. Had he been the target we'd have been sent after him by now."

“Yes."

About to continue with a casual: “Who do you fancy now?” I was interrupted by a sharp: “The Parfangs. Listi and Larrigen. They are newly married and their resources are slender. They lodge this side of the river."

With that comical caution that was becoming habitual when I suggested something to this hoity-toity miss I fancied she'd overlooked, I said: “They will not welcome busy bodies watching them all the time."

“I would imagine the honeymoon is over by now."

Cynical with it, then, this young lady!

“Lots of marriages founder, do they, where you come from?"

She simply ignored that and walked on with her lithe swing towards the narrow street where the lovebirds were lodging. What this Larrigen Parfang did for a living, I'd been told, suited his mild temperament. He was a stylor who organized the lading of vessels plying the river. He'd been to Larishsmot to see his bride's parents. I sensed a romantic story there, given the distances involved. Caravan masters demanded and obtained high prices for their services, and then there were all the gear and animals to buy or hire. No wonder the newlyweds were living in reduced circumstances. Could they be our target? The answer to that was: very easily! They could have a child who could revolutionize some aspect of this civilization, cause destruction and the death of millions, turn the course of history.

They were out when we arrived, and Mevancy bit her lip.

Cruelly, I said: “What now, my lady?"

“Oh, you!” she snapped; but the snap lacked fangs.

“Think I'll take a stroll down to the wharves. Might find them there."

“Very well.” Her head went back. “I shall go and—"

I interrupted. “I think it would be best if we stayed together."

“Cabbage, I've told you, I do the thinking."

There was no shifting her. I suppose I should not have gone down to the riverbank by myself; at the time I felt that a little time on my own would prove productive. As they say, “the selfish sow sour seeds."

Because Makilorn was accustomed to the sight of strangers as they passed through, I was spared much of the xenophobia found in many parts of this Earth, although noticeably less so on Kregen. The Suns of Scorpio glittered off the water. Further along there was considerable activity around the fishing sheds. I turned to look back up the bank; there was no sign of Mevancy. I went along to the fishermen and without any unseemly haggling soon arranged that Kang the Hook would be happy to take us across the river in his boat for a silver khan.

“The ferrymen are a bunch of grasping stranks,” he said, jerking a brown thumb at the twin fins cutting the water. “I've known ‘em push folk in who wouldn't pay the fare."

“It's the carts, d'you see,” said a whiskery fellow smothered in the net he was repairing.

“Aye,” confirmed Kang. “It's the carts and animals."

“I'll be back in a bur or so,” I said, and went off to find Mevancy.

The bank here, just before the fishing sheds, had been raised with trimmed stone blocks. The fisherfolk, despite their importance to the city, had been relegated to a muddy patch fronting the sheds. That made launching their boats easier, of course. My views were that the Star Lords would make sure we were in the immediate neighborhood of the person we had to protect if that person ran into trouble. Running about all over the city was fruitless, in my view. But how to get that point across to madam?

A number of people moved about their business, and back from the raised bank the warehouses lofted brick built walls. In one of those places Larrigen Parfang spent his days writing down the ladings of the vessels.

I kept a sharp eye open.

Presumably Mevancy had seen the fatuity of her intended course of action for here she came, stepping smartly down towards the stone bank. I watched her, admiring the lithe swing of her walk. Then I yelled.

“Mevancy! Behind you!"

She whirled about instantly. The three plug-uglies who broke from a passing group of warehousemen lifted cudgels, blatterers of heavy wood. They were dressed in clothes little better than rags, and their faces were filthy. They leaped for Mevancy, alone there on the stone bank.

She stretched both her arms straight down her sides. Then she lifted them up to forty five degrees. I saw the latchings of her sleeves burst open. The leading thug reeled back, screaming, clawing at his wrecked face. Blood spurted everywhere. The second tried to dodge and his face, too, was ripped into red ruin. What looked to be a mat of needles covered their faces as the blood and puss flowed. The third thug bundled down and on and crashed headlong into Mevancy.

She tried to dodge that frenzied attack.

Almost she swerved away. The thug tried to grab her and I saw how his right eye vanished in a wash of shining crimson. But the effort overbalanced her.

The plug ugly was screaming, clawing at his face, stumbling about bent double.

I ignored him.

Mevancy stumbled, tottered, tried to regain her balance and failed.

Without a cry she tumbled headlong into the river. Immediately two pairs of twin fins cut the water towards her.

Chapter thirteen

My old sailor knife slid out of its oiled sheath and I was running along the stones of the bank and taking a long flat dive slap bang into the water.

Well, yes, I am accounted a fine swimmer and can stay underwater for what seems an incredible length of time to onlookers. I went in and at once saw Mevancy rising to the surface flapping her arms and legs.

Beyond her in the brilliant water the lean lethal shape of the strank showed dappled gray and green and pink, twin fins stiff, jaws agape.

The second was a mere blue farther off.

I corkscrewed my legs, dived under the strank seeing his two black eyes like marbles fixed on the thrashing form of the girl. Up in a ferocious kick and the sailor knife went in and along slitting his belly. His scaly skin was tough; the blade was keen and my muscles were impelled as much by fear for Mevancy as evil joy in using them again.

Blood spilled into the water.

There was no time to waste on that one for the second was finning in and aiming directly for me. He'd hold on to his course. The blood in the water would affect him, that was true; but that would be after he'd chomped me.

After that his brothers and sisters and cousins would turn up...

Again, I swirled under him as he made his pass. He tried to thrash back but the sailor knife went in abaft his gills. I hewed the knife about. He rolled away and blood stained spreading in the water. I wrenched the knife free and kicked savagely for Mevancy.

I came up under her and caught her about the waist, lifting her. That was, of course, not only foolish, it was asking for trouble.

She tried to hit me about the head and then we broke the surface.

I whooped in a gargantuan breath, yelled: “Rope!"

The stone face of the bank lifted before me, green and slimy. Up there, foreshortened, a row of torsos and heads peered down. Somebody had the nous to throw down a line.

Before I did anything else I ducked down and peered back through the water. There was no sign of a strank—yet.

I hitched the line about the girl as she spluttered and tried to speak. “Shut up, girl, and hold the line.” I lifted my old foretop hailing voice. “Haul away, handsomely now!"

Mevancy went up in a wet clinging smother.

Again I didn't hang about. Another huge breath and I was under the surface, knife in hand, looking for stranks.

This time a cousin turned up and I dealt with him as I had the first two.

This time when I stuck my head up through that dancing silver sky I saw the rope dangling against the stones and so gripped it in my left fist. The sailor knife went between my teeth, my right fist got a purchase on the line, I shoved my feet flat against the stones and went up there like a mountaineer.

I swear to this day I heard the snap of strank jaws just abaft my heels.

Mevancy was flat out on the stones and a girl was jumping up and down on her and driblets of water were coming out of Mevancy's mouth.

The clamor surrounded me as the people expressed surprise and horror. I looked for the three thugs. Their bodies were missing.

With a noise like a blocked sink freeing itself of a month's garbage, Mevancy got out: “You! Oh, you!"

The girl stopped jumping up and down on her.

I said: “Thank you, walfgera."

She wiped a strand of hair from her face, her mouth pursed. Then she said: “It is always difficult to know what to do best. But you are foreigners."

“They might,” shouted a crone with a shawl about her head, “have been converted to the glory of Tsung-Tan, Ysbel—we don't know."

Ysbel snapped back: “No, we don't know, mother-in-law."

I said: “Walfgera Ysbel, you did right, and I give you thanks."

Mevancy whoofled a bit and shook her head and spat and swallowed and generally regained the centre of attention. When she stood up the crowd considered the entertainment over. No one commented on what had happened.

Very soon they'd all gone back about their business, leaving Ysbel and her mother-in-law staring at Mevancy.

“Your arms—” said Ysbel, at last.

Mevancy had pulled the broken-open sleeves over her forearms; but the wet cloth could not conceal the pitted state of her skin.

“Oh,” said Mevancy, tossing her head. “It's just the water.” She turned on me like a chavonth. “Well, cabbage? Are you going to stand lollygagging here all day? We have work to do."

I spoke directly to Ysbel. “I thank you again. There should be gold between us, I think.” Then I added: “To the glory of Tsung-Tan."

Ysbel's mother-in-law cackled.

Mevancy ripped open her purse and shoveled mings at Ysbel. I turned away. I was beginning to appreciate the problem Ysbel had faced when confronted with the apparently drowned corpse of a stranger.

Looking up quite frankly, Ysbel said: “Thank you, lady. Now had you been a paol-ur-bliem you would not be thanking me at all!"

Mevancy's lips tightened. She did not reply.

With the polite remberees between us we parted and as we walked along the bank Mevancy said harshly: “Hangol's work, I judge."

“Probably,” I said. “We can't be sure."

“Ordinary footpads, those?” She shook her head. She had recovered with feline speed and grace. “No, I do not think so."

When I conducted her to Kang the Hook's boat she tossed her head, said not a word, stepped aboard and paid over the silver khan without so much as a blink of her eyelids. All that was equivalent to her: “Oh you!"

The pull across the water took little time, and Kang burbled on about my foolhardiness in diving into the water, and how much the lady must be loved and how much she must love me in return. I could see Mevancy would explode like a stoppered kettle soon; thankfully we reached the opposite bank and disembarked before that catastrophe occurred. Still and all! It amused me.

As we walked along to the lodgings she said: “Tomorrow is the funeral."

I wasn't stupid enough to ask her if she was going.

I said: “Probably the others from the caravan will be there."

“Possibly."

“Yes. I think I will mingle with the crowd."

“As you please."

I said: “Aron the Ferry saw you coming. You were a pigeon, plump for the plucking. No, it does not please me to mingle with the crowd. But I fancy we'll stand a better chance if both of us are not stuck out like sore thumbs."

She swung about and halted. “You! Cabbage—remember who—"

“I remember very well—Pigeon,” I said, and walked quietly on.

She did not speak to me again until we had eaten and sat back in the upstairs room to contemplate what was left of our first day in Makilorn.

Suddenly, she said: “Cabbage!"

I looked up. “Yes, Pigeon?"

She breathed hard through her nose, very hard. Then: “You were looking at my arms."

“Aye."

“I suppose I must tell you, then. Anyway, I must eat a great deal now."

“I noticed you were stowing it away."

“I must replace the lost tissue as quickly as possible. I expended just about all my bindles."

“They were what stuck all over their faces?"

“Naturally."

“And in the eye of that Rapa, and what stung Hangol by the tree?"

“Down there by the river I was startled, I was extravagant. I shot off far too many. Far too many."

“You did rather make a mess of the cramphs.” I picked up a paline and turned the yellow berry in my fingers. “May I—?"

“I suppose so. Here.” She held out her right arm. The smooth and silky skin ended at wrist and elbow. Between lay a pitted skinscape, rather like a honeycomb. There were only a dozen or so of the deadly little sticks, her bindles, remaining in their slots. These gave the granular effect. She went on: “They are shot off by blood pressure. It makes it easier if I'm angry; usually I am. More often than not I'm frightened."

“Join the club,” I said.

She pulled her arm back. I own I was fascinated by this fresh glimpse of the way nature had developed on Kregen. Still—maybe this was not natural evolution but another example of the way the ancient savants had interfered with nature?

“Everyone is like this back home?"

Her wide mouth widened into a smile.

“Oh, no. Only the females."

Well, that explained some of her hoity-toity ways, then.

“Tell me, Mevancy, where away is this land of yours?"

Truth to tell I didn't expect her to answer. But I suppose some dam had been released by what had occurred, for she said simply: “I come from Sinnalix. We were once as advanced in culture as any nation of Kregen; but we were overtaken and now we are little better than barbarians. It is a great shame."

I'd heard the story. The Sinnalixi inhabited a portion of Loh south of Murn-Chem, north and west of where we were. So she wasn't too far from home, then. The country had been part of the Empire of Walfarg; evil days had fallen on the people and whilst there are barbarians and barbarians, I knew what Mevancy meant. I hadn't known about this remarkable ability of the Sinnalixi women to defend themselves by shooting miniature darts with great accuracy into the eyes and faces of evil kleeshes who attempted them. I found that, in general, I approved.

She'd come, she said, from a good family who had fallen on bad times. Well, by Zair, and who hadn't! After the spread of barbarism over Sinnalix, a barbarism of material and spiritual significance, the country had gone wild. Life had been hard. Mevancy's father, and I gathered he'd had some holdings in the local community that demanded obedience, had prospered, married a wealthy girl of a friendly tribe. Perhaps the seasons-old blight of ignorance across the land might be lifted. The legacy of Walfarg's empire might yet yield good.

“I attracted notice as a person not dealt with lightly.” She spoke without looking at me, playing with a paline around and around her plate. “My mother died in a raid on our hold, and that was the beginning of the evil times."

I thought of Jilian Sweet Tooth. The two girls were remarkably different, one from the other, yet they might have been sisters in adversity.

“Suringlas had a job to do and I helped him. One thing led to another and eventually I was overjoyed to be taken on full time for the Everoinye."

Such a flat matter-of-fact way of describing being taken up by the Star Lords astounded me more than anything else she said.

“So you've just been working for them ever since?"

“Ever since Suringlas came to Sinnalix."

I decided not to ask how long that was. I judged it was not long.

She said: “How long—?"

I said: “I have not always seen eye-to-eye with the Everoinye. Sometimes I have disobeyed them and they have punished me."

She sniffed. “Well they would, wouldn't they, cabbage?"

There was no arguing with that statement, by Krun!

Choosing my words with some care and speaking as casually as I could, I leaned back in the chair, and said: “Now that Pondo and Nafty have chosen to return to Larishsmot, the question of employees has come up."

It is, of course, a gross exaggeration for me to say that had she shot off her remaining bindles at me I'd not have been surprised. As it was, she stiffened up her back and gave me a piercing look. Then she said: “You mean, had we had them down by the wharf I wouldn't have fallen in the water?"

“Possibly."

“H'm.” She looked away and played some more with the paline. Just before she popped it into her mouth she said: “Very well."

“That's a relief."

“My purse is not bottomless, you know."

Taking this as a matter of comment and not of criticism I could say easily enough: “I suppose the Everoinye provide you with funds?"

“From time to time."

This casual attitude to what were marvels to me still took a bit of getting used to.

“Well, you shouldn't starve, then."

“As you are my assistant, then neither should you, cabbage."

“Thank you, pigeon,” I said, humbly, and I really had to screw up my face not to allow the smile plastered all over the inside to show on the outside.

“You feel sick?"

“No. No, thank you. Just a passing fancy."

“Well, let it pass off, if that's what it does to your face."

“Quidang!” I rapped out in best military style.

“Yes,” she sniffed. “Oh, I'd guessed you are a paktun ages ago.” She eyed me meanly. “More likely a masichieri—bandits pretending to be honest mercenaries.” She was working herself up now. “And I suppose you are high and mighty and way above a mere mortpaktun—oh, no! You are a zhanpaktun, a hyrpaktun, and wear the golden pakzhan on its silken cords at your throat!"

I admit I felt not so much embarrassed or annoyed, or even sorry for her, as an acute puzzlement. There was one highly unsavory explanation for her behavior. I dreaded that. Dreaded? Well, then, by Vox, did not welcome, did not welcome one little bit. I'd developed a keen sense of self-preservation when it came to dealing with predatory women lusting after what was not theirs. And so, then, wondering if that was the explanation, I did feel sorry for her.

Her eyes were bright. Her breast rose and fell. And her color was high—very high. That color, evidence as I'd thought of a somewhat unhealthy blood pressure, was now explained. And she did eat! Her body was hard at work growing fresh bindles to take their places in the clustered slots on her forearms. I knew very keenly that I wouldn't like that little lot of nastiness chinking into my eyeballs, no, by Djan!

That afternoon I went down and found Mistress Quincy and asked her a few pertinent questions and then went back to Mevancy. I said to her: “Will you lend me four gold mings, please?"

“Oh?"

“I need to buy an outfit suitable for Makilorn. A fawn cloak—"

“Popinjay time is it, now, cabbage?"

Patiently, seeing the way her red lips quivered, I said: “I intend to mingle with the crowd at the funeral and I shall keep a sharp eye on you, pigeon. It will be easier if I am not marked as a foreigner."

“Yes, yes, I see that. Here, cabbage, here.” She fairly flung a handful of gold and silver coins at me. They rang and chingled in the upstairs room.

I began very moodily to think that maybe I was going to have trouble with her. What a tragedy! We ought to be a smoothly functioning team working for the Star Lords. So, of course, this had to rear its ugly head.

Deliberately, for I really couldn't believe what I'd just been thinking, I said: “We shall all miss Leotes."

She was clearly brooding on something else, for she spoke without thinking. “Oh, he'll be about, he'll be about."

Chapter fourteen

The funeral of Leotes li Ningwan, Vad of Sabiling, turned out to be entirely different from what I'd unthinkingly expected.

Given that Kregen is a huge conglomeration of peoples with widely varying customs, one would still expect rituals and respects, however oddly at variance one with another they might be. Leotes, it seemed to me, standing in the shadow of a squat pillar in a gloomy domed hall, was just shuffled off.

His body still wrapped in the canvas in which he'd been laid in the caravan was brought in by four slaves and placed on the pyre. His children walked up and looked—I thought perfunctorily—and walked away. San Hargon was there, astringent as ever, apparently in a supervisory capacity. Strom Hangol was not present. Mevancy stood to the side, pale, tense; if Hargon attempted violence now, I had already decided to be as ruthless as he was. Tuong Mishuro and his apprentice, Lunky, stood near Mevancy. There were no signs of anyone else of the caravan. So much, I thought then, for the camaraderie of the journey.

Slaves waited deferentially. Hargon gave an impatient sign and torches were thrust between the thin scattering of wood. Flames bit up, blackening the canvas shroud, flickered and died.

Clearly there was nowhere near enough fuel to form a pyre to consume a human body. Smoke lifted thinly. No one spoke or moved until San Hargon lifted the little golden staff he carried. Instantly the slaves hustled forward, took up the singed canvas bundle, and marched out.

A voice spoke breathily in my ear: “They used a lot of wood on him. A lot. Well, they would, wouldn't they, him being a rich vad an’ all."

Without turning around, I said: “Are you in one piece?"

“More or less. It's been touch and go, what with dodging about an’ everything."

“What happens to him now?"

“Why, they'll take it across the river and just put it in his cave."

“Just like that?"

“Well, by Lohrhiang of the Five Palms, it's only his old used-up body."

“I'd have thought they'd show a little more respect."

“Well, they have, haven't they? Look at all the wood for the funeral pyre."

I saw I wasn't getting anywhere here. Still without turning, I said: “I'm keeping an eye on Hargon. I think he will seek to harm Lady Mevancy."

“I'll shaft the shint first."

“We were sorry to have missed you on the ride in. I know Lady Mevancy will be overjoyed you are safe."

“Safe, aye, and hungry!"

His attitude to Hargon intrigued me, and I filed away my ideas on that. Now the slaves carrying Leotes's body had left, San Hargon followed. He did not look at Mevancy, and he did not see Llodi and me in the shadows. He went out.

Mishuro moved towards Mevancy. His voice was low but clear.

“You are brave but foolish, my lady. I believe you to be in great danger."

“I believe you are right, san."

“Well, then?"

“If I am foolish it must be because I am a foreigner and not used to your ways. I wanted to look on Leotes's face once more."

“I shall soon be arranging that, as I have informed you, since you are in a privileged position. The trouble is that Hargon will be the guardian."

“I do not know—I am not sure—what I can do about him."

In my ear, Llodi whispered: “Shaft the shint!"

I said: “Perhaps later. Now, would you shaft those fellows creeping—"

“I see ‘em!"

I heard all the sounds of a man drawing a bow, letting fly, reaching for the next shaft. The arrow flew true. The first of the men in dark clothes creeping from the shadows past the far doorway screeched as the arrow punched in. There were four more of them and these leaped forward, still silent despite that they had been discovered. Swords glittered in their fists.

Llodi let fly with his second shaft and took one of the assassins out temporarily, the arrow through his arm.

Buying the new fawn robe gave me the ability to move among these folk without attracting attention. I had to keep the rapier hidden, of course. So I ripped out the lynxter Mevancy had given me and jumped forward.

The first assassin was pawing at his eyes. Blood and muck spattered his cheeks.

That left two for me to deal with.

These assassins were not dismayed by their losses. They were real professional stikitches. Their dark clothes, their silence, their swift onrush, all proclaimed that. The one with the arrow through his arm had now recovered and as I closed with the two before me I lost him beyond them. Their blades flashed before my eyes.

Mevancy screamed: “You onker, cabbage! Keep out of it!"

She'd drawn her dagger and she knew how to use it. Of course! She hadn't believed I'd knocked over Hangol's guards to rescue her and she thought I was still as weak as a woflo, a camouflage I intended to keep up. But, here and now, with Mevancy's life in danger? Not likely, by Krun! No subterfuge was worth the life of this hoity-toity little madam for whom I cherished a lively affection. She had to be saved, no argument.

I slid the first blow and twisted and thrust and so recovered, the lynxter glistening red.

Mevancy hurled her dagger. It whistled damn close past my ear and went twunk! into the face of the second assassin just about to engage me.

As this black clad unhanged villain collapsed I saw past him the fellow with the arrow through his arm now sported a second arrow through his neck. Llodi had finished what he had started.

“Well!” snapped Mevancy in an exasperated voice.

I said: “These stikitches are professionals. They are not high quality—"

“Because they failed, Walfger Drajak?” said Mishuro.

He looked unruffled, calm, in control of himself. Lunky hovered.

“Yes, as well as their lack of masks and body armor."

“Assassins vary over Kregen,” said Mishuro, somewhat sententiously. “These five were quite good enough for me, thank you."

And Mevancy laughed.

“You were right, san.” She caught my eye and I frowned and then gave the universal expression of questioning. I meant—was she the target, or was he? Was he the person the Star Lords wanted us to protect? I was more and more convinced that he was. She did not stick her tongue out at me; her expression indicated that she had done so, and I deserved it.

“I think they would have slain me, into the bargain,” said Mishuro. “Stikitches do not respect much in this world of sin."

“Nor does that shint Hargon,” I said, somewhat heatedly. “He and that cramph Hangol sent these hired killers. You know, san, it was Hangol's men and Hargon who pushed Leotes and Lady Mevancy off, don't you?"

“This is what Mevancy says. It is her unsupported word.” As I was about to let rip with a volley of invective he went on: “I believe her. But nothing can be done in any legal way.” He let it hang there.

So, all right, then! He might look like an ancient Buddha, serene, selfless, above petty mortality's envy and strife; he wanted something done here. I am not an old leem-hunter for nothing. I sensed immediately the wheels of plots turning here. San Hargon might have been pleased San Mishuro was killed in the unfortunate assassin attack; vice versa operated here, and no mistake, by Krun!

People were coming in to find out what the commotion was about. We left them to sort out the bodies and clean the place up. Mishuro insisted we go with him to his villa.

As we walked along, Mevancy in a most serious tone of voice said: “You were fortunate that fellow rushed straight onto your blade and skewered himself, cabbage. Otherwise your head would have rolled."

“Very fortunate.” So my footling and petty-minded disguise of still having no strength remained! Very well, then. Let it remain!

I'd cleaned the sword on the black clothes of the corpses. I noticed that Llodi retrieved two of his arrows, the third being broken. His bow was the great Lohvian longbow. In the continent of Loh as I was, that is not a stupid remark, for flat and compound bows are prevalent there as elsewhere in Paz. As to Llodi's skill with the bow, a strangdjim as he was, I could only surmise. Had he been a bowman of quality, one would think, he'd be employed as a bowman, not a spearman.

If he could be persuaded to take employment with Mevancy, I, for one, would welcome him.

Mishuro's villa was a place of cool arcades and walled gardens and high comfort. He had a small army of servants and slaves. This did not agree with the appearance he had made in the caravan. Then there was only Lunky, his apprentice. Now there was a villa full of people. I did notice that he employed only a token force of mercenaries under a cadade, fat and sweating, whose chief function appeared to be superintending opening and closing the big front door.

“Naturally enough,” he said in reply to my query. “No one would even dream of harming me."

“It's unthinkable,” said Llodi. “Why, Diviners are like the Todalpheme. Sacrosanct."

We sat down to a splendid meal and I came to the reluctant conclusion I must insist on having a few answers to the questions I wanted to ask, questions I feel sure you who listen to my story have already asked yourself, questions to which you have already found the answers. I can only say in mitigation of my blindness that I hadn't really sat down and thought the situation through.

I said: “I understood that Diviners—and forgive me, san, when I say I've no idea what a Diviner is or what he or she divines—were most secret."

“Indeed,” said Mishuro. He leaned on the table, peeling a squonch with a small gold-handled knife. The rich juicy smell filled the small eating room. “Indeed.” He stared fixedly at Mevancy and then switched his gaze to me. But it was to and of Llodi that he spoke. “I sense here something strange. I ask you, Llodi the Voice, to take employment with me as a bodyguard. As for my secrets; yes, they are real. I am not called a Diviner, a dikaster, for nothing."

Mevancy opened her mouth to speak but he went on: “There is mischief here. Evil, that I can sense, and evil that fills me with foreboding."

“There is sorcery involved?” demanded Mevancy.

“I—I am not sure—"

“A damned Wizard of Loh!” I said. And added: “I mean a Wizard of Walfarg."

“No, I do not think so.” Mishuro stopped peeling the squonch and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “No. If it were, we were in far worse case. I have the strongest feeling evil is at work. I ask you to help me."

A scuffle and a breathy voice, more squeaky than hoarse, said: “I am here, master."

“Yes, yes, Lunky. You are a good fellow. But I think a strong arm is required now. Llodi—"

“Strong arm!” burst out Lunky. “Why, Walfger Drajak is like a woflo—!"

“Quite!” said Tuong Mishuro, dikaster, and Lunky subsided, chastened.

Thinking that this man was the target the Star Lords wished us to protect, and therefore he was assisting us in our duty, I was happy to accept. I should have remembered that the Lady Mevancy headed up this team, by Vox!

“We-ell,” she said, pursing up her lips. “We have heavy commitments, san."

He put that heavy Buddha-like head on one side, regarding her from under heavy lids. “Yes, I quite see that. I can offer you the hospitality of my house, as well as what protection that affords, as you assist me."

I said: “The san speaks good sense. There is evil about. This solution to some of our problems works for me."

“Yes, yes, cabbage. Do let me do the thinking."

Llodi was ungentlemanly enough to emit a snort through his nostrils. I, although no gentleman, remained silent, looking at this girl not in anger or in sorrow, rather in admiring wonder.

“Yes, well, san,” she said at last in her brisk voice. “I would be happy to accept your kind offer.” She frowned at me. “As will Walfger Drajak."

Llodi was only too eager to join in, and he'd be paid! So the deal was concluded and the simple bokkertu made.

Tuong Mishuro sent a parcel of slaves under a lesser majordomo to Mistress Lulli Quincy's lodging house with a note to collect our belongings, scanty enough though they be. That, I felt, could not be helped. Anyway, if Hangol or Hargon decided to deal with us they'd very soon find out where we were. I found myself wondering if that great rast Hargon, the Ascetic, came from Hamal like his companion in crime Hangol.

As for the evil involved, if it was not sorcerous in origin then we ought to deal with it adequately. If it was sorcerous, I harbored the gloomiest forebodings that San Tuong Mishuro, Diviner or no, was not your regular thaumaturgist who would go up in magic against a Wizard of Loh. Mishuro had suggested that if sorcery was involved it was not the work of a Wizard of Loh, or Wizard of Walfarg as he ought rightfully to be called here in Loh. There were many other cults and secret societies of sorcerers. Even if it turned out to be one of these lesser mages, I still doubted Mishuro's competence to handle him.

My two comrades who also happened to be Wizards of Loh ought to help from wherever they might be in Paz. Khe-Hi was in Valka and Deb-Lu had gone across to Vondium in Vallia over a matter for Drak, the emperor. And when I say ought to help, I mean, of course, ought to be able to help. Wizards of Loh, comrades or not, are highly touchy in the most odd ways about arcana the ordinary man or woman completely fails to grasp. As for Ling-Li, well, she'd be with Khe-Hi, and she was a comrade who had assisted us in our sorcerous struggles. Now I just devoutly hoped these three Mages of Loh would help again.

With the aroma of squonch in our nostrils we went off to see about our gear and accommodation. I felt I'd unraveled a little of the conflicting threads in this business of Diviners and dikasters. The man or woman might not be secret; the secrets lay in how they performed their work. In violent societies it is always a surprise to find anyone willing to agree not to lay hands on anyone else. Yet Kregen shares this odd habit with parts of Earth—a parcel of priests can walk unharmed through a battlefield. All the same, sacrosanct or not, Mishuro feared for his life. That, I felt, was certain.

Was that great rast Strom Hangol dead or not?

A little reflection assured me that San Hargon was the greater menace.

Yet he was not a sorcerer. At least, the few enquiries I'd been able to make and Mishuro's own opinion suggested that. He could be hiding his light under a bushel, boxing clever as I was supposed to be doing. The outcome of this affair seemed to me murky, most murky indeed.

Later that afternoon Mishuro was visited by a group of serious-faced people. They were closeted with him for an hour or so and when they had gone he told us that nothing had been discovered concerning the identities of the assassins. Well, that didn't surprise anyone, by Krun! He went on: “I shall be extremely busy for the next week. All my time will be occupied.” His face expressed a concentration of effort, as though he strengthened himself for an ordeal ahead. “For all our sakes I believe it would be best if you accompanied me."

Without thinking, I started to say: “To do what—?"

Mevancy cut in like a chisel. “Wait, cabbage!” She half turned to Mishuro. “This is for Leotes, san?"

“Yes."

“Then, of course, we will go with you."

And, still, I hadn't grasped what the background to all this was! I suppose that knock on the head had addled my wits even further. Everything was now so obvious that a blind man ought to have seen it. Oh, well, as I thought then, I'll just soldier on and see what happens.

Of course, sometimes doing that, by Makki Grodno's diseased disgusting dangling left eyeball, is just like sticking your fool head into a leem's jaws!

Chapter fifteen

The woman said: “Lord, the baby died."

Mishuro studied the woman attentively. Her face showed tired lines and her hair draggled and her mouth, pale and weak, drooped in defeat. She stood at the open door of her house, a mud brick dwelling, one of many, between the edge of the cultivations and the desert. Her dress was a simple sack-like garment, once a cheerful yellow and now a washed-out ochre. She wore no jewelry. Her man was in the fields, laboring, and she would have been there but for the recent birth of this baby who had died.

Hargon, brittle, cutting, said: “The woman lies."

Tuong Mishuro's face expressed nothing. “Show us the grave."

She waved her hand over towards the river and the true desert beyond.

“No,” said Hargon. “No, I do not think so. Stand aside."

The smell of the cultivations, mud, crops, the wetness of things, smoked from the earth. This family lived and worked here all their lives. I thought the death of a baby could be a serious set back, or a blessed relief. At the time I didn't know. What I did know and should have thought was that each family would be different, anyway, whatever the circumstances.

The woman made a pathetic gesture to prevent Hargon pushing into her hut. A mercenary, one of Leotes's men, pulled her aside. I noticed he was not unnecessarily rough. Hargon went in, followed by Mishuro and Llodi. Mevancy looked across at me. I guessed her thoughts. What the blazes were we doing operating this close to that shint Hargon? We were those who could bear witness against him in the case of the murder of Vad Leotes. He had tried to have us put out of the way, and no doubt he'd go on trying to kill us. This task was a most uneasy affair.

The Suns of Scorpio slanted their mingled radiance across the fields and glittered from the irrigation ditches. The woman was crying now, shiny tears just silently rolling down her cheeks. Mishuro appeared at the door. His face had not changed expression.

“Kling Koo,” he said, for that was the woman's name. “This is not the one."

The woman fell to her knees, her hands raised. Her face was radiant.

“All praise to Tsung-Tan!” she cried. “All praise and glory!"

Hargon stepped out, looking mean. “The woman should be punished. She calls on Tsung-Tan, yet she defies Tsung-Tan. The college is given express powers to demand inspection without exception. She must be punished."

“I don't believe that really is necessary in this instance.” Mishuro spoke firmly; I sensed he knew he was on shaky theological grounds. “No harm has been done. You can quite see why the woman lied."

Hargon's fist descended to his dagger. I'd have the cramph's head off before he had time to get the point within an inch of Mishuro.

“Yes, some do, some do not. There is shame in it, they think.” He had a flush along his cheekbones. “I shall report this to the college."

“That is your privilege.” Mishuro half turned to Lunky. “Where is the next?"

“A house on the north wall, master. The son of a watchman."

“Very well. Let us get on, then."

We all moved off, walking sedately after the two sans. I'd noticed Hargon appeared to have no apprentice; the reasons for that I didn't know. If you imagine that walking like this with a murdering cramph gave me an itch up my back—then, by Vox, you are right!

The whole situation was, to me, highly strange and charged with emotions and passions, desires and demands. These people were like kettles coming to the boil. Anybody who got in their way was like to be scalded.

Thinking these confused thoughts and trudging after the others I wondered: Could Mishuro be the target the Star Lords wished protected? Mevancy did not think so. She was, reluctantly, coming around to the idea that the target was one of those unpleasant people, lord Nanji or lady Floria.

As we went off something made me turn to look back at the woman who was so ecstatic that Mishuro and Hargon had not chosen her baby. As I have said, the soldier who had served in Leotes's retinue had dealt with the woman as kindly as one might expect; more kindly, given the nature of these things. As I turned I saw a soldier, newly engaged by Hargon, walk past the woman as she knelt by her doorway. What he did seemed natural to him, I suppose. She was not really in his way as he marched past with his strangdja over his shoulder.

In his way or not, he gave her a thumping great kick as he went by, knocking her over with a crash against the doorpost. He laughed.

I stopped. I just stood there. I waited as the others walked past me and this woman-kicker approached.

He lifted his head and gave me a quizzical look.

“What's up with you, dom?"

I didn't bother to speak; at least, not at first. I hit him clean on the chin and knocked him down. He was still conscious. His strangdja clattered off his shoulder. He stared up at me, his face a blot of anger.

I said: “You kicked that woman. This is what it feels like."

And I kicked him, hard, where it hurt.

He was messily sick.

I just walked on after Mevancy and the others.

There was no feeling of self-righteousness in me, or, Opaz forfend, of pleasure in kicking a nasty specimen. Anyway, the poor slob had no doubt been kicked many times in his life and knew exactly what it felt like. All the same, I'd given him that experience to chew over afresh.

The incident had occurred at the tail of the procession and no one had noticed. Moving on casually I caught up Mishuro's tame slaves carrying gilded boxes filled with papers and books. Lunky was punctilious in supervising these ancient tomes. Mishuro appeared to have little need of them to refresh his memory; he did beckon Lunky over and had him produce a book bound in risslaca scale when we reached the watchman's hut on the wall. He studied for a moment, then went inside with Hargon. Lunky, holding the book, followed with Llodi. We waited outside. The suns shone. Presently Llodi came out and made a flat gesture with his hand, so we knew that whatever it was we sought had not been found here.

The next port of call, Lunky told Mishuro, was a timber merchant down by the wharves. Hargon had been receiving and sending messages by slave runners most of the time, rather like a bookie taking bets and laying-off. Now he took the lead and bustled off towards the river. Following along, Mishuro fell into conversation with Mevancy and I was content to trudge along a little in rear. Soldiers tramped in their harness and nailed sandals, their weapons slanted over shoulders, their faces sweaty and dusty and blank.

The fellow I'd kicked gave me a look; he said nothing.

“Now why is he going this way?” enquired Mishuro of no one in particular.

Going down to the river whichever way made no difference to me. We walked on in the mingled light of the suns. The street Hargon chose to approach the wharfside led past tall buildings, blinding white in the light, dedicated to the pleasures of life.

Now I do not think it is a sixth sense in the general understanding of that mysterious power. I am an old fighting man and apart from keeping alert and having my wits about me, it is habitual to keep everything going on about me, as it were, under constant review. The pattern of activity about me is registered, updated, and the information filed, dealt with or ignored.

I did not ignore the statue of the strangdjim standing on the parapet of the next building. Many statues adorned the walls: dancing girls, musicians, clowns, soldiers. Mevancy and Mishuro, talking, walked close beneath and the statue of the soldier rocked, toppled, fell full towards them.

I didn't bother to yell.

I just leaped forward, got an arm around each waist and rushed on against the wall.

And the damned fool soldier marching along at the side just marched on, and by the time he'd started to react it was far too late. He ought to have jumped very smartly away. As it was Mishuro and Mevancy slammed into the wall, the statue smashed down with an awful crashing noise, and the soldier walked straight on under it.

When we turned to look there was the stone soldier and an arm and a leg of the flesh and blood soldier sticking out underneath. There was, of course, a quantity of blood dribbling across the stones. Well, maybe I should have yelled. My decision had been not to shout and thus not to run the risk of startling Mishuro or Mevancy and making them do something stupid so that it would be much more difficult to grab them. Maybe I was wrong.

There was quite a lot of shocked gabbling as what had happened penetrated.

“Thank Tsung-Tan you are safe, master!"

“Yes, Lunky, and thank also Walfger Drajak."

“You were quick, cabbage."

Thinking to be cunning, I rubbed my arms and said: “I thought my arms were coming out by their roots."

They'd had a shock, all right. Also, Mishuro, slowly, said: “So this is why he chose to go down to the river this way."

“The shint!” spat Mevancy with great feeling.

I said no more. I had made up my mind on a course of action.

As it turned out, the timber merchant's son was not right either, and, this weird business apparently being concluded for the day, we all trooped off. Mishuro shook his head as we watched Hargon and his retinue walking off.

“I find it impossible to believe that he would raise a hand against a Diviner. Particularly as he is a Repositer. No, he tried to kill you, my dear."

I wasn't at all sure about that. Hargon had tried to catch two birds with one stone there. But I said nothing of that.

So, having made the necessary enquiries with a casual air of mere idle curiosity, and learning what I wanted to know, I waited for Mishuro's household to quieten down for the night. Eluding his watchmen was easy enough and I went over the wall like an eel. I wore the old scarlet breechclout under a plain gray tunic, and I carried the lynxter and rapier. I was, I confess, in a somewhat ugly mood. I could imagine with horrible clarity the arm and leg sticking out from under the statue belonging to Mevancy instead of that soldier. Mind you, if he hadn't kicked the woman, and been kicked, he might not have had his mind on thinking evil of me, and so been more alert.

She of the Veils was up and shedding her rosy golden light upon the city. With the directions clear in my head I went quickly along, passing without notice among the few people about in this residential quarter. A watchman at the gate could safely be ignored. I went around the wall to the rear and as I'd exited from Mishuro's property, so I entered Leotes's. Hargon lived here.

He had no idea in the world he stood in any physical danger from me. In any judgment it would be his word against Mevancy's, for I had not witnessed the crime, and who would believe some strange foreign woman against the word of a respected san, and a Repositer into the bargain? The law was all on Hargon's side.

A soldier standing guard by a gate went to sleep standing up and I eased him to the ground. I knew him from the caravan. Prowling on I found a door into the rear quarters of the villa. The place, as befitted a vad, was splendid. A deep silence hung over the halls and corridors and the explanation for that I found in the third or fourth room I looked into. This was an antechamber to a bedroom, and thinking Hargon might be beyond, I entered warily.

A woman slumped half asleep in a chair. She did not stir as I passed. In the bed in the room beyond lay Strom Hangol.

His face had the color and sheen of a moldy candle. It shone with sweat, the skin translucent, the closed eyelids heavy with shadows. He barely breathed. I stood looking down on him for a space, then I heaved up a sigh and took myself off. Even in that state he still wore his silver half-mask.

Two doors later I found San Hargon.

Two pretty boys lay on the carpet where I'd knocked them. They had not seen me; Hargon certainly had for he started up in the bed. He tried to yell. I reached him in a couple of violent bounds and gripped my fist under his lower jaw. His mouth stuck out. He made a funny mewling noise; he certainly could not shout for help. His eyes goggled.

“Listen, you kleesh, and listen good,” I said into his ear. I shook him to make him understand I meant business. He lifted his right hand from under the bedclothes and—lo!—it held a dagger. I took the dagger away with my free hand and stuck the point into his throat—a bit.

My fingers and thumb bit into his cheeks and I didn't care if I crushed his teeth in. “I said listen, not play silly onkers with daggers.” His eyes rolled. I spoke clearly. “You have been trying to kill the Lady Mevancy. You will not succeed in this; but you are an irritant, like a pestiferous fly. Do not try again. I shall not kill you now. Believe me, if you make any further attempt upon the Lady Mevancy you will die as sure as Luz and Walig rise in the morning.” I felt proud that I had kept my temper so admirably. But a vision of Mevancy's arm and leg sticking out under the statue, a vision of Mevancy in the jaws of a strank, a vision of Mevancy bound in Hangol's tent, abruptly afflicted me with a shuddering shake. I threw the dagger into a corner of the room and I put my fist into San Hargon's eye.

He jerked back and I released him and then, as a leem strikes, clipped him across the jaw. He flopped back onto the pillows, out like a light.

Well, so much for being the new moderate wild leem of a Dray Prescot.

Leaving was as much bother as entering. I went back to Mishuro's feeling very small, with that damned itch up my spine, and without any firm conviction that San Hargon would heed my sage words of counsel.

Chapter sixteen

The city guards came for me as Luz and Walig rose into a limpid Kregen sky.

Well, of course!

San Hargon's temper was such that he wouldn't lie down under the insult, the assault and battery, I'd done him. I did not doubt the moment he recovered his senses he was raving for his people, calling out the city wardens, going to the queen if necessary, organizing my arrest, imprisonment, trial and punishment. That punishment would be death.

I went over the back wall as the guards came in the front door. Llodi shouted: “I didn't warn you so you could go by yourself. Wait for me!"

“No, Llodi. You stick by Mevancy."

“We-ell, by Lohrhiang of the Straight Path! All right!"

So, off I went, haring out into a new day in a city that would buzz with the hue and cry for my hide.

The good folk would be outraged at my impiety—at least, I imagined so. I fancied a Repositer was in the same league as a Diviner, in which supposition I was wrong.

With me, apart from my weapons, I had the gray tunic under the fawn cloak. I had a few golden mings and silver khans left from those flung at me by my hoity-toity lady. I wouldn't starve, at least, not straight away. So I put on a straight and simple face that would not hurt too much. Since Deb-Lu-Quienyin had taught me the secrets of changing my face subtly, fooling by misdirection rather than heavy alterations, I had progressed in the art. I looked a simple sort of fellow, with little substance and much air between my ears.

That, by Vox, was the sort of fellow I felt myself to be!

All the same, everything was not lost. I could still keep an observation on Mevancy and Mishuro from, as it were, the crowd. If Hargon, or Hangol if and when he recovered, tried to get to them, I'd be there. That I promised myself as much as the Star Lords.

With the mass of white cloth turbaned on my head and the rapier hidden under the fawn cloak I looked as much like the next simple fellow as could be. I just mingled with the crowds gawping at what went on in Makilorn on the River of Drifting Leaves. By its nature the city was long and narrow, with two extensive waterfronts, a number of parallel avenues and many cross streets. Before long I'd drifted into a section that bore the marks of poverty, avarice and vice. I inspected what was going forward there even at this early hour, and then wandered back towards Leotes's villa.

The smells of this place changed subtly. Down by the river, mud and weeds dominated; further along there would be the tang of spice, the reek of curing smoke, or the subtle aromas of scents from a woman's souk. As I have said before, the marvelous air of Kregen varies from continent to continent; I thought I'd know the air of Loh again.

As I reached the front gate I joined a small crowd watching the notables emerging. I munched a handful of sticky dates, wishing I had a piece of bread slashed across and stuffed with onions and vosk rashers, so that I mingled admirably. The guards marched out and then slaves and stylors. San Mishuro walked along in quiet conversation with Mevancy, with Llodi hovering near. I didn't notice Lunky. Guards brought up the rear and they all went off along the cross street to join the avenue—this was The Avenue of the Seven Trees—where they turned off to the right. Moving slowly with the bunch of hangers on I felt pleased. Llodi had looked right at me, and past me, without recognition. So, I walked along and heard the rapid patter of footsteps running up from the rear.

I half turned to see Lunky, clutching his scrip with papers fluttering, pelting along from the gate to catch up.

As he ran past he panted out: “You've stirred up a hornet's nest, Drajak. Hargon is one boil of fury. You'd better take care."

I felt chagrin. A little sharply, I called: “You think you know me, dom?"

He slowed a fraction and flung back: “Do what? Oh, you're wearing a funny face, I see. Well, Drajak, San Mishuro says I will be a greater Diviner than he has ever been, and not too far off, either!” And he sprinted off.

The chagrin slowly changed to amusement. There was more to this awkward Lunky than appeared. I felt pretty sure that Mishuro had not recognized me as he walked past. He might have done, of course, and given no betraying sign. Mevancy had been looking at the san and not at me.

Keeping the procession in easy sight I followed as they were joined by San Hargon and his people. They all went off to an overly decorated building with a green dome and high-jutting eaves and the principals entered.

They came out and there was much shaking of heads. They all went along the Avenue of Splendid Arches and at the second cross street they halted and I could make out that they'd been joined by another procession of similar character. Easing forward through the crowd which quickly gathered I saw the magnificently adorned figure of a woman at the head of her retainers. Her face was shadowed by a gem-encrusted turban of feminine style, quite different from male turbans. Her clothes were stiff with gems. Jewels winked on her fingers. I took her to be the queen.

Presently from the people following her a short, stout man joined her in conversation with Sans Mishuro and Hargon. Everyone else stood back. This fat little fellow had as many gems and jewels as the woman. I'd not heard of the queen possessing a king; still, perhaps this was the fellow.

The decision not to ask the scar-faced fellow standing next to me who this man and woman were was reached without difficulty. He carried a nasty-looking curved knife in a sheath, and his dirty robes smelled. The next person was a cheerful woman with a pot on her head and a child at her side. I decided not to ask her, either. If I knew the rast, Hargon would have placed a reward on my head. These folk would love to earn gold that easy way.

The woman beckoned in no particular direction and immediately Lunky and another lad and a girl walked to join the group. The glitter of gems about the persons of the two women and two men contrasted with the simple attire of Hargon, Mishuro and Lunky.

So the apprentices had been called to the conference. I began to suspect that this overdressed couple were not the queen and king but dikasters.

As we stood watching these high and mighty important people in conference with the bustle of a city in our ears, I had time to think that perhaps I'd been far too hasty last night. I kept an eye on Mevancy. I made up my mind that I must buy a Lohvian bowstave and a score of good shafts. I'd been far too confident in allowing myself to be parted from her. And, she'd be worrying about me, wouldn't she?

At last the processions got under way again and they all went off and led us to a fisherman's hut some distance from those near Kang the Hook's section.

When Mishuro came out of the hut he held a shawl-wrapped bundle high in his two hands.

So I saw they'd found the baby they were looking for.

The baby's mother, clad only in a torn gray shift and with bare feet, slunk along after the san, half-crouched and looking up. I couldn't read her expression; there was fear there, and regret—I thought also she looked jubilant. Her hair straggled across her face and she patted it back with a stunningly graceful gesture.

A fisherman with silver scales across his back standing near me said: “Siloni lost her man two days ago, the stranks got him. If the Repositer deals justly with her—"

A woman with a wide cloth-covered basket on her head, cut in to say: “Don't have to do anything for her. That's the laws."

“Still an’ all—"

“And that's San Hargon. You know what he's like. Pity last night—"

“Hush your mouth, woman!” And more than one pair of eyes glanced fearfully about.

Again, I was not fool enough to risk my neck on the mere supposition that the woman's chopped-off words meant they'd all cheer for me. Oh, no, by Krun!

The baby was placed in a cradle and slaves lifted it on poles. Hargon turned to leave. The woman approached him, almost crouching like a dog, and stared up, speaking to him. He glanced down and then turned away without any acknowledgement of her presence. She fell prostrate in the fish-smelling mud.

Mevancy caught her up under the armpits.

I tensed, ready for violent action and hoping it would not happen.

It did not, for San Mishuro stepped up and spoke to the gem-encrusted woman, with a slight side nod to the gem-encrusted man. Slaves moved forward to take charge of the baby's mother and she went off with the procession.

The woman near me with the basket on her head sniffed.

“Like I said. At least it'll save him the cost of a wet-nurse.” She hitched up her skirts and walked off, saying: “May Tsung-Tan have her in his keeping."

The fisherman turned away, shaking his head. He saw me and said, as it were, half to himself: “They ought to give the Diviners just that bit more power. Still, it's in the accursed laws, so it can't be altered now."

He didn't pronounce the word accursed as though it were an adjective, given the Kregish sentence construction. The accursed—they must be people.

I made up my mind—and confoundedly late, too, by Vox!—to do something positive at last about the questions seething in my head.

First I went off to the Street of Bows. Well, now. I was in Loh. The Bowmen of Loh are the pre-eminent archers in most people's opinions, although I'd had many a lively discussion with my comrade Seg over the merits of the reflex compound and the crossbow. In the Street the signs clustered thickly. The Trade of the Hork flourished here. I wandered along, savoring the atmosphere and looking in the various windows where the reed shutters were drawn back.

Wood was precious along here where a thin strip of green cultivation grew between the river and the desert. The long log rafts might swan downriver from the forests of Chem; wood here was not grown on your front doorstep. The freak storm that had destroyed many of Ankharum's fine trees would have been a total disaster here in Makilorn. Ankharum and Makilorn, two cities on rivers, and now by conquest in the same nation, were very different cities, vastly different. In the end I chose a little inconspicuous shop whose sign proclaimed:

TWANG AND DAUGHTERS

BOWYERS AND FLETCHERS

The place held that familiar smell I had so often encountered entering Seg's rooms. I snuffed, remembering.

The proprietor smiled as I went in, saying: “Llahal. May I be of service?"

He wore a decent tunic of yellow linen and his face was brown and experienced, his eyes gray. I saw that the fingers of his right hand were missing, and understood why and the vile practice that was. I nodded.

“Llahal. A bow, if you please."

He started to bring out cases of bowstaves and I began to make an initial selection by eye only, and carrying on a casual proprietor-customer conversation. Presently we got onto the pleasant business of stringing one or two. When I had half a dozen I thought choice he said: “I see you understand.” He spoke in a friendly tone. “Although you are not a Bowman of Loh."

“I had lessons from a man from Erthyrdrin."

“Ah!” Well, of course, that ‘ah’ meant it all. Of all the Bowmen of Loh, those from Erthyrdrin are the finest.

We went out into the yard at the rear of his premises. The butts stood at the far end. Twang brought a score with him and I selected one shaft, fitted it to the string, drew and let fly. I hit the chunkrah's eye.

After three shots from each bow I picked one up.

Twang smiled.

“Quite. Perhaps you would care for some refreshment."

It was not a question and when we went back into the shop a pretty girl who was obviously his daughter was just bringing in a tray and the cups. I sat down and said: “Have you tried a steel loose, Walfger Twang?"

He lifted his cup. “Yes. And horn and ivory, bronze and wood. They serve. That is all one can say for them.” I could imagine. An archer whose fingers have been amputated is in sorry case; an artificial set of fingers, a loose made of cold material and not flesh and blood, could not compensate for the loss. He saw my expression. “My four daughters build the bows. They are the finest fletchers I have ever known. Their mother is with Tsung-Tan, whose name be praised, in Gilium. Meanwhile, as I wait to join her in paradise, our daughters build the finest sets in all Makilorn."

I finished the cup, thanked him and then broached the subject of price.

He told me.

I said: “I do understand that bows cost a great deal here. Unfortunately I did not realize just how much.” I spread all the money I'd left over from that given to me, hurled at me, by Mevancy. “Will you take this as a deposit, keep the bow for me until I return?"

“You do not haggle?"

“Not for a bow whose worth is such as this."

“I see. I will keep the bow safely for you, walfger."

“Chaadur,” I said, using a name I've used before.

“Chaadur the Horkandur, perhaps?"

“No, Walfger Twang. I leave that to my comrade."

When I went off I did not have a bow. I felt inspired by this man Twang, useless in the profession he had trained in since his grandfather's time, creating a new life out of the wreckage. Brave deeds are not all on the battlefields of Kregen or of Earth. No, by Opaz!

Thus thinking, wearing my strong simple face, I went off towards the sumptuous villa of San Tuong Mishuro.

A certain misty miasma that had been hanging around my head since the fire and my paralysis appeared to me to be clearing. I thought I could both see and think with a great deal more clarity.

And, by Krun, I needed to for what lay ahead!

Chapter seventeen

“But, cabbage, what did you do to the beastly man?"

As she spoke she laid the baby back in his cradle. I'd waited until his mother had finished feeding him before climbing in through the window. There had been no difficulty whatsoever in re-entering the villa, and now I intended to have a right royal heart-to-heart with Mevancy.

“I told him to steer clear of us. Apparently he did not heed the warning."

“Oh, you! Did you expect him to?"

I wore my own face. I spoke in a suitably apologetic tone of voice that would have vastly amused some of my more disreputable friends.

“Well, I'd hoped—"

She sighed. “What am I to do with you? Anyway,” and her voice sharpened, “I doubt if you've the strength."

“I see they found the baby they were looking for."

“Oh, yes. And Leotes is such a dear sweet—"

“Leotes? You give him that name—a fisherman's son—?"

She looked at me. Again she sighed. She wore a long pale lavender gown that clung to her hips and breast. Her arms were covered in her usual way and I wondered how she was getting along with growing her bindles. “I suppose you ought to know. The Everoinye must have given you to me for some reason."

“Whatever reason that might be."

“They are above criticism, cabbage! Well, I will tell you. Perhaps it will help us find our targets. I confess I am puzzled."

“Chances are it's Mishuro. Anyway, just tell me."

She might have flared up at this; instead she gave me a low look under her eyebrows, her eyes bright, and said: “The baby is Leotes."

“If that's what it's been decided to call him."

“Oh, you! You just don't understand. This is Leotes!"

I suppose some inkling of what had really been going on before my eyes must have made me realize what Mevancy was saying was true. At least, in the eyes of those who worshipped Tsung-Tan. The accursed needed explanation, as did paol-ur-bliem. But I had experience enough to grasp at what was going forward here. I said: “Why is the baby here and not at Leotes's villa?"

“The mother had to see to him, and Mishuro has rights until the going down of the suns."

“Then he goes to Leotes's villa?"

“To his own villa, yes."

“Yes, well.” I drew a breath. “I see some of it; a lot, I suppose. You'd better tell me all. The Everoinye are not meddling here for nothing.” I tried to keep from my voice and manner the habitual briskness that would have bristled her up. “Mishuro seems all at sea. One minute they're out to get him, the next and he's back to the inviolability of a Diviner. If the Everoinye want us to do a task here, then Leotes, Mishuro, Hargon, must all be mixed up in it."

She bit her lip. Then: “But how?"

“Tell me about Leotes, about Paol-ur-bliem, about the accursed."

She motioned me to follow her into an inner room. “They'll be coming to take Leotes to his villa soon. We have time.” She threw herself on a chaise longue and stared up at me. “Now, cabbage, the story goes like this.” She was visibly tense, yet she spoke evenly. “Three thousand seasons or so ago the new-fangled religion following Tsung-Tan was making its way into these areas. This part of Loh is cut off from much of the bustle. Tsung is the godhead, his word was preached by a fanatic called Tan. When Tan died he was taken up to Gilium to become part of the godhead. These people believe absolutely and without a single doubt that after death they will go to Gilium, to paradise, if they deserve that good fortune."

“Otherwise they'll wind up in the Death Jungles of Sichaz."

“Just let me tell you, cabbage—if you wish to hear."

I let her get on with it. Apparently, Tsung-Tan's new religion had not swept all the old allegiances to other pantheons away; there had been some bloody battles. One particular god, Loctrux the Lame, had priests who motivated constant antagonism to Tsung-Tan. But, over the years, Tsung-Tan won over all the inhabitants and the last hard core of the Loctruxites was expelled.

“Then an evil wizard whose name has been completely expunged from the records raised up treachery. He repudiated Tsung-Tan and demanded the return of Loctrux. He gathered followers and they committed many atrocities, acts of barbaric savagery. Well—” She broke off and then said: “Well, I understand that well enough from Sinnalix. In the end a great priest of Tsung-Tan called Lohrhiang conquered and saved the religion. There were one thousand and one people taken up as prisoners who rejected Tsung-Tan. The college pronounced sentence on them, confirmed by Lohrhiang in a miraculous appearance of the godhead, Tan, himself.

“The one thousand and one were given a chance in the mercy of the god. Instead of being destroyed they were sentenced to live one hundred lives before being admitted to Gilium."

I closed my mouth. This was something like the situation I had expected; but not exactly so. By Krun, no! At last I'd worked out a simple reincarnation theory, given that paol referred to the terrestrial half of paol-vaol, and bliem is a word for life. Life on Kregen, reincarnated for a hundred times, as punishment before one could enter paradise! No, this was no simple reincarnation plot at all.

“So Leotes knew he couldn't be killed."

Very sharply, she said: “That does not make what he did any less brave!"

“No. It would not have been nice."

“And the paol-ur-bliem, the accursed, can be killed so that they do not return in another body. That terrible knowledge is reserved to few."

That knowledge would be dangerous. I suspected it involved a ritual similar to those familiar on this Earth. Tribesmen cut off the heads of their enemies to stop their spirits haunting them. Here the ritual ensured your enemy did die and was not reincarnated.

“You mean he goes straight down to hell, and no Gilium?"

“Yes."

“And Mishuro—the Diviners?"

“They serve for a lifetime. You know, cabbage, these folk really do believe that the accursed are forced to return to this world, time after time, as a punishment. The Diviners are trained from youth to be able to detect in a newly born baby the spirit of the paol-ur-bliem who has recently died."

“It's complicated, I suppose?"

“Very. Yet it has power to move emotions of awe and reverence. You really do feel that San Tuong has arcane powers able to discern the personality of the dead in the body of the new born. It is uncanny."

She spoke with feeling, not looking at me, and her fingers twined like a fisherman's net in her lap. I was not going to ask her if she believed.

“And the Repositers? This rast Hargon?"

“They are guardians. They live with the family, observing all that goes on. When the paol-ur-bliem dies and is reborn, the Repositer draws forth from the child's mind memories of earlier lives."

I said: “More likely stuffs the kid's head full for the first time."

She was pale. She nodded. “That interpretation of the Repositer's function occurred also to me. I just do not know. Everyone is so—so intense about it all."

“So the baby next door is really Leotes. And you are going to wait for him to grow up?"

“I—” She stopped herself, and swallowed. “I do not believe I gave an undertaking that would bind me. Leotes and I—” Again she stopped herself. Finally, rising to her feet, she said: “If you hang about here much longer—"

“Yes, yes. Look, pigeon, I have a plan. I'm going to—"

“Cabbage! I plan around here. You know that."

“I'm going to disguise myself and join Mishuro's bodyguard. When I turn up to be signed on, make sure you urge the san to take me on."

She was white to the lips.

She said in a choked voice: “The Everoinye—"

“You are quite right, pigeon. I don't intend to hang around here.” I crossed to the window and then remembered another important reason for my visit. “I'm negotiating to buy a bow. I need some more gold."

Her head was held so far back I thought her Adam's Apple would pop.

“Why don't you take it out of your mercenary's pay from San Tuong?"

I felt my lips rick into a smile. She was, in truth, a hoity-toity lady! I said: “That's the chicken and the egg."

“Yes, I quite see that.” Her color was returning and her breathing steadying. She put a hand to her breast. “I suppose I shall give you the gold."

Quite sincerely I thanked her as I shoveled the mings into my pouch.

I had compassion enough to add: “It will serve us better if I am engaged as a bowman rather than a spearman."

“Yes. Now you had better—"

“I'm going. Oh, and pigeon, if you allow yourself to be killed when I'm not around I shall be wroth, most wroth indeed. Dernun?"

And with that rather impolite demanding question hanging in the air between us, I wriggled through the window and took myself off.

The name given to the secret ritual which ensured that a person was truly dead and on the way to the Death Jungles of Sichaz was Kaopan. I was cynical enough to believe that any of these one thousand and one folk condemned to live a hundred lifetimes would prefer that punishment to being shuffled off to dance a measure with the ghostly syatras of the Death Jungles. Anyway, didn't this explain how wealth would accumulate! Hargon now ran Leotes's villa and estates, all his people and slaves, controlled his treasury. This had been going on for generation after generation. Power would centralize. The queen was probably a paol-ur-bliem, was almost certainly so.

She would also be, I had no need to guess, a genuine Lohvian Queen of Pain.

Another daughter served refreshments this time as Twang and I sat in courteous converse, discussing this and that, and in particular, bows.

“I do not decry the crossbow, as so many do,” said Twang. “It has its uses."

I said: “I would have thought the queen might employ a few crossbowmen."

He pursed up his lips. “She holds to the traditions."

The refreshments being finished and the bow packed, spare strings placed in their waterproof pouch and a score of arrows fletched pale red in their quiver, I handed over the gold. Arrows stood in vases about the shop like banks of brightly colored flowers. Twang's daughters would dye your fletchings any color you wished. The queen's bodyguards, I learned, always used yellow feathers.

“Remberee, Master Twang."

“Remberee, Walfger Chaadur."

So I went off with a new face to seek employment as a mercenary with San Tuong Mishuro.

Mishuro's fat and sweaty cadade, a fellow hight Chiako the Gut, grumbled away to himself as the slaves hauled open the big front door.

“All these new men. Anyone would think the san needed them."

It was quite clear he'd grown used to the easy life and did not relish any end to the quiet time. I said: “It will be an honor to serve the san."

“Well, we really don't need you."

I moved forward into the courtyard. A few plants drooped in pots and the outside stairs looked colorful with hanging rugs. Mevancy walked out from a door under the stairs talking to Mishuro. Looking across the yard she saw what was happening. At once she started across, with Mishuro, looking amused, following. Mevancy hauled up before me and the captain of the guard.

“No, we do not need you, dom. I have a new man coming in this afternoon."

Mishuro gave me a searching scrutiny. I'd no idea if he recognized me.

“He looks useful, Mevancy. I'm sure we can find a place for him."

“Very well, San Tuong. But we do need this new man this afternoon."

“Of course."

Mevancy hadn't taken any notice of the clothes, for they were like anyone else's. The bow was new to her. The rapier was hidden. The lynxter she had given me, a serviceable weapon, was, again, unremarkable. No, there was no reason she would recognize the face I wore as that of Drajak.

Did I feel a pang of disappointment?

With a slight nod Mishuro walked off and Mevancy followed.

“Right, dom,” I said to the cadade. “Where—?"

He interrupted in a splashy, frothy torrent of words. All they boiled down to was: “You call me Jiktar! Dernun?"

Jiktar, captain of a company, in this case captain of the guard, was a hard won position. I nodded. “Quidang, Jik!"

He shut his mouth and breathed out hard through his nose; but he said no more. I marched off to the guard barracks built against the wall and found a straw pallet I could claim. Well, it is a humdrum life, that of a guard. I've done it enough times, Opaz knows, and no doubt will do it again—many times.

They issued me with a spear from stores. Not a strangdja. This was a normal custom; any lord would have a store of spears for people he employed. Their other weapons were their own responsibility. So I, a bowman, stood guard at stairways and gateways with the spear at the correct vertical.

I yawned.

Then I stopped very quickly as down the inner stairway came walking the fat jewel-smothered man I'd seen previously talking to Mishuro. This time he was gesticulating excitedly, his face sheened with sweat.

“But, Tuong, she is determined on it!"

“Then you are, also, Yoshi. I understand. All the same, my view is unaltered. Vad Leotes did not commit suicide."

“Then how else did he fall? The woman was found hanging from the man. I hesitate to suggest they murdered Leotes, as you have taken them into your house.” The sweat glistened from ridges of fat in his neck. “But what else is there?"

Mishuro stopped with his back to me. He spoke with measured force.

“The woman and the man did not murder Leotes. He did not commit suicide. He is fully entitled to the deduction of one life from his sentence of paol-ur-bliem."

This fat fellow, Yoshi, shifted from one foot to the other.

“If they did not kill him and it was not suicide, then it was an accident."

“It was not an accident, Yoshi."

The man made a gesture, his palm up and fingers spread. “You are telling me someone murdered Leotes? You have hinted at this before, Tuong."

By this time I felt that Mishuro had divined who it was lurking behind the face of his new bodyguard called Chaadur. He'd stopped here to have this conversation so I could overhear. I quite saw that if Leotes committed suicide, that wouldn't count as a life against his punishment of one hundred lifetimes. Immediately, many schemes for cheating the dikasters’ in their surveillance of the sentence occurred to me.

Every one had been thought of and countered, as I discovered.

Yoshi rubbed his roseate nose. “Well, the man is being hunted by Hargon.” He smiled. “He won't get far."

I formed the conclusion that if the fat woman controlled this Yoshi, Yoshi was being paid off by Hargon. From things that had been said, positions taken, from a knowledge of human nature, by intuitive leaps, I began to sense a pattern to the plot. I could now see the likely course of events here. What I didn't know—and that was the most important item in the whole shooting match, by Zair!—was why the Star Lords were involved.

That was a detail that Mevancy and I would have to work out PDQ.

Chapter eighteen

What I needed at this juncture was to sit down quietly and think about the situation and try to decide what to do. What I got, by Makki Grodno's pendulous pustular nose, was red-roaring bloody action.

I'd just relieved old Nath the Lump, named for a monstrous growth on his neck. He'd worked for Mishuro for many seasons, standing guard, for whilst the person of the Diviner might be sacrosanct, his property was not. Thieves would have found rich pickings in the villa had they been allowed a free run. The gate whose watch we shared stood at the back of the villa in a brick wall covered with a pretty pale yellow flower that yielded sweet fruit later in the season, sweet rispas, and the guards watched the fruit as well come the time.

A fellow with a seamed face lounged up along the narrow alleyway separating this property from the next. He wore the usual fawn cloak, slung casually over his shoulder, and his left fist rested on the hilt of his sword. As he approached I sniffed. I'd been enjoying the perfume of the flowers; now this fellow exuded a stink I couldn't place.

“Hai, dom,” he said in a surly tone. “We bear you no ill will, so stand aside."

I didn't bother to answer him. Two more ruffians appeared and strolled up. One carried a strangdja.

“Come on, come on, shint!” rasped the first. “And you can tell us where the bitch is. We don't have all day."

Again I did not reply.

“The dikaster's employing the deaf and dumb,” observed one of the newcomers. “Keeps his secrets safe."

“Naw, Lefty,” said the first. “This rast is insulting me."

The one with the strangdja grunted out: “Chop the cramph and get on!"

He slashed the vicious weapon at my ribs, clearly intending to finish me off with a single blow.

The sidestep I made was quick—well, by Krun, it needed to be!

I stepped in closer and the spear went through his ribs.

The other two roared in fury and ripped out their swords. The first one took the withdrawn spear through his ribs as his blade cleared scabbard. Lefty tried to be clever.

He circled around and then flashed his lynxter and slid sideways and slashed back. I caught the blade on the spear and twisted and Lefty, open-handed, received the full force of the spear butt, like a quarterstaff, on the forehead. I'd intended to knock him unconscious so he might be questioned. But the knowledge they'd come especially for Mevancy must have nerved my muscles, for the spear butt smashed the fellow's head in like a fruit under a boot heel.

Looking down at them, I felt the disgust. What a life! What a way to earn a living! All the same, the threat from Hargon, and by implication Strom Hangol, was now far too serious for us to be stupid about it.

I remembered the little promise I'd made Hargon.

Well, boasting has never been my game. Now, I would have to honor that promise.

Some of Mishuro's tame slaves cleared away the bodies and I growled at the poor devils to cart the rubbish into the yard and dump it until the master had decided what to do.

When I was relieved, early, by Tongwan the Slow, I was called before San Tuong Mishuro to explain what had occurred. I told him, simply, without frills.

“We have not heard the last of this,” he said, uneasily. Mevancy stood at his elbow. Her face was shadowed, and I didn't like the lines creasing down her forehead.

“I have to leave the city, in any case,” she said. “Something has to be done about San Hargon, I agree. But if I am not here for a time—"

He gave no indication in his heavy Buddha-like face that this news meant anything particular to him. But to me, by Zair, it meant a great deal!

“You will always be welcome here,” he said.

“And I thank you, san, deeply.” Her voice sharpened. “If only my cabbage was here now. He could be useful, even though he's a bit of a hulu."[3]

[3 hulu: Someone who is part fool and part rascal, whose villainous schemes usually result in their own discomfiture. A.B.A.]

“Oh, I expect he'll hear, wherever he is."

The heavy crescent-shaped lids lowered over the eyes and he did not look at me. I was convinced he recognized me now.

I said: “San. May I leave now, please?"

Mishuro waved me away and I took myself off. This time I made enough alterations in the way I wore the ubiquitous fawn cloak and robes to differentiate the paktun Chaadur from the paktun Drajak. I wore the rapier outside and took off the massy white turban-hat. Then I put on my own face and went back in.

“Cabbage!"

“You are welcome, Walfger Drajak. But I cannot protect you for very long against the just demands of the law. Your return is fortuitous."

I swear he was laughing at me.

“I am glad to see you well, san.” I nodded my head to him.

“It's just as well you've come back, cabbage. I've been waiting for you. What happened to your wonderful plan?"

“I—uh—I was delayed."

“Well, we have to go to the Springs of Benga Annorpha."

I managed to stop myself from snapping out: “Why?"

I suppose she must have seen something of that in my face, which I tried to smooth out, for she said: “Nanji and Floria. That's where they're going."

I couldn't help it. “They're not important!” I brayed. “You know—"

Well, she just cut me down with a look. All these first person pronouns I'd been flinging about put me in entirely the wrong light. If she really thought Nanji and Floria were the people the Star Lords wished us to protect, then quite apart from seeing her point of view I felt I had to support her. Looked at calmly, Mishuro, although the obvious and important person to protect, was already protected by his profession of Diviner. I thought back to the conversation after the funeral, and felt I could have overreacted. Mishuro had confidence his life was not in danger through the habits of a lifetime. It would have been easy for me, an old fighting-man, to misconstrue his words. Even the idea that he'd countenance an attack on Hargon in retaliation, now, seemed in retrospect most unlikely. Mind you, he had blown hot and cold. If Mevancy was right, Mishuro had nothing to fear and therefore no need of our protection; if she was wrong, then—well, then, I refused to contemplate that.

And the unpleasant pair of Nanji and Floria were just the people the Star Lords, in their inscrutable demands, selected for protection.

Just how much insight a Diviner had into people I didn't know; Mishuro sometimes showed an uncanny knack. Now he spoke quietly, almost reflectively.

“Hargon is an unpleasant creature, this is true, as Tsung-Tan is my witness. I confess I harbored doubts. But it is too far-fetched to believe he intends to harm me. In fact, I shall discharge this new man, Chaadur, I have taken on.” He made a gesture. “He used my spear remarkably."

So now I knew he had recognized me.

When I say this gave me an uncomfortable itch up my spine, I am sure you will understand.

Mevancy and I made protestations of gratitude which were perfectly genuine and then we went off to prepare for the journey. The gold she had had from the Everoinye was holding up; it would not last forever.

“Anyway, pigeon, why are they going to the Annorpha Springs?"

“Same reason everyone else goes. Floria has a swollen ankle and the waters are a renowned cure."

The Springs of Benga Annorpha were situated in the oasis town of Orphasmot a few day's ride to the west. Sleepy, dusty, white, the town in these days existed only for service to the visitors to the Springs. As to the efficacy of the waters, mistress Telsi declared in glowing terms that they could cure anything.

“Including a broken heart?” enquired Lunky, gloomily.

Mistress Telsi looked at him under her long curling lashes and then turned to stare across the Wayfarer's Drinnik to Walfger Olipen. He had not gone to his home of Guishsmot. He had remained in Makilorn in passionate pursuit of the butterfly beauty of Telsi. She had refused all offers. Still, now that lord Nanji and lady Floria were going to the Springs, well, this might be the time she would change her mind. This, naturally, depressed the good Lunky. He had thought—and only a humble apprentice—and then the rich merchant had appeared, and, well, Lunky wasn't sure just what he ought to do.

San Tuong Mishuro, unsmiling, said: “In this I cannot give you counsel, Lunky. You must work out the vicissitudes of the heart yourself."

“I'll go and be a Todalpheme,” he said, savagely.

Mevancy and me, hidden in the back of a cart, felt for poor Lunky. Still, our decision to go with Nanji and Floria made, we now found mistress Telsi and the merchant, Olipen of Guishsmot, in the company from the old caravan. If our target turned out to be one of those two I'd not be surprised. Not now, after all my dealings with the Star Lords.

“If there is another death, Lunky, I will send word."

“Yes, san. And thank you."

“I have a meeting with two of the queen's Repositers. So I will bid you remberee and take my leave."

“Remberee, san!” they called and Mishuro walked off with his heavy stately walk. I noticed Chiako the Gut and half a dozen of his men were there.

Eventually the little caravan got moving and we trundled off westwards. It did occur to me to wonder if we'd ever return east to Makilorn.

Mevancy dug me fiercely in the ribs as we lay side by side under the sacking in the back of the cart driven by one of Mishuro's slaves. “Well, cabbage. And what of your famous idea? Your disguise?"

“All I can do now is to pull my flamin over my face.” I twitched the sandscarf up. “We'll have to emerge and mingle soon if we are not to—"

“Yes, yes, of course. Have you seen anyone you think might belong to that shint Hargon?"

“No."

“H'm. Well, neither have I. And that means nothing, by Spurl."

She was right.

She turned over restlessly and this time her elbow dug in although she had my full attention. I growled: “I feel sorry for the poor devil you marry."

She sat bolt upright. She glared at me and the blood in her face glowed scarlet. “You! You!"

“Oh, I didn't mean it, pigeon. My ribs'll be blue now."

She breathed hard; but eventually she quietened down. I own, I am an uncouth boor at times. Not all the time, only sometimes.

Presently she said: “I am surprised there is this liaison between Lunky and Telsi. It is—"

“Would-be liaison, don't you think?"

“Oh, yes. I hope Lunky wins over Olipen, although he's quite nice."

“I saw a sweet little girl with Llodi the other night when he was off duty. Black hair in ringlets, slender legs, a sprite. Llodi was quite—"

“Quite, cabbage! I'm not sure I want to hear!"

“Come on, Mevancy! Llodi's entitled to a romance, isn't he? This Pulvia—Pulvia the Ringlets, I believe—might be good for him. I don't know. I just hope so, that's all."

“Yes, of course."

Funny thing, that. Our Mevancy was a bit of a straight-laced lady, more than a little correct. I found that charming.

Chapter nineteen

“By the Black Chunkrah!” I said, and gave the sand a thumping great kick. “I wish I knew what to do!"

“I've told you, cabbage—we are—"

“Yes, yes, pigeon. Yes. But I don't like leaving Mishuro alone—"

“Llodi—"

“I know. Llodi will cope. But, just suppose, pigeon, just suppose it is Mishuro."

The day was on the wane and the twin Suns of Scorpio, Luz and Walig, dropped down the sky ahead of us. Massy banks of ochre and chocolate, of gold and vermilion, a swirl of colors high up and level banks below, filled the sky with a rainbow confusion. Shadows, red and green, streamed behind us.

“Just suppose."

“Then the Everoinye will take us back, Drajak!"

“There have been arguments between me and the Star Lords. They're not so all-fired hell-on-wheels. They make mistakes."

“Cabbage! Have a care, for the sweet sake of Gahamond!"

“All I'm saying is they could take us back too late.” I walked on across the sand beside our cart in the little caravan. Camp would be made shortly and I felt the greatest unease. “If the Star Lords don't act soon—"

“Then that will prove Mishuro is not the one."

“Not necessarily! I've told you. The Everoinye make mistakes. They're old. They've dropped me in it before this—"

“It would not surprise me if they decided to discipline you—"

“Oh, they've done that. But, right now, I'm trying to work things out their way.” If there is one thing among the many I do detest, it is not being able to make up my mind. I like to decide and then get on with it.

I said: “Right, pigeon. Our target could be Mishuro. It could be the Nanji and Floria connection. It could be anybody of those you pulled out of the fire with Rafael—"

“Yes! And that includes you!"

“Yes, and that includes me. There are two of us. You stick with what you think right and I'll stick with mine.” She glared at me. “Mishuro is clearly the most important person involved—"

“And, as you've said and we know, that need have nothing to do with it."

“I agree. If you look at all the runners, anyone—"

“Yes, yes,” she snapped. “So?"

“So I'll toddle off back to Makilorn and keep an eye on Mishuro."

She'd been walking along sturdily, striding out, head up, kicking the sand out of her way. Now she favored me with a quick upward glance, like a bird. “If you think that best, cabbage. My bindles are almost full-grown now. I do not want to quarrel with you or give you orders you think unjust."

I shut my black-fanged winespout with a snap. You see! How could I be nasty to her? She was doing a job, and trying to do it well. And here was I, a hairy old graint, a leem-hunter, a ferocious fighting-man, a zhanpaktun, and much more besides, lumbering along like a self-destructive avalanche ready to engulf her in my bad temper.

“We-ell—"

“If you think that right. I admit; I worry about San Tuong."

“Give me an animal, any animal, and I'll trot back."

Then, surprising me—but in a pleasant way—she laughed.

“Very well. And if I'm wrong and the Everoinye act, I'll be in Makilorn before you!"

“By Zair! You're right!"

Only when I was riding back astride the dinky little white-haired preysany Mevancy had cajoled a flushed-faced merchant into selling did I consider that the Everoinye might well not act. Mevancy ought to be able to cope on her own, surely? Almost I pulled Blanky around to ride back; then the thought of Mishuro gripped me again. Mevancy just had to be able to cope if fate should pick on her.

Ahead the desert glowed with the pink and golden light of She of the Veils. I'd always felt a special affinity with this particular Moon of Kregen. A reflective mood overtook me. In the spirit of that mood, now, I can mention that in reality the Moon called She of the Veils is the largest of Kregen's moons. It is her distance from the planet that reduces her apparent diameter to less than the Twins and the Maiden with the Many Smiles.

Shadows flitted under the Moonglow.

For only a single moment I tensed and grasped my sword; then I saw the untidy procession of Umblers just beginning to halt and think about making camp for the night. A funny lot of diffs, Umblers—erratic, incompetent, leaving behind them a trail of accidental damage. The noise they were kicking up as patched tents were pulled out and firewood searched for and children ran screaming spread across the desert. The wonder was with their notorious incompetence how these Umblers ever succeeded in reproducing. Truly, Kregen is home for an astonishing and splendid array of diffs!

Shaking my head I rode on and quite soon threaded my way through the irrigations of Makilorn.

Umblers like to keep out of the way of other folk, keep to themselves. The generally-held belief is that if they tried to build houses for themselves every single one would fall down, brick almost leaping off brick. There is only one known activity in which the Umblers possess skill, and that is a world-renowned skill. They can breed and produce the most marvelous goats. There are many varieties of goat on Kregen with a multitude of names. Umblers can husband them all superbly.

No one inhabiting the land of Tsungfaril was at this time expecting any direct military invasion from any direction, so the walls were lightly manned here in Makilorn. Moonglow and star glitter reflected from a few helmets along the parapets. I headed for the Pancheen Gate. The waft of perfume from moon blooms sweetened the air past an open drain. I heard the noises as I caught the stink.

Very familiar, those noises, very commonplace on Kregen and very dreadful. The slither of steel on steel, the slurring stamp of sandaled feet, the soggy thumps and the abruptly choked off scream of agony—oh, yes, this was the Kregen I knew.

Like phantoms the brown-cloaked figures rose from the shadows and the moonlight threw black and silver stains across the glitter of their blades where the pinkly-silvered steel darkened with blood.

A fleeting glimpse of hook-nosed faces, dark and narrow, the flaring swirl of a cloak, a distinct view of ornate glittery badges in their turbans—that was all I saw. The assassins vanished.

The poor devil they'd done for was past worrying about his fate here on Kregen. He would be concerning himself on the best ways of getting safely past the specter syatras and the stifling spirits of the Death Jungles of Sichaz. This was the hard and vicious face of this wonderful world that sometimes lay dormant so that one could forget the horrors. Eventually the lurking beast would spring forth, snarling and shaking the blood drops from fangs that had bitten deep, tearing the life from brightness. I rose to my feet, promising the corpse's ib that I would send a party to secure him a proper burial. Then I went on and shouted up at the watchmen and they let me through the postern by the Pancheen Gate.

The sense of urgency that had hurried me on through the night forced me into a run as I neared Mishuro's villa. Suppose the san had been murdered whilst I was away! I fairly raced up to the gate and saw the figure of an armed man turning back from the little sentry box. I whipped out my sword.

“Hai, Drajak! No need for that—it's a long watch, me bein’ on me own an’ all. Pulvia's just keeping me company, like."

The glitter of bright eyes in the moonlight, the glint of teeth, the sense of a swirl of black ringlets—yes, this Pulvia would be a luscious armful to while away a tedious and uneventful watch. All the same...

He must have caught the expression on my face, for he said quickly: “I know, I know. But there's nothing doing since lady Mevancy went away, an’ it being so quiet and everything."

The reflection that it was no part of my business to reprimand or discipline Llodi made me relax. He was a good comrade. I said: “I bid you Mellow Moonlights,” and went on towards the villa. Mellow Moonlights is just one of the many Kregen ways of saying Good Evening.

The servants told me San Mishuro was safely tucked up in bed.

I checked this information, personally, to find it correct.

Absolutely no feeling of anticlimax could find lodgment in my head. The dash across the desert among moon shadows, the bloodcurdling incidents of the night, the momentary heart-stopping apprehension at what might have become of Llodi's antics with Pulvia, and then the subject of all this concern to be sleeping like a baby simply fuelled the fires of concern. The tension screwed tighter. There was no release from the pressing sense of encompassing danger. If anything, my feelings of anxiety increased.

The next two or three days passed as though life was running along normally. Mishuro accepted me again into his household with elegance. We ate and drank, slept and walked, played Jikaida and discussed erudite topics, all just as though nothing was amiss with our existence. And the screaming heebie-jeebies clawed away at my nerves and threatened to turn me into a shredded husk.

No word came from Mevancy.

On a morning when the twin suns’ radiance was fuzzily dissipated by a high thin drift of vapor pretending to be a cloud, Mishuro asked if I would care to accompany him to the villa of Lord Kuong. Glad to get out I readily agreed and we set off in that strange multi-colored light. Mishuro told me that Kuong Vang Talin, the Trylon of Taranik, had recently reached the age at which it was considered proper for him to take up the reins of management of his estates. As a Paol-ur-bliem he had grown to manhood under the guidance of his Repositer, San Caran. I received the impression that Mishuro did not much care for this San Caran. “He still has many lives to lead on this sinful world,” said Mishuro. “But that is his punishment. Kuong is a likeable lad, though."

Trylon Kuong, indeed, turned out to be a cheerful, personable young fellow. His eyes were clear, his cheeks ruddy, his lips firm. I fancied that plenty of girls would take to the cut of his jib. He welcomed us warmly and just as San Tuong opened the conversation, San Caran marched in.

Well, now.

Rub a cat's fur up the wrong way and watch the sparks fly.

Yet the whole encounter was handled with exquisite manners on both sides. San Caran as good as told San Tuong to shove off and stop interfering in things that were not his concern. San Tuong replied that he was not happy at the way San Caran was handling the trylon's affairs. It was all prettily done but at the end I took the clear impression that Caran, having run the estates for so long, was not prepared to hand over his authority to this slip of a boy he'd raised from babyhood.

With self-mocking cynicism I could well understand how Trylon Kuong would be happy and well fed and chased by girls. After all, by Krun, he had money, and estates, and so why shouldn't he enjoy himself? If leading this kind of life was his punishment, one might think, you'd have folk queuing up to be punished. The reality, of course, was quite the opposite. No one of Tsungfaril was prepared to wait about for lifetime after lifetime before being allowed to enter Gilium. However marvelous a life the paol-ur-bliems might lead here, the paradise of Gilium offered unthinkable delights.

This San Caran was having his cake and eating it.

He was partaking of the delights of a sumptuous lifestyle here and now, and his passage to Gilium was assured and booked.

Oh, no. He was not prepared to give up his power and luxury to a youngster.

As for himself, San Caran wore a snuff-colored robe, with green slippers and sash, and wore on his long face a mournful expression. I couldn't make up my mind if that pained expression was that of a martyr or someone sniffing an unpleasant smell.

Absolutely nothing came of that visit. Kuong had just returned to Makilorn from Taranik over to the west and San Tuong, shaking his head, grumbled to me that there was going to be trouble, big trouble, in that quarter. “And in the not too distant future, too!"

“I suppose San Hargon and San Caran are bosom friends?"

“Assuredly."

I said: “Perhaps too much power is collected into the hands of a Repositer under the present system.” I spoke carefully.

“That is certain sure. The queen has listened sympathetically to arguments in favor of altering the laws. But that always takes time."

“So in the meantime—"

He interrupted me, a following thought in his mind breaking out. “Caran is well aware I am trying to influence the queen to have the laws changed. Hargon with a new Paol-ur-bliem to care for will support Caran and the other Repositers. Yet it is the queen's policies with regard to Tarankar that should concern us all at this time.” He sounded out of breath. “Well, that is not for us to meddle with. What the queen wills, the queen wills."

Later that day Mishuro had to attend a meeting and I was left at a loose end. After a few practice shots with Master Twang's fine bow, I felt in need of a wet. The evening trade was beginning to buzz, although this city of Makilorn was vastly different from Ruathytu or Vondium, and even more vastly different from Sanurkazz, as Mother Zinzu is my witness!

They did have clouds around here, once or twice in a decade, I guessed, when some freak meteorological conditions prevailed. The early wisps had not been burned off but had thickened enough to cause evening to arrive earlier than usual. Just as I passed Tongwan the Slow, who'd been told off to stand guard at the doorway, a flurry of drapery rushed towards us. We saw a shock of dark hair, bright eyes, lissom legs flashing under lifted skirts. “San Tuong!” cried the girl. “It is murder! They are murdering Trylon Kuong!"

Tongwan grabbed her and twisted her around. I recognized a girl who'd brought in refreshments when Mishuro and I visited Kuong. Tears glittered on her lashes; but she was fierce as a leem.

“Hurry, hurry! Send men!” She tried to wriggle free from Tongwan but he held her fast. “You great lummox! What do you wait for?"

“Tell the san,” I rapped out. “I'm on my way."

With that I sprinted out from the villa and tore off along the road to Kuong's.

As I ran, this particular plot came clear in my mind. Mishuro had rattled San Caran who'd decided to act at once. If Trylon Kuong was dead, then a new Trylon Kuong must be found. Caran, as the Repositer, would care and guide the baby. Mishuro had mentioned that the binding oaths all dikasters took to serve Tsung-Tan faithfully and truly in the matter of Repositing and Divining seemed not to bind Hargon or Caran. He'd sounded sad at this falling away of standards. Mishuro probably couldn't fully comprehend that a person who swore in as a dikaster might not truly believe in paol-ur-bliem. What that kind of person would believe in would be the power and wealth accruing. By Krun, yes!

One or two folk glanced at me curiously; no one offered to stop me.

I welted into Kuong's front gateway to find no sign of guards. Caran had had seasons to suborn them to his service. I began to feel I must be too late.

In the event, what Caran had arranged smacked of the over cautious. Instead of getting the trylon's guards to despatch him, Caran had hired professional assassins and seen the guards were removed from the vital posts. That way, no accusing finger could point to the Repositer.

So confident was Caran, and—evidently—so mean, he'd hired only two stikitches. Well, as I burst into Trylon Kuong's rooms, these fellows looked highly colorful in their black robes and masks and assortment of lethal cutlery.

What did surprise me was to spot San Caran in person skulking beside a tall jar packed full of petals. The subtle perfume scented the rooms sweetly.

“Get on, get on!” he was shrieking as I rushed in. “He is only a boy!"

The boy had a sword in his fist and was putting up a doughty defense.

San Caran screamed: “Kill him! Km him!” He was practically foaming at the mouth, wrought up with passion and impatience. When he saw me he screeched: “Your backs! Another one! Slay them both!"

Although I had no great respect for the professional competence of these local assassins, they at least did not allow me to leap on them from the rear in total surprise. One continued to foin with the trylon as the other swung about to deal with me. He was not quite quick enough and he went down as I withdrew the lynxter from his throat. At this Caran let out such a screech I imagined he'd ripped his own throat out and hurled himself forward, a long dagger a bar of glitter in his fist.

Kuong took a scratch across his cheek and he fell back, panting, and dashing the hair out of his eyes with his left hand. His assailant pressed forward in silent triumph as Caran reached us. There was no time to think. I saw the way of it, and the two targets, the two tasks, and acted.

A vicious leap bundled me bodily into the side of the assassin as Caran struck and my sword deflected his blow. The blade snouted forward as it were of its own accord and slid between Caran's ribs. At the same time my left fist came around and clouted the assassin behind the ear. He did not fall down. Caran let out a gurgling sigh and as the lynxter withdrew sank to his knees. The assassin took all this in as he swung about from Kuong, recovering his balance.

He made what must have seemed to him the right decision and he began to twist about ready to run off. My blade whistled around, low and flat, and sliced all across his abdomen. He let out a single shriek and collapsed.

“That was—” said Kuong. “You are very quick."

“Well, now, trylon,” I said. “We have one dead Repositer on our hands."

Kuong visibly recovered himself. His face began to resume a semblance of normal color. He put a hand to his forehead. Then he said: “Do not fret, Walfger Drajak. Caran has forfeited by his actions any honor and protection his position would have afforded him. You have nothing to fear from the college."

I own I felt genuine relief at that. Messing about with other peoples’ laws and customs is a risky business. Look what had happened before, and then I'd only spoken a trifle sharply to a Repositer!

Kuong was fully recovered by the time a crowd of guards and servants from Mishuro's burst in. Tongwan slashed his spear about, looking fierce. “I wasn't slow this time, by Yakwang!"

I agreed he had been commendably quick and then, looking about, said: “Where's Llodi?"

“He has been left to guard the main inner door,” snapped out Chiako the Gut. He was anxious to make his position of authority plain in these important affairs. “I do not neglect my duty."

Just about at that point I saw the horror.

I knew.

Without bothering to shout, without a word, I rushed madly from the room, knowing already the plot had worked and I was a blind and stupid cretin.

Chapter twenty

A blind cretinous fool! An onker, an onker of onkers, a get onker! I ran. By Zair, how I ran!

I didn't even bother to change my face from Drajak to Chaadur. There was no time for subtlety now, no time to disguise myself from the wrath of San Hargon. The time had passed and I'd been sucked in like any green coy. Now I had to race for San Tuong Mishuro faster than a speeding crossbow bolt—and bearing the shriveling knowledge I was already too late.

Because his guards had rushed off to the assistance of his friend the trylon, Mishuro's gates stood unguarded. Like a maniac I roared in and through the villa charging for the inner doors where Llodi the Voice stood on duty.

He lay on the floor, his hand spread against his side. Dark blood welled between his fingers and stained the rugs across the marble pavement.

“The san—” he choked out, scarcely able to speak. His eyes glistened. He stared at me with the awful knowledge of what had been accomplished here distorting his features. “Pulvia—"

“Rest easy, dom,” I said as I ran on without breaking my stride. “I'll get help to you afterwards."

He choked out a groan and slumped back and the dark blood dribbled between his fingers from Pulvia's treacherous dagger stroke.

As I sprinted I saw that my earlier feeling that the name Pulvia was too heavy for a light-minded flirtatious girl had substance. Except that the reverse was the case. The merry ringletted girl was the disguise; the heaviness of the name suiting the dark treachery that had struck Llodi down in his own blood.

My legs flew over the rugs and the tesserae. From Llodi's condition I judged that little time had elapsed since Pulvia ran through these corridors brandishing her bloodstained dagger. She might have had to take time to open the doors to admit accomplices, fellow stikitches. I took heart. There was still a chance to reach Mishuro before they did for him!

A vast and rotund ceramic jar stood jutting from the corner of the corridor ahead and I took absolutely no notice of the designs patterning the glistening surface but just hurled around, giving the jar a thump as I rushed past. It toppled over and burst with a thunderclap. Shards of china flew everywhere.

That thunderous noise echoed between the walls, and the booming crash framed in sound the apparition that confronted me, waiting for me.

I skidded to a halt.

My breathing remained even and steady. I looked at the man sitting in his skin-covered chair. That chair with its broad armrests and curved legs engulfed him in skin and scale comfort, with peacock feathers ready to wave a wafting zephyr against the stinks that clearly stank in the places where he habitually lived. The predominant color among the streaks of green and black of chair and robing was red—red! It was not the brave old scarlet of Strombor but a smoky sullen red like the banked furnace fires of hell.

His robes streamed away from artificially widened shoulders, revealing a scaled shirt, with many golden adornments and a broad golden collar. His hands were bone white and grasped the haft of a double-handed axe resting between his knees. A little scaled creature with a silver collar crouched against his booted right leg and a half-naked girl with flowing yellow hair clasped his booted left leg. And so I looked up at his face.

Incongruously he wore a thick brown beard—but no moustache—to adorn the utter pallor of his face. White, like freshly-scraped chalk, that face of horror. The bone structure clearly showed through paper-thin skin. The lipless mouth revealed a double-row of fang-like unhuman teeth pressing outwards from the wide jaws. Nostril slits only pulsed regularly above that trap mouth. And the eyes! Not utterly black, yet all the blacker for that infusion of dark blue, eyes that bulged and glistened with the uncanny red glow of rhodopsin; eerie, dominating, demanding, the eyes of a devil...

In complete silence the chair lifted from the carpets, rose into the air to hover a pace above the floor.

There was much much more to this man and his chair; at that time of our first confrontation I was in a hurry to pass and took notice only of what I have described. I drew in a breath and took a first tentative step forward.

From the wall at the side of the chair a thing emerged into the corridor. It slid through the solid wall as though passing through a cloud.

Diabolically-formed, this thing. On two scaled legs it stood man high and with a torso and a squat, flat head with bone ridges above the eyes. But the thing that took all my attention waved undulating before it as it advanced. Instead of arms this monstrous creation possessed four tentacular appendages. Each had a pseudo-head at its tip, a bulb-like growth containing two eyes set beside the fanged mouth. Each mouth opened and closed as the thing bore down on me, each seeking individually to rip away portions of my flesh to gulp down its intestinal tract to join the other mouths’ offerings in this thing's stomach. Oddly, there was no stinking stench in a miasma about the thing.

Of course not—this thing was an apparition, an illusion. It had just oozed through the solid wall; it might be real, and of that I had my doubts; it most certainly was not here in this corridor before me.

A voice like the whine of a draught under a door spoke from somewhere.

“Wait, Arzuriel."

The scaled horror before me halted, and the fanged mouths wove patterns in the air.

From a haze of smoky-red blackness at the rear of the chair two white arms emerged. They were the rounded arms of a woman and the plump hands held a convoluted and massive crowned helmet above the man's head. Slowly the arms descended to place the crown upon the man's hairless head.

That helmet told me many details, and all were of horror and despair.

The helmet lifted high above the man's forehead, bigger than his own face. The crown segment was formed from a curved rank of tridents. As a visor, the shape of a barracuda's head had been fashioned in gold to shield the man's eyes. Silver fish-faces crowded in sculpture around the helmet. A brown drapery was just visible swathed around at the side. The central portion at the front represented a ferocious fish-head, needle teeth exposed, malevolence personified. A swift and scared glance would easily confuse—was this creature a man wearing a fish-faced helmet, or was he a fish with a man's face as a neck adornment?

I own I was glad I'd seen the bastard before the white plump womanly arms had placed the helmet upon his bald head.

The vision of Pulvia running through this corridor carrying her blood-stained dagger nerved me. She might have accomplices. This thing before me, this Arzuriel, was just an illusion. I leaped forward.

A fanged mouth at the end of its tentacle swept for me. I ignored it and plunged on.

The damned mouth closed its double-row of teeth on my left arm and ripped away a mouthful of skin and flesh. I yelled. Absolutely furious I slashed the lynxter down and the severed mouth skipped from the green-stumped end of the tentacle. The dratted thing was real! Another mouth gaped for me and the lynxter beheaded it and then sliced around to complete the foursome.

Arzuriel slobbered from his wide mouth and lurched forward onto the blade of the sword. I wrenched it about a bit before I withdrew. If this damned fellow in his chair was real I'd have him, too, the cramph! By Krun, yes!

I leaped the wallowing Arzuriel and plunged for the chair. I saw the man's face. Scraped white, with black and redly-glaring eyes, mouth ricked into a snarl, it bore the utmost malice. I'd give the rast malice!

My sword slashed down—and through the man and so sliced up a floor-carpet. I hauled it up again, breathing heavily, and glared upon the true apparition.

The man's keening voice whined: “You will never succeed, Dray Prescot. For I am Carazaar. Already my plans are past your powers to interfere. Farewell, prince of fools!"

And with a blink and a wink this bastard of a Carazaar was gone.

I span about. Arzuriel had gone, too, and his severed mouths, gone off to practice more deviltry with his master Carazaar I did not doubt.

What an unhealthy couple!

This Carazaar and his pet Arzuriel had delayed me. But I refused to believe I was really too late. I rushed on, haring along the corridors and bursting past the doors to slide at last into San Tuong Mishuro's bedchamber.

Just as San Caran had been unwilling to trust tools to finish his job, so San Hargon had been unwilling to trust either Pulvia or his hired assassins. Two poor little serving girls lay butchered on the rich rugs. Their slender limbs and light draperies looked pathetic as they lay there, wantonly cut down. This kind of unnecessary slaying always infuriates me. Two black-clad fellows were turning away from the handmaids and before I did anything else I lit into them like a hurricane.

They both went down, chopped as they had chopped the girls, before they knew what was happening. One minute they were engaged on striking down pretty happy doomed little girls; the next they were trying to figure out a way past the deadly syatras of the Death Jungles of Sichaz. Bad cess to ‘em!

San Hargon glared across at me from the inner doorway leading to San Mishuro's bedroom. He screeched something indescribable and ran back into the inner room. The door slammed shut.

I just charged full tilt at the door.

I bounced.

San Hargon had planned, and planned well, and it was down to me to thwart the fellow. No stupid lenken door was going to stand between me and doing whatever had to be done on the other side—no, by Vox!

Had I been a Vengali Sorcerer from Vinkleden I'd have worked up a spell and hurled it at the wall around the door, turning stone to mud, so that the door would fall forward—slurp!—from the wall. As I was not one of those mysterious beings, a Vengali Mage of Vinkleden, I took ten measured steps back, set myself, whooped in a great lungful of air, and hurled myself forward.

Mentally, I was shouting: "Cha-a-arge!"

That door was damned hard. I hit it full tilt and felt the impact all along my shoulder and side and then with a screeching ripping splintering the door fell inward off its hinges and I was stumbling forward off balance across soft carpets.

Something went whick! past my ear.

The dagger—it wasn't a terchick—hit the wall beside the ripped-off door and fell unseen to the floor. It did not tinkle on those thick soft carpets. San Hargon glared at me from beside the bed, half-crouched, the other dagger in his fist glistening red, red in the mellow light of the lamps.

Pulvia lay at his feet, face down. In the lower centre of her back a red splodge glistened like a flower, crimson petals spreading across her gown.

The rast had stabbed his instrument of murder to silence her for ever.

So I looked at the canopied bed.

“You're done for, you shint!” screeched Hargon. “Done for! You will take the blame for all this!” He panted with the violence of his emotions.

On the bed the limp figure of San Tuong Mishuro lay sprawled. One arm dangled loosely down from the edge of the bed. His face lay in shadow.

Beneath that face his throat was a mere red splodge.

Pulvia had slit his throat as he slept.

I felt the ice creeping along my limbs.

Mishuro was dead. I had failed. This was disaster—yet I could barely comprehend yet what that disaster meant.

San Hargon had won and his will had been carried out and he had slain Pulvia, the instrument of that will. No doubt he would have more guards at hand to summon, to arrest me, to carry me off to torture and to death.

I threw the sword up in the air and caught it between forte and hilt.

I stared venomously at Hargon.

“At least, you kleesh, you will not benefit from your treacherous murderous ways!"

The sword flew true. The point took him in the throat and the blade crunched on and almost—almost!—the hilt smashed into his chin.

There was no need to take any more notice of San Hargon.

I stared sickly at the bed, and the dead form of San Tuong Mishuro.

Disaster? Utter, complete, dreadful disaster!

I had failed the Star Lords.

I straightened up, breathing deeply, smelling the raw stink of freshly spilled blood. Utter disaster!

Into that closed bedchamber crept an insidious blue radiance. I stood straight, stony-faced, empty-handed, waiting for whatever fate would be meted out by the Star Lords.

Even then, even then in that moment of utter horror—and especially then in that moment of utter horror—I felt my thoughts twine lovingly to Delia, to my Delia of Delphond, my Delia of the Blue Mountains. Agony awaited me, I thought, the sundering of four hundred light years from all I held dear.

So, straight and despairing, I waited for the Star Lords’ sentence.

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.