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Gangs of Antares [Dray Prescot #45]
by Alan Burt Akers
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Science Fiction/Fantasy

Mushroom eBooks
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

Copyright ©1994 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.

CONTENTS

Copyright © 1994, Alan Burt Akers

Dray Prescot

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

About the Author

The Dray Prescot Series

* * * *

Gangs of Antares

Alan Burt Akers

Mushroom eBooks

Copyright © 1994, Alan Burt Akers

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 1994 by Heyne Verlag in German.

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.

ISBN 9781843197430

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Dray Prescot

Dray Prescot, as described by one who has seen him here on this Earth, is 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, silent and lethal. Reared in the harsh conditions of Nelson's Navy he is a man who, relatively unsuccessful on Earth, is ideally suited to the new life to which he was called by the Star Lords.

Lit by the ruby and emerald fires of Antares, the planet Kregen, four hundred light years away, is a world harsh yet beautiful, terrible yet alluring. There any man or woman may achieve what the heart desires if they plan and struggle and keep faith with their innate purpose. Kregen has its share of weaklings and the faint of heart; but their names are not writ large in the footnotes to the Sagas to be found under the Suns of Scorpio.

Prescot has adventured widely over Kregen both at the behest of the Star Lords and to further his own vision. Now he is in the subcontinent of Balintol where strangeness unlike any that he has previously encountered awaits him. These volumes are arranged to be read as individual books, and we are privileged to be afforded the opportunity of reading further of the adventures of Dray Prescot upon Kregen under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio.

Alan Burt Akers

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Chapter one

They climbed up before dawn. Twelve of them, twelve young rascals clambering over the fallen boulders at the foot of the Hill of Dancing Ghosts. They slipped like wraiths into the hidden opening in the cliff face. Here torches were handed out. Young Dimpy grasped the rough wood of the handle, Big Balla lit the end from her torch half-blinding Dimpy, and he stumbled up the steps after the others feeling his heart thumping like a manic janzi pecker.

“Get on! Get on!” Sleed gave Dimpy a vicious push which sent him staggering up the steps. The stink of Sleed's greased hair cut acridly through the smells of damp earth and burning torches and sweat. Sleed was bigger than the others and unpleasant with it. He was known as Sleed the Slick and was in command of this section of novices in the Hellraisers. “You'll have to shape up if you wanna join us, you useless tanzy.”

Dimpy struggled on up the slippery ascent. He didn't much mind being called a tanzy, for he knew he wasn't. He didn't care to be called Young Dimpy. Oh, sure, he was young all right, not as green as these scared novices, but younger than Sleed or Big Balla. Since the slide and the death of his father and brothers he'd matured in caring for his mother and sisters. The slide had knocked the heart out of his old gang, the Roaring Fifties, so that the Hellraisers had moved into the territory without serious opposition. Now, like it or not, he had to prove himself as a gang member all over again.

Screams splintered up from ahead and a couple of novices tumbled down the steps almost knocking Dimpy over. Confusion broke all along the line. Weird shadows fled across the stairway. Big Balla was already thrusting her way up and Sleed, with his customary vicious shove, pushed past Dimpy and started after her.

“If'n it's them stinking Screaming Leems I'll—” What Sleed intended to do to the rival gang was lost as his words drowned in the uproar. The Screaming Leems, considered Dimpy, had to be way out of their territory if they were mounting a raid here. He could feel the closeness of the walls, the slime underfoot, the dark stench of the place. The novices were caterwauling away, terrified out of their wits. Dimpy dragged in a gagging breath and started after Sleed. He was thinking of Big Balla.

Pushing novices out of his way Dimpy reached the top of the steps where the uncertain light revealed Big Balla and Sleed desperately using their torches to hold off a half-grown praxul whose three stalked eyes glinted red above the fanged slot between his jaws.

Dimpy knew about praxuls. Nasty beasts, squamous and scuttling, they inhabited the honeycombed interiors of the hills along with a whole horrendous slew of fellow monsters. Much of the hill's interior was illuminated by a fungus which gave light enough for the praxul's three eyes. He didn't much like the orange glare of the torches.

“Get his eyes!” shouted Dimpy. He darted in, thrust and skipped back. He missed. Luckily for him, the praxul's sweep of claw also missed.

“I know! I know!” snarled Sleed. “Get outta my way, tanzy.” He jumped in, slashed his torch, missed and stumbled back.

The thing stood about waist high, warty of scaled hide, and its claws’ reach made it difficult to get at. Like most denizens of the caverns the praxul could use other senses than sight to focus on its prey; taking out his sight was the priority. The stink of its ooze sickened in Dimpy's nostrils, used as he was to the aromas of the warrens in the runnels between the lordly hills of Oxonium.

Big Balla lunged. Dimpy's reaction was instantaneous. In a single sweep his left fist gripped Big Balla's belt and a supple twisting turn span her away from the lethal slice of claw. A rip of cloth jagged off the girl's tunic caught in the claw. Big Balla yelped. In the same twisting motion Dimpy swirled his torch before them, blazing sparks in a fiery fountain. The praxul crouched back, weaving from side to side, hungrily seeking a way past the flame to his dinner.

“Let me at him!” Sleed tried to sidestep and slash his brand in at an angle. The beast weaved back and sliced and Sleed just managed to topple back, falling to a knee as the girl used her torch to cover him.

That tiny interruption in the flow of jump, thrust and retreat gave Dimpy the opportunity he needed. His actions were fast—very fast. His torch connected with one stalked eye. The eye sizzled. The praxul's claw flashed past his thigh. The thing screeched. The stench grew worse with the sour taste of frizzled eye.

The praxul was not unintelligent, with the instincts of his kind. He valued his sight, despite his other senses. He backed off further, hissing, weaving from side to side, claws waving. He was in pain. Despite all, Dimpy felt a stab of pity for the praxul. Then, clearly deciding his dinner was not to be found beyond the flare of the torches, he turned and scuttled off into the dimness.

Dimpy and Big Balla let out simultaneous whoops of relief. Sleed glared malevolently after the disappearing monster. He shook his torch. “I'd a done him good, by Ferzakl. Yeah—if he hadn't run off.”

The girl touched Dimpy lightly on the shoulder. Her face became suddenly different, grave with the seriousness of sudden realization of just what had happened. “Thanks, Dimpy. He'd have had me, for sure.” She tossed her hair back. “You were quick, by Ferzakl, mighty quick.”

Dimpy felt it unnecessary to mention that he had acquired a reputation in the Roaring Fifties for the speed of his reflexes. He just let a small smile curve his lips. “Yes,” he said.

Sleed swung about at the top of the steps. “Well, what are you tanzies waiting for? Come on! Come!”

The huddled novices with their torches quivering began to climb the last of the steps and venture along the uneven footing of the twisting, claustrophobic tunnel that lay ahead.

Noises echoed. The jagged roof lowered down over the scrambling party and splashes of torchlight glittered from condensation streaking the walls. Now Sleed the Slick had taken it upon his unlovely person to climb immediately abaft of Dimpy with Big Balla up front leading the way. She was no novice, being in training for the position of leader on a par with Sleed. At too frequent intervals Sleed prodded Dimpy on painfully. One of these days, said Dimpy to himself, controlling his anger with an almost physical shudder, one of these days I'll cut out this cramph's liver and lights and fricassee ‘em in samphron oil and then feed ‘em to the dogs—so help me!

The upward way turned into a level passage which opened out into a gallery. One side was slimed wall, the other was black emptiness. Noises seemed to be sucked out and down. Nobody spoke. The torches’ orange hair shrank against the darkness.

The way eased when they left the galleried cavern and passed into an ordinary tunnel. A little further on they came to a blocked up side entrance with a Rapa skull gleaming ruddily yellow nailed into a crevice. Dimpy felt a pang. Somewhere through the maze of tunnels beyond that skull were the old ways of the Roaring Fifties. The slide had brought down tons of rubble and solid rock which beside squashing Fat Nath and Lora the Leemkin had sealed off the secret ways.

The next junction did not need to be marked off in so sinister a fashion. The distorted opening in the wall reeked of sulphur. The hell-spawned stink gushed out to be sucked up into a crevice in the roof.

“Bad jangles, that,” remarked Big Balla, who stood passing the novices along.

“I'm in charge here, girl, and don't you forget it.” Sleed the Slick was a Khibil and although as a race they considered themselves vastly superior to all other diffs, even Khibils might have checked at this specimen. “I'll tell these tanzies what's what.”

Big Balla opened her mouth; then she closed it with a snap and jerked her jut of chin up. As a Hytak she knew her worth in the society of the gangs. But, also as a Hytak, she understood order and discipline even in so unruly a mob as the Hellraisers. And, as the second in command training to be a leader, she must, guessed Dimpy, feel ferocious distaste that she'd been stuck with this rast Sleed. The way up turned and twisted along treacherous tunnels. Dimpy had no difficulty in committing the tortuous passages to memory. Darkness partially pierced by the flare of the torches, dankness, the sense of pressure, of a closing in and suffocating weight, oppressed the party. They stumbled and hurried along, the novice gang members new to this experience, Sleed viciously impatient, Balla containing her emotions, and Dimpy clambering agilely along with them. Those first trepidations as he'd entered the hidden opening at the foot of the Hill of Dancing Ghosts that had so pumped up his heart rate he put down in his youthful arrogance to mere nostalgia—to the last time he'd gone up a Hill and all those painful memories.

That had been the day before the slide. He'd lost good friends then and more in the last futile resistance of the Roaring Fifties to the Hellraisers. The odd thing was, Dimpy wasn't at all sure that he did have a burning desire to prove himself to these Hellraisers. His desires had always been straightforward—to do everything for his family and comrades, and to the Red Hot Gullet of Karbonar the Inevitable with any and everyone else. And, said young Dimpy resolutely to himself, if you condemned him for that then to the Red Hot Gullet of Karbonar the Inevitable with you, too, dom.

Upwards the party climbed, following the ways marked with the secret signs of the Hellraisers. Dimpy committed all to his memory as Sleed and Big Balla counseled the novices. Dimpy did not know for sure if all the great Hills of Oxonium were honeycombed with passages; he'd admitted he'd be surprised if they were not. As for the Hills themselves where the lordly ones of the city lived, there lay the fat ponshos ripe for the plucking. His Uncle Petegland had once suffered an unpleasant experience with a Hill and from then on resolutely referred to them as Contours. A brown and black crawzer like a man size centipede had taken Uncle Petegland into its ashy jaws when for an instant he had been looking the other way.

Now Dimpy used a trick his father had taught him. His surroundings remained clear to him and he took note of all that went on; but he could think of other things, of what he intended to do with his life, of just how he would dispose of Sleed the Slick, of regrets that Big Balla was a Hytak, for although apim and Hytak could marry and produce beautiful children, he would—again in his youthful arrogance—have much preferred her to be apim like himself.

The boy in front turned his ankle on a loose stone and would have fallen had not Dimpy caught him in a supple grasp. He hauled the lad up with a quick: “You're all right, Staky. Just use your eyes—”

Sleed gave Dimpy an almighty shove in the small of the back. Dimpy staggered forward, still holding Staky, and the two collapsed.

“You useless tanzy! You stupid rast! Get on, get on!”

Even then—even then young Dimpy helped Staky to rise as he stood up himself. His fist closed around the handle of the short curved knife at his belt. Sleed saw that instinctive, betraying gesture.

The bigger lad's foxy face tightened. He was not yet old enough for his bristly whiskers to be more than stubble; but all a Khibil's pride in his race, all a Khibil's self-superiority, blazed out in an expression of utter hatred. Dimpy controlled himself in a way he found strange to him, swiveled, stony-faced, and went on up the rough passage. He found that look on the Khibil's face to be overdone, melodramatic. But young as he was he recognized that look's deadly intent.

Not quite as much in control of himself as he imagined, he banged his head against a low outcrop. Dimpy said something in reference to ibmas of the vilest kind and pushed on. His father had always said he had a skull like a vosk. The bang served merely to irritate him further with his surroundings, with his company, with the purpose of this raid.

Although the city of Oxonium existed on two general levels of altitude, there were many levels within the class structures of the higher and lower. From the warrens in the steep-sided canyons, calculating eyes studied the aristocratic inhabitants of the contours. From the summits, intolerant and suspicious eyes watched the human garbage festering in the runnels. The great lords employed guards and paid the infamous Kataki Watch to police the vermin below. The gangs trained their young people in all the arts of deception, theft and murder.

Here and there within the tortuous ascent the route had been cut by humans to link chambers. Some passageways were even paved and lined with masonry blocks. How long ago this work had been carried out no one really knew. Apocryphal stories abounded, of course, in the true Kregan way.

Sleed the Slick carried a broad dagger at his waist, and, like Dimpy and his curved knife, had had the sense not to use that against the praxul. If, said Dimpy to himself, if the cramph prods me with that I'll—well, and what would he do—here underground and surrounded by aspiring members of the Hellraisers? He clenched his teeth and went on and up in a most foul mood.

Water dropped from the roof to splash into a stream alongside the footway. Far up ahead a spark of light glittered.

“Quiet,” snarled Sleed.

The spark turned into a lantern perched on a ledge. A youngster wearing a ponsho skin stood up as the party approached. His sallow face looked peaky under the hood and his eyes gleamed. Silently he motioned upwards.

Big Balla took the lead and began the climb. Rough-cut steps, ten to a flight, zigzagged back and forth from landing to landing. Dimpy counted six flights before he followed Staky through an open trapdoor to step onto a wooden floor.

A stale musty odor surrounded him; but the cellar was dry. A pile of long sausage-like sacks stood against one wall. Steps led up.

The formalities here were very similar to those Dimpy had been accustomed to with his old gang. They climbed into the back room of a store. Rolled carpets everywhere indicated the nature of the establishment. The tenseness in the recruits might have affected Dimpy had he not been so wound up and irritated by what he considered the totally unnecessary ritual test in his case. The novices, yes, let them prove their fitness to join the gang. He'd been a fully qualified gang member and chapter deldar, young as he was.

A fat Rapa with mangy feathers looked them over with his beak high. He sniffed. “You know what you have to do. Do not return until you are successful. On no account return here if you are followed.” He touched the dagger at his waist. “Remember.”

One by one the urchins left the shop to join up at a discreet distance. When it was Dimpy's turn he felt at once the strangeness of an alien place and the familiarity of crowded streets filled with people bustling about their daily lives. The clamor of people chaffering and laughing and shouting beat at him. The clatter of hooves and the grinding of bronze rimmed wheels added a touch of unreality to a lad brought up in the dens below. The air—ah, the sweet, sweet air of Kregen!

The breeze blew cleanly, scented with baking bread and cakes and the juices of fruits, sullied only slightly by the coarser smells of commerce. The air tasted good to young Dimpy.

The Hill of Dancing Ghosts was also known as Barter Hill and whilst the folk up here might not be the great and lordly ones they were well fed and clothed and walked with confident steps. Their slaves and servants, of course, did not share these attributes.

The aspirant gang members moved into their pre-arranged groups slinking as they had been taught to merge and become invisible among the slaves, eyes downcast. Dimpy owned to a genuine feeling of pleasure that Big Balla stood at his elbow.

Splitting one from the other as they trod ways they had never seen before save in the scratched markings in the dust of their den, the novices penetrated deeper into the clustered buildings of the Hill of Barter. Other young lads with respectable clothes, the Perfume Patrol of Oxonium, dashed past. Crowds jostled everywhere. Smells floated in the warm air, varying from one street and bazaar to the next. Dimpy rescinded his original decision to get this whole farce over with as quickly as possible. He was fully aware that Sleed would be keeping a very personal and hostile eye on him, so he decided to make the cramph wait. He kept to the shady sides of the streets, head bowed in the universal servitude of the slave, eyes picking up everything that went on.

From the corner of a plaza he saw one of the gang members over the way sneak up to the rear of a self-important-looking Fristle. Lolalee was quick. Her curved knife flashed once in the lights of the suns. Then she was running fleet as a hare with the sword she had slashed from its hangings already concealed under the rags clothing her thin body. The Fristle swung about, his cat-face mean, and began yelling. By the time that happened and the crowd started to think of pursuit, Lolalee had vanished.

“Well done,” said Big Balla, softly.

“I like her style.”

“There's Staky over there looking—looking unhappy. The idiot's dithering. You be careful, Dimpy.” With that, she was off.

From his knowledge of the city and this Contour, Dimpy knew the next square was the Kyro of Nath the Haggler. The platz was busy, its stalls well patronized. Dimpy rounded the corner to see Sleed running towards him holding out a sword hilt-first. Instinctively Dimpy took the weapon into his fist and Sleed, without a word, hared off.

Dimpy did not, just did not, believe what happened next.

The big, ugly and altogether unpleasant Kataki to whom Sleed spoke reacted at once. From the crowds a shrill cry shocked up.

“My sword! Thief! Thief!”

The Kataki ran lumberingly for Dimpy.

Without thinking, Dimpy threw down the sword and ran.

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Chapter two

If you think my short sojourn in the mysterious continent of Balintol gave me an understanding of that exotic land then you are completely misinformed. The world of Kregen abounds with remarkable tales of Balintol. In the bazaars and at the corners of public buildings you can always find storytellers with their clusters of gawpers bending close. The fables of Balintol are among the perennial favorites of Kregen.

Just at the moment I was cautiously following a Rapa thief along the crowded Avenue of Lochrivarn trying not to lose him and at the same time prevent his cunning dark eyes from spotting what I was up to. Where you have classes so very far apart in wealth you have thieves, or so it seems on Kregen as on Earth. The Rapa's accomplice, a mangy-appearing Fristle, had snatched Tiri's purse as she'd been about to pay for a trifle in the Souk of Laces. The Rapa had received the purse with such calm aplomb that no one could possibly imagine him involved in anything remotely illegal. As for the catman, he'd used a slender blade to cut the purse strings and flicked his tail to snatch it. That tail possessed a cunning little bronze hook attachment strapped to it in place of the fashionable dagger. Oh, yes, an accomplished pair of cutpurses, these two. Also, the ancient racial animosity between Rapa and Fristle, so common when I'd first arrived on Kregen, was dying down as this double-act so eloquently proved.

The thief slipped across the avenue with a sudden dart that took him beyond a passing string of calsanys. Not wishing to upset these patient animals and suffer the noisome results I scuttled across abaft the last one's tail, narrowly avoiding an imperious fellow astride a much-decorated zorca, and reached the far side. The dratted Rapa thief was not visible among the passing throngs.

Useless to curse, the fellow was a master of his craft. All the same, I did not feel inclined to abandon my pursuit.

Anyway, I said to myself, I needed some exercise after the last few weeks of inaction. All hell was due to break out in the country of Tolindrin, and the city of Oxonium, as the capital, was like to receive more than its share, that seemed obvious, by Vox. Carrying on at a brisk pace and looking as far ahead through the crowds as possible I could still see no sign of the thief. Barter Hill tended to be more crowded and confused than many of the Hills of Oxonium by reason of the multitude of markets traditionally setting up shop here. The noises were not unpleasantly clamorous and the smells were kept down by the Perfume Patrol. These lads went around spraying scents and disinfectants, their services paid for by a city levy on the stallholders and shopkeepers.

Among all this hullabaloo, where had the dratted fellow got himself to?

The avenue debouched onto a sizeable square, the Kyro of Nath the Haggler. The twin Suns of Scorpio slanted their emerald and ruby fires down onto the mass of humanity busy bargaining, peddling, swindling and making livings varying from fairly honest to downright villainous.

Perhaps because my senses had been heightened by detecting a couple of professional thieves at work, I noticed at once what was going on at the corner of the adjacent street.

A young lad, an apim like me, sidled with exquisite casualness alongside a portly and gesticulating fellow haggling over the purchase of a length of azure silk. The vendor, narrow of eye and hooked of nose, kept one of those eyes constantly swiveling. Both vendor and purchaser must have been well aware of the provenance of the merchandise, by Krun. All the same, hook-nose's roving eye failed to detect the ragged lad's activities.

With a movement fluid and fast the rascal cut the leathers of the purchaser's sword. So engrossed in the enjoyable business, the portly one failed to notice at once. The short sword vanished into the ragged robes swathing the boy and he turned to run.

He must have seen the Kataki at the same time I did.

Katakis are bad news at the best of times. For this sword snatcher, now was a very bad time, a very very bad time. The Whiptail did not wear uniform but a simple dark shamlak and I surmised if he was not a member of the City Watch up here to buy he could be a hired thug employed to protect a local business. He'd just love to grip his fist into the lad's frayed collar and flick him a few times—hard—with the flat of the dagger strapped to his tail.

A second young lad, slightly smaller but just as ragged as the first, rounded the corner. The youngster with the stolen sword moved swiftly. Crossing to the newcomer he whipped out the sword and thrust it forward, hilt first. The sword was taken in that instinctive way anyone will grab at an unsharpened object poked at them. As I watched, by now fascinated at these goings on, the lads parted. The boy with the sword stood there looking at the blade in what I could clearly see was stupefaction, surprising though that seemed to me in the circumstances. The thief ran across to the Kataki guard.

At that juncture the rotund purchaser of dubious azure silk woke up to the fact that his sword no longer weighed down his belt. Immediately he set up a-braying.

“My sword! Thief! Thief!”

I shook my head. This was just life as it was lived in Oxonium in Tolindrin in the continent of Balintol on the planet Kregen four hundred light years from the world of my birth and no business of mine.

The sword thief jabbered briefly and excitedly to the Kataki.

He pointed.

The lad holding the sword stood there for two heartbeats with that accusing finger pointing at him. Then he threw down the sword and started running as the Whiptail lumbered for him.

The real sword snatcher stood still and even at this distance the look of satisfaction on his swarthy face repelled me. After the theft he could have dodged off with absolute security with no one the wiser until the shout of “Thief!” went up. Instead, he had deliberately framed the second youth and dropped him right in it up to the ears.

As the boy raced swiftly in my direction finding clear spaces among the crowds with eel like grace, sometimes hidden from view by bartering figures, the look on his face was quite different from what one would expect. By Vox, yes! There was no fear there, no hunted look of terror. His expression was one of such fury as to scare off a leem. He raged with anger as he leaped along pursued by the Kataki guard.

The cry of ‘Stop Thief!’ rang as loudly and as many times in the souks and markets of Oxonium as of any other bustling commercial city of Kregen. Chaffering people looked around smartly, hands flying to purses. Fists gripped sword and dagger hilts.

The athleticism of the victim of this obscure plot to have him arrested proved instructive. He hurdled stalls, ducked under awnings, swerved like a veritable racing zorca around knots of folk all staring whichways. Those fables of Balintol recurred to me in the famous story which opens with just such a young lad flying through a crowded marketplace clutching a chicken by the legs, his warning colors flaming before his inward eye. I admired this young rapscallion's dash and still that dark expression of fury drew his face into a compressed knot.

A man wearing a green shamlak whisked out his rapier. The fellow's spiky ears stuck up almost to the crown of his head. An Ift, he regarded himself as sharp and knowing enough to strike shrewd bargains in this bustling city market as of living comfortably in the forests of his home, that was perfectly clear. His rapier slashed.

The tip sliced down the lad's thigh as he swerved a fraction too late.

He did not cry out.

“You blintz!” yelled the Ift. He waved the rapier with its point bloodied. But he did not run in pursuit.

Dark redness stained down the boy's thigh. The scratch, light though it was, tumbled him off balance and he staggered helplessly into a wheeled stall. This immediately upended and sprayed everything with ripe vegetables. A little Och woman threw up her apron in dismay.

When I next caught sight of the fugitive he had a patch of blood on his forehead and he limped. Yet, still he eluded them all.

The Ift's act had been a trifle over the top, I fancied. Some of these highbrow forest folk can be a mite spiteful. The youngster's tribulations were not yet over. Trying to maintain his pace he skidded askew a wet patch and where normally he would have recovered with natural grace and gone haring on, now the two wounds troubled him enough to make him lose his balance. He skidded and toppled full length into a calsany mess strewing the ground. The effort he made to spring up instantly told on him. He disappeared from my view past a line of stalls. I let out a little sigh.

This was no business of mine.

No business whatsoever. The best thing to do was simply to step back around the corner and then walk off. The Rapa cutpurse had long since vanished and among the throngs there was now no chance of finding him.

Tiri's purse must be consigned along with many another votive offering to the greater glory of Diproo the Nimble Fingered.

So I stepped back around the corner into the slanting shadows where Zim and Genodras, all flushed crimson and deep emerald light upon the opposite buildings, pooled darkness in doorways and windows. The ferociously angry lad rounded the corner and hurled headlong down on me.

Beyond the jut of the building and for the moment out of sight the hue and cry howled on making an unholy racket. The boy staggered. The rapier slash must be paining him now and his head must be ringing where he'd clouted his skull against the hard wood of the barrow. The muck coating his legs plastered the blood into a paste so that he did not leave a betraying trail of blood drops.

Sink me! I said to myself in vast annoyance. By the Black Chunkrah! No business of mine or not, this despicable frame up and the ugly pursuit smelled to the highest heaven or the lowest hell of Kregen.

Like a wrestler catching his opponent bouncing from the ropes, I stuck out my arm and clothes lined him in.

He came reeling in like a shining sliptinger hooked from the torrent. I swiveled with his momentum like a weathervane and bundled him into the slot of darkness and turned about and pressed my back against him in the cleft of shadow.

“Stand still, lad!” I snarled. “Make not a sound if you value your life.”

They were lines from a famous play he'd probably never heard of let alone seen, and melodramatically colored though they were, they fitted this tempestuous situation. He made a single effort to wriggle out and run off and I shoved back hard and growled: “Stay still, you fambly. The damned Kataki's on his evil way.” His slight form lurched against me and then he stilled, panting softly.

The shouting pack led by the Kataki guard stormed into view.

Their blood was up. There was a thief to be caught. This was a hunt, they had the scent and they were out for the kill.

Innocence before guilt had absolutely no part in their thought processes. The Kataki stared hotly down the street where people were turning to look enquiringly for the source of all this hubbub. To my great satisfaction the Whiptail saw no sight of his quarry. He hauled up opposite me and the crowd piled on abaft. He saw me, leaning negligently against the wall. His eyes squinted.

“Where did he go?” he rapped out in that ugly Kataki way.

“Who?” I said, quite pleasantly, considering the circumstances. “Oh, you mean the lad running.” I gave a casual gesture with a languid hand. “He dodged down the next alley I think.”

“By Chezra-Gon-Kranak! I'll jikaider the blintz!” He gave me a hard stare. Then: “What d'ye mean, you think?”

I returned that hard stare with interest. Some spark of that evil expression folk call the Dray Prescot Devil Look must have flashed into my face for his dark brows drew down and he sucked in a sudden quick breath between his snaggly teeth. I spoke levelly.

“What I said.” My voice hardened. “Why?”

He got the message all right. If he hadn't been in hot pursuit he'd have loved to have taken up the challenge. As it was he simply swung away and started running off towards the next alley with the mob following him all a-yelling and a-waving of fists and daggers. The rout caterwauled down the next alleyway.

A voice in my ear said: “What in the sweet name of the Lady Balsitha is going on, Drajak?” The voice was light and mellifluous and tart, oh, yes, by Zair, very tart.

“Your purse is stowed away in the bronze-bound chest of Diproo the Nimble Fingered, Tiri,” I said, without turning around. “I lost the Rapa. I found a lad who needs our assistance.” Then I turned to face her.

At that moment an Aephar woman walked past with her daughter, both of them incredibly beautiful as Aephar women are. They saw the filthy and blood-smeared boy as he emerged from the shadows. The beauty of their faces changed only in a subtle fashion to express pity. Their smoothly undulating walk did not falter. The Aephar women went on around the corner into the bedlam of the market.

Tiri and I exchanged glances. Beauty of outward form is not the only beauty possessed by Aephar ladies.

With an eel like squirm and a sudden dart the lad tried to run off. That, by Krun, was a perfectly natural reaction. A fist in his collar hauled him up.

“Whoa, lad. You're safe now. And the muck you have in that wound must be attended to.”

“Lemme go!” He spat it out, wriggling and squirming. His injured leg jarred up as he tried to break free and scamper off. His face, already twisted in the anger suffusing him, contorted with the sudden stab of pain. This sobered him. Panting only a little he ripped out: “I know why you saved me. Slaver!”

“Oh, no!” broke in Tiri. “You do us an injustice.”

He sagged in my grip. “Not slavers? You really saved me? Then may Mother Saphira of the Gutters bless you with my thanks. But I must go back—”

“You're going nowhere my feller me lad until that leg is seen to.”

At least he had spoken his thanks with a courtesy not often found in the stews. He relaxed even more in my grasp so that I was forewarned. With an abrupt and defiant leap he tried suddenly to break away as my attention and hold on him, as he supposed, slackened.

Even as I halted that last desperate surge, Tiri took his arm.

“Best come along with us. We'll soon have that leg fixed.”

Do not ask why I thus persisted in the attempt to aid this young lad. Perhaps it was the cut of his jib, perhaps the injustice he had suffered. Opaz knew, hadn't I been just such a youngster harshly treated by an insensitive world? Even though that world was four hundred light years away from Kregen. He wore sandal-like shoes, it is true, where I had gone barefooted. The lad himself settled the argument. Like a sack of flour dumped down into the bakery he slumped and would have fallen but for our supporting holds. After that it was a mere matter of swathing my shamlak as a cloak over him and assisting him along. We went the other way avoiding any further meetings with the unpleasant Whiptail and the mob.

Having said that I realize the tautology. Who ever knew a pleasant Kataki? Well, perhaps I had, once, far away in the Eye of the World in Turismond.

I looked at my two companions. They were of an age. Tiri had reacted in the way I had come to expect of her in our relatively short acquaintance after she had first flung a jeweled dagger at my head. Her fair hair was neatly combed back and gleamed golden. As a temple dancer she walked with the grace of an Aephar girl, her lithe whipcord tough body rounded and beautifully graceful. Her bright face with that determined little jut of chin would do the business for many and many a poor love-besotted oaf under the Suns of Scorpio. Oh, yes, a most wonderful young madam full of high spirits and a bubbling aliveness that enchanted and a tongue as sharp as a rapier. She danced to the greater glory of Cymbaro the Just and of that religion I had formed a higher opinion than many upon the face of Kregen.

Then a thought occurred to me that made my old beakhead of a face scowl and then crease into a grimace that could have been mistaken for a smile.

“Your guts paining you, Drajak?” Oh, how sweet the words!

“I was just thinking what our comrade Fweygo will say when we report we lost your purse to a—”

She tossed that imperious little head. “As a Kildoi, Fweygo will surmise—aloud—how we could be so easily gulled and where was the Watch. They believe in law and order.”

“Sometimes.” I thought of Mefto the Kazzur...

What Tiri didn't know was that Fweygo and I were kregoinyes sent to Tolindrin to protect the numim twins. She thought we worked for Princess Nandisha who employed the numim twins’ parents to care for her and for her twins, lady Nisha and lord Byrom. The intrigues fomented by the death of the king and the appointment of his successor had not been resolved. Rather, they had grown worse and would become diabolically more troublesome in the immediate future.

Right in the middle of it all, for our sins, stood Fweygo and I.

We paid the few coppers for our fare in the cable car from Barter Hill. I had heard the place referred to as the Hill of Dancing Ghosts but I had not pursued the question as to why. We reached Nandisha's palace without incident and the moment we were inside, here came Fweygo, clad in armor and wearing swords, a most sullen annoyed Kildoi expression on his handsome Kildoi face.

His tail hand, I saw, grasped a dagger of which he was particularly fond. A great deal of shouting and screaming echoed from further inside the palace.

“What—?” began Tiri.

“The young prince, lord Byrom. He is missing. It is certain sure he has been kidnapped.”

Instantly I saw why my comrade was so annoyed. Our task, given to us by the Star Lords, was to protect the numim twins. Now, though, we would have to divert all our efforts into rescuing the little lord for whose mother, nominally, we worked.

“The princess?” Tiri showed her concern.

“Badly shaken and upset; but her people are with her. She is resting.” A lion roar battered around our ears. Ranaj, the powerful father of the numim twins was girt for battle like Fweygo, and his energy blazed. “You are ready? Don't stand gawping, Drajak. What a hulu! Come on, and you, Fweygo. They've taken the prince to the Clipped Rhok. A den of ancient evil. Come on! Come on!”

Perforce, willy-nilly, Star Lords or no, we were hustled out to do the duty we owed Princess Nandisha and her son.

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Chapter three

“Tiri!” I yelled back over my shoulder. “Look out for our smelly young friend.”

“Yes. You—I hope the young prince is—all right.”

There was no point in recovering my shamlak, that had already pinched in the nostrils of my friends. There was just time to grab a replacement and then we all hurried out and down the steps from Nandisha's palace. People in the normal course of the day do not walk about clad in full plate armor and carrying an arsenal of weapons; when they do so other folk know they are engaged on urgent business of a lethal kind. All I had was the new shamlak—a tasteful mid-blue in color—and my rapier and main gauche, with the heavy knife over my right hip. Fweygo, Ranaj and the bunch of fighting men from Princess Nandisha's guard were armored and armed—I assure you—up to the eyebrows rather than merely to the teeth.

The Clipped Rhok, a most unsavory hostelry, was situated on the Hill of Lurking Shadows and we drew only cursory glances of enquiry as we took the necessary cable cars to reach our destination.

Fweygo filled me in on the details of what had happened and, as is often the case in these disasters, simple human error was to blame.

One guard late, another feeling unwell, the prince with just a single guardian, the sudden rush of black-clad forms, one dead guard and the result—here we were hot on the rescue trail.

Fweygo nodded towards one youthful guard running with us.

“At least Sammle the Erkanstater kept his head. He was too late to intervene. He followed the kidnappers, saw where they went, and rushed back to report to Ranaj.”

“Good for him.”

Lurking Shadows turned out to be an apt description of the hill. The slanting rays of Zim and Genodras, here in Balintol called Mabal and Matol, seemed only to draw deep crimson and emerald shadows into the narrow and winding streets. Buildings leaned over us. No-one offered to stop us, an armed and purposeful body of men; had that happened I would not have been surprised.

The impression of these mean streets drove out the mood of farce that had been strong with me since the episode with the young lad despite the underlying seriousness of it all. The kidnap of the prince had merely served to add to that unreal feeling of comicality. Now, the chase was serious, the stakes high—and both Fweygo and I expected that at any moment the Everoinye would reach down and pluck us aloft and so hurl us down to where we should be—guarding the numim twins.

Ranaj didn't intend to go roaring like a blustering lionman into the tavern. He sent a small party ahead, some pressed on to seal the rear exits, and we stalked on, wary for every shadow.

Although the buildings of the Hill of Lurking Shadows were oppressive enough and the narrow streets winding and treacherous, this place was in no real way comparable with the runnels of the warrens between the hills. Up here might not be heaven; down there was well on the way to hell.

Ranaj with his golden fur and his superb lionman physique performed many functions within Nandisha's household; butler, major-domo, footman, quartermaster. As her cadade, the captain of the guard, a position of the utmost responsibility in every noble household, he perhaps took this task as his most important. He'd hired on Fweygo and me as temporary reinforcements during a time of particular difficulty, and now, having seen us operate, was evidently reluctant to part with our services. Certainly, he did not treat us like two ordinary swods of the palace guard.

It seemed to me that Ranaj would be as unlikely to accept the human error explanation for the kidnap as I would be in his position. One guard late, one unwell, and the poor devil left on duty murdered? Oh no, by the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! Those two dubious characters would be up and facing an enquiry instanter. Sammle the Erkanstater, a numim, had been late because he'd been sent along to replace the sick dutyman; no, it was the other latecomer and the fellow with the gut ache who'd be questioned.

From the advance party, Naghan the Twist, a Gon, reported back. He told Ranaj the tavern was only lightly patronized at this time of day, and the best chances were that prince Byrom was being held in one of the upstairs rooms. He gave a rapid rundown on the layout of The Clipped Rhok.

Speed, quite obviously, was essential and Ranaj went for the direct solution. Some of us would keep the patrons entertained whilst others stormed up the stairs. Any escape would be blocked off front and back and all windows would be covered.

Ranaj said very curtly: “Fweygo, Drajak. You stay with me.”

We nodded our assent. Mind you, I did wonder if we would be able to obey if the Everoinye decided differently, yes, by Krun.

The Clipped Rhok turned out to be an impressive structure in these surroundings, although on other hills it would look a wreck.

At the front hung a white flag with a black circle surrounding a white center. This was the kaotresh, the flag of death, and even the semi-criminal fraternity inhabiting this place had the sense to fly the kaotresh to mourn the passing of the king. Only when the new king, King Tomendishto, was crowned would his bright flags be unfurled.

The advance party under Naghan the Twist's orders from the cadade went inside as we approached and when we entered we had a clear run to the stairs. Any possibility of someone running up to warn those aloft was instantly checked. No one made the attempt.

The lionman went up the blackwood stairs three at a time. Fweygo and I followed, with Sammle and the rest at our backs.

A pot-bellied fellow with a huge beard appeared at the top of the steps and Ranaj simply hit him over the head and Fweygo caught him as he fell. I passed the limp body on down. All this was done in silence, apart from the soft thwunk of the blow.

A corridor dimly lit by a dirty window at the far end revealed closed doors each side. Ranaj motioned with his drawn sword. We all took up our positions outside the doors and looked at the cadade. He nodded his head with a look of the utmost determination on his golden-whiskered face and we smashed the doors in and sprang inside.

My room contained an apim and a Sylvie closely entwined on the grimy bed. To anyone with fastidious tastes there was nothing in the sordid room to interest in the slightest. I shot back into the corridor and now shouts and screams broke out. Fweygo catapulted out of the next door and shook his head. Others of our party were re-entering the corridor, Ranaj among them. Noises blurted from the end.

We all ran along in a jumbled mass, picking up other men as they found empty or innocuous rooms. Directly in front of us Neap the Traiky came flying out of the end room to land on his ear in the corridor. He yelled. A flung dagger went ‘zip!’ past his head as he tried to sit up. Traiky means Lucky, and surely Neap was most fortunate in that the dagger missed his polsim head and even more lucky, immeasurably so, when we burst into the room and saw just who had thrown him out.

Two of our men lay unconscious where they had been thrown into a corner, and a third was shaking like a leaf, hands in front of him empty and his sword tossed down at his feet.

The four Chuliks had evidently been playing one of their obscure Chulik games, for dice and cards strewed a small table, wine and snacks stood ready to hand and they'd been enjoying themselves in ways strange to those who were not Chuliks.

The four Yellow-tuskers glared at us with their round black eyes showing annoyance. They had not drawn weapons. Their smooth oily yellow faces glistened in the lamplight. Apart from them and our unfortunate fellows there was no one else in the gaming room.

Ranaj bellowed a curse and then: “We apologize for intruding. We have no quarrel with you—unless you know the whereabouts of the young prince.” He sounded wrought up and dangerous.

Before the Chuliks could answer, a burst of light slashed into the room from the window, half-blinding us. An enormous thunder clap followed so rapidly that the storm must be directly above us.

I felt a force seize me up. The window was as black as a Herrelldrin Hell. That force lifted me and hurled me straight at the window. Glass and wood smashed away as I hurtled through. A crazy glimpse of Fweygo flying at my side and a blurred impression of darkness beneath sped away. Surrounded by a roaring maelstrom I went flying through thin air.

No rain spattered me. I could see nothing apart from blackness. Over and over I flew, suspended, deafened, exasperated.

My feet hit hard marble. I staggered forward and my sight cleared. Fweygo spluttered at my side. We stood in a corridor of Nandisha's palace. Directly before us the princess struggled in the grip of two hefty Brokelsh, all hairy and armored. A Rapa swished his sword about facing—facing the cause of our supernatural flight through some other plane of existence.

Serinka, Ranaj's numim wife, lay on the floor with a dribble of blood from the corner of her mouth. She stared up with horrified eyes, staring at her twins. Young Rofi and Rolan, slender daggers in their fists, were poised to hurl themselves upon the despoilers of their mother.

“So that's it!” grated Fweygo.

In the next instant the numim twins who were the charges given into our protection by the Star Lords would rush in to protect their mother and Princess Nandisha, and these fine bully boys would cut them down without mercy.

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Chapter four

Fweygo just went bull-headed for the Rapa. The fellow was one of those vulture-headed Rapas, blackly-feathered. His beaked face shocked in startlement, and no wonder. Suddenly, apparently from nowhere, two fighting men blocked him from carrying out this easy assignment. Fweygo roared in, his sword a bar of reflected light in the corridor lamps’ glow.

That left the two Brokelsh to me. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that Fweygo, a glorious golden Kildoi, would deal with the Rapa in extremely short order, and that was the more important of the two fights here.

Nandisha kept up her shrieking. “Help me! Help!”

There was just time to hear Fweygo bellow: “Rofi! Rolan! Stand out of the way—now!” Then I gave the nearest Brokelsh a clout over the head with the steel guarded hilt of the left hand dagger. He reeled away but did not fall. The other Brokelsh let go of the princess who incontinently collapsed. Her screaming died away to a low moaning as she cowered on the patterned marble.

The Brokelsh used a straight sword, the braxter of Balintol, and he was still surprised enough at our sudden arrival to be slow in his reactions. I should have spitted him there and then; but Nandisha, still moaning: “Help! Oh, Help me!” twined her arms about my legs as I stepped forward. She nearly had me over. The Brokelsh regained the initiative. He came at me with the sword snouting and cut at my head. I ducked and swayed back like a tree gripped fast by its roots blown savagely by a howling gale.

“Leggo, princess!”

“Help me!”

“I will if you'll leggo!”

The Brokelsh laughed nastily and I saw the way his eyes darted a glance past my shoulder, so I ducked again. I couldn't kick back but I swung the main gauche back in a flailing arc as far as I could. I felt it connect with a reasonably satisfying thump and heard the first Brokelsh let out another yelp. The rapier in my right fist switched the sneering Brokelsh's blade away; but I couldn't take the necessary step forward to run him through.

These two nasty pieces of work were wearing brass-studded leather armor. Just above the rim of the leather, right through the throat; that was the target.

Nandisha screamed some more and hugged me tight. Nearly toppling over I wriggled my body to keep some sort of balance. What a carry on! What a way for a tough old ruffianly warrior to fight!

A bubbling scream burst up at my back and was followed by a soggy sound of a body falling.

That was the fellow at my back attended to. Good old Fweygo!

A silver dazzlement of light streaked over my shoulder. The dagger embedded itself in the eye of the Brokelsh who was just about to leap forward and settle my hash once and for all.

He looked quite surprised—again. He folded up in the middle and then sank to his knees. He toppled forward quite slowly until the dagger hilt touched the marble. The blade went in a little further. He rolled over sideways and emitted a ghoulish grunt, as air was expelled from his lungs.

“I thought, Drajak,” said Fweygo in a most kindly fashion, “I really was beginning to think that you were getting the hang of fighting.” His tone of voice was soft and regretful—and cut like the sharpest sword that ever came out of the armories of Zenicce, cut to the quick, by Krun!

He stepped around the ludicrous statue-like pair of us, me fast gripped in the octopus-like wrapping of Nandisha's arms. He shook his head sorrowfully as he careful pulled his dagger free, using his considerable strength. He began to wipe the blade, still shaking that golden head of his thoughtfully.

“Y'know, Drajak, I can't understand why you don't use a proper sword. That rapier and dagger work, it's complicated, as I know only too well from my youth.”

I swallowed down hard. I said: “Would you kindly ask the princess to release her prisoner?”

He let out a low amused laugh. “This sword. It is a most splendid weapon, as I suspected when I first saw it in the market.”

That blade was a drexer, and it had been designed by Naghan the Gnat and me in my home in Esser Rarioch. The quality of the steel was so superior to the Krasny work weaponry of Tolindrin as to allow of no comparison. Fweygo had been most fortunate to find the drexer so far from its place of origin. There was a story in that, I knew; and most probably a damned sad story too, by Vox.

My unblooded weapons could be placed carefully on the marble. I bent down. “Princess.” I began to prise her fingers away from my legs. “If you will release me, please—”

Her tear-streaked face turned up and she looked at me in deep puzzlement. “What? Oh, it's you, Drajak.” She came to her senses, more or less. She looked around. The numim twins were helping their mother to rise. She shook herself and started towards the princess. Nandisha let out a tiny scream, quickly stifled.

“Serinka! You—what—you are all right?”

“Thank you, princess. Here, let me attend you.” With that Serinka, a most gracious numim lady, started to untwine Nandisha's octopus grip. I let out a breath. Fweygo gave me a most comical look, one golden eyebrow raised. There was no blood on the dagger he gripped in his tail hand. Of course, being a Kildoi, he had been able to draw the dagger from the eye of the Brokelsh and wipe the blade of his drexer at the same time. Apims like me, with only a miserable pair of arms and no tail hand, could not do those simple things any Kildoi did without thinking.

The numim lady assisted the apim princess to an overstuffed couch against the corridor wall. They talked quickly together, and both turned to ask at the same time what our news of the prince was. Fweygo said simply that he had not yet been found at The Clipped Rhok. Nandisha sank back, looking pale and weak, and Serinka chafed her hands. The two women did not enquire how it was we had so fortunately turned up to save them. For all they knew we could have left the tavern ages ago and walked quietly back. No doubt they expected to see Ranaj and his guardsmen soon.

What they didn't know was that we two kregoinyes had been summarily hurled through some outlandish and eerie other dimension. The Star Lords wanted us to guard the numim twins. We had no right to go gallivanting off in pursuit of other objectives.

Also, and this sent a shiver of alarm up through my spine, I knew I'd been lucky. The Star Lords could always hurl me back through four hundred light years to Earth as punishment if I disobeyed them. That thought brought the image of Delia smack bang into the forefront of my mind. There really is no time when the thought of Delia is absent from my brain; but brutal incidents similar to what had transpired here shocked me with the disaster I had so narrowly courted. No. Oh, no, by Zair! There was nothing I would not do to stay on Kregen with Delia, Delia of the Blue Mountains, Delia of Delphond.

Fweygo thrust his cleaned drexer back into the scabbard and the door opened again and he instantly drew the brand again and hurled himself forward.

Nandisha let out a little moan and Serinka said: “Tolaar rot them.”

Princess Nisha in a short white dress was casually slung over the shoulder of the second fellow through the doorway. She made no sound or movement so she'd probably fainted. The three other men, all apims, following on, carried their blades naked in their fists.

The first kidnapper striding on ahead past the door he'd kicked open was a Chulik. His greasy yellow face shone in the lamp light. His pigtail—an anonymous black—was pulled forward over his left shoulder. His pakai was long, there were many rings forming the string of the pakai, each ring taken from the body of each of his past fights. He saw the golden Kildoi charging upon him and his sword snouted up into the en guarde. Highly professional fighters are Chuliks, trained up from birth to become mercenaries and to fight for gold. They had more humanity than at first I had believed; all the same, that humanity was not high and was seldom overtly exhibited.

Before I went hurtling in to assist my comrade I called across to the numim twins. “Rofi! Rolan! Please help your mother to take the princess away. Make sure you are safe. Hurry!”

Rolan hesitated. He still held that slender dagger. As a numim he could feel all his ancestral blood rebelling at the idea of thus tamely running off. I scowled at him and then, as I started off, snapped at his sister. “Rofi! Make Rolan see sense—find a safe place to hide. He can always go looking for our guards if he wants. Now—bratch!”

They jumped and moved towards the couch and passed out of my vision. Kildoi and Chulik exchanged blows and circled and I skipped past them. Noise built up in the corridor, the chirr of steel on steel, the grunts of effort, yells from the men following—and, no doubt, Nandisha was in there screaming away, too.

For a tiny instant of time speaking to the children I'd wondered if I was telling them to do the right thing. It might not be clever to have them wandering off. Perhaps they'd be safer nearer Fweygo and me. One of the men towards whom I charged settled that uneasy question.

He yelled savagely and the twinkle of steel in his fingers changed abruptly into a streaking line. Automatically I flicked up my blade to deflect the throwing dagger. I needn't have bothered. He wasn't hurling at me. The wicked thing whistled past my head. I did a stupid thing, then, with these cut throats ready to chop me.

I turned my head to watch in horror as the flung dagger sliced towards the women and children. If Rolan or Rofi were hit and died...

The throwing dagger chingled into the wall, rang like a gong, and rebounded to ricochet across to the other side and so tumble uselessly to the floor. There was no time to let out a breath of relief.

Instantly I flung about again and the rapier was just in time to flick away the first blade slashing towards me. I jumped away to the side and gave the fellow holding Nisha a smack with the hilt of the main gauche. I didn't care to use the blade for fear of Nisha; as it was the blow did not connect cleanly and narrowly missed the limp form of the girl.

Two swords thrust for me and I circled them with my blade. I thrust in turn, nicking the first man's forearm as he attempted to cut back, and then instantly slicing around the other way to make the second fellow jump back. He let out an explosive oath and his stubbly face went even meaner.

The third apim bore in. They all wore brass-studded leather armor and good though the steel of the rapier was, I was not prepared to chance it trying to thrust through armor, leather or not. He foined as I sprang away from the first two, his blade going around and around quite prettily. There was no time for niceties of that nature. I started him one way, snapped back and stuck him through the throat. Then it was an immediate leap back and swivel to front the attack from the others.

The man carrying Nisha did not want to get into the fight and that was eminently sensible of him. He had a sword in his right fist and his left held onto the girl over his shoulder. He hovered. He didn't get into the fight; he didn't run off.

I flung a quick glance towards the other combat. The Chulik was not enjoying himself. Blood spattered down his armor and he was parrying the Kildoi's attack with growing desperation. Fweygo was up against a topclass swordsman, no doubt of that; there was also absolutely no doubt in my mind that like other Golden Wonders I knew he would very soon overcome this topclass opposition.

I swung back to the business in hand.

Steel grated on steel. They tried to come at me from two sides simultaneously. I wasn't having any nonsense like that. With a fresh turn of speed I sprang at the left hand one, flurried my blade at him, forced him back, swiveled and was on the other fellow like a leem taking a ponsho. He swashed his sword at me—he had no buckler—and clearly was unaccustomed to dealing with rapiers. His own braxter could cut me up into little pieces, unarmored as I was, and he was patently baffled by his inability to do so. There was no time even with the breathing space I had created to finish him off. His comrade roared in from the back, trying to spit me through, so I stepped briskly to the side and turned and so had them nicely together again.

The noise in the corridor had died to a rhythmic stamp of feet, of indrawn breaths, gasps of effort, and the chingle of steel. No one in that fight was an amateur. This heartened me. They most probably would not care to hang around and fight to the death.

Still the kidnapper with Nisha did not try to escape.

These two villains had to be disposed of quickly before he made up his mind to run off.

Either that or appeal to their professionalism to admit they had failed in their kidnap attempt. They would not see it that way at the moment; I would make the appeal with cold steel.

Side by side they fronted me. The rapier swirled. One, two, three and back, not to one again but to two. This flummoxed them. Their braxters even in combination could not prevent the rapier point from snicking through left-hand's throat and right-hand's eye. They both fell—quite slowly—and the one with only one eye made a considerable noise about it. I swung for the fellow grasping Nisha.

“Put the princess down gently, dom.”

Fweygo used his tail hand dagger to finish off the Chulik right at that moment. That added tremendous impetus to my words.

“I'm only—I meant her no harm—”

“Oh, I quite believe you. Just put her down gently.”

He did exactly as I expected him to do. Fweygo also guessed aright. He said: “You catch. I'll—” He didn't finish for what we both anticipated occurred then.

The kidnapper heaved up the little princess and hurled her at us and then started to run off.

Obeying Fweygo I dropped my blades and caught Nisha, cradling her. The Kildoi had just started to hare off after the fleeing man when he hauled up. He laughed delightedly.

The fellow leaped abruptly a foot into the air, span about, eyes goggling, mouth open trying to scream. That was rather too much for him to achieve, what with the dagger transfixing his throat. The throwing dagger had knifed from the shadows of a doorway, a single thin streak of light. From that doorway Tiri stepped into view.

She said: “Rolan told me—Nisha—?”

“Has fainted.” I looked reproachfully at Fweygo. “You were damned unfair! You should have caught Nisha. I've only got two arms!”

Tiri moved swiftly in her graceful walk. She held out her arms. “I'll take her, poor little thing.”

The more I saw of this talented temple dancer the more I became impressed. Her gray-green eyes looked down in sympathy on the girl, who began to stir. “Where are the others?” Tiri wanted to know.

I bent down to retrieve my weapons, leaving it to the Kildoi to answer. “Oh—they'll be here soon I expect. We'd better find Princess Nandisha and the numims.”

“Yes, by Zair! And sharply, too.”

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Chapter five

Princess Nandisha's cadade would have carried out a ruthless enquiry. Ranaj was spared that chore. The two men of his guard he suspected of treachery—the one who was late and the other who was unwell—had been among our unfortunate fellows slain by the kidnappers.

“They have no feelings for those they buy,” he commented.

The general opinion was that this two-pronged onslaught was not the work of the Hyr Kov Khonstanton, Khon the Mak, but rather that of Prince Ortyg.

“It's that slimy little creature's style,” said Nandisha. She panted and her hair was ruffled and wild. She had not fully recovered, half out of her wits with fear for her missing son. No trace of him had been found at The Clipped Rhok. The City Watch had been informed but no one expected a result from them. We would have to wait for the kidnappers to contact us—if Prince Byrom still lived. As for the City Guard who patrolled in the upper city, they just might have an informer somewhere with knowledge of what went forward in this plot against Nandisha and who would talk in return for gold.

Serinka insisted that her mistress must rest and we all trooped out leaving a strong guard at every entrance to her quarters. Tiri told me our new young acquaintance was called Dimpy and that the Puncture Lady had stuck him with soothing needles, bound up his wounds and given him a sleeping draught. He would be out for burs yet.

I reflected as we went along to the refectory for much needed inner sustenance that Tiri, Fweygo and I were forming a nice little team.

There appeared little chance that nice state of affairs would continue much longer. Tiri had tasks to perform in the Temple of Cymbaro to which we were not privy and we had tasks for the Star Lords. Again I realized how fortunate I'd been that my gross dereliction of duty had not been punished by a trip back to Earth. All the same, whilst Tiri remained with us I would take pleasure from her company. Fweygo and I discussed our predicament. Prince Tom, a nice lad who was more interested in the religion of Cymbaro than being king, was now the king of Tolindrin. Weasel-faced Prince Ortyg and menacing Khon the Mak both craved the crown and were prepared to go to extreme lengths to obtain that bauble. This despite the old king's will that named Tom the successor and to which this pair of rogues had agreed.

Also, Princess Nandisha craved the crown for her son.

I said to Fweygo: “The numim twins are going to be under threat as long as their parents work for Nandisha.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, for the sweet sake of Madam Moly Mushtaq! How long do the Star Lords expect us to hang about? The numims aren't going to abandon Nandisha in the near future, are they?”

“I do not believe so.”

I swigged down my drink and banged the mug on the table. It was absolutely no use to become heated and start raving. Fweygo's cool manner must not be allowed to irritate me. But I felt that little imp of the perverse grab hold of me, and to prod him a trifle I said: “Well, if we can't get rid of those rasts Ortyg and Khon the Mak, perhaps we could dispose of Nandisha's claim to the throne. Then—”

“Apart from the fact her claim has been kidnapped, that would be a despicable and dishonorable act, Dray Prescot. You surprise me.”

I grunted and went over to the serving counter for a fresh wet. The mood I was in I hardly cared if he believed me or not. At least, my words had elicited a reaction from him.

He stood in awe of the Everoinye—well, that was clearly the only sensible attitude—and was perfectly content to do their bidding for as long as they wished. At least, the Star Lords intervened in a more positive fashion in my affairs after the latest understanding we had reached. Quite possibly Fweygo's presence also materially helped there. Our abrupt departure from The Clipped Rhok was put down to our astute realization that the kidnapping of Byrom was a plot to draw off the guards from Nandisha and Nisha. The Star Lords would have had no trouble covering our disappearance and of convincing Ranaj and his guards. No trouble at all, by Krun!

Carrying the mug I went back to Fweygo. He gave me an upward slanting look from under his golden eyebrows.

“The best thing Nandisha can do is go and see Prince—I mean King Tomendishto. And it wouldn't hurt to see Hyr Kov Brannomar. He's one honest broker around here, I believe, even if he is a nob.”

Fweygo favored me with an odd look. He started to say something, stopped, changed his mind, and said: “Well, aren't you?”

“Whatever the Everoinye told you about me—”

“Some.”

“I'm supposed to be some damnfool Emperor of Emperors.”

“The Emperor of Paz. Yes, I know.”

I told him I was heartily glad to see that the crazy idea impressed him as little as it did me.

So, of course, what did he reply? It shook me, I can tell you, shook me to my roots, by Vox!

“The Everoinye charged me with assisting you in any way I can.”

I moved the mug on the table in circles. In a most subdued tone of voice I started to explain. We were alone; I still kept my voice low. I asked him how much of Paz he knew, had visited, and he was able to convince me that he had traveled and knew a lot of the continents and islands. So I expounded on the craziness of any one person attempting to be the ruler of this vast mass of lands and peoples. The scheme smacked of the insane ambitions of others I had known who had aspired to rule vast domains quite beyond their grasp.

“And they're nearly all dead and gone, now,” I finished.

“Nevertheless, Dray Prescot, that which the Everoinye command will be done.”

If I'd had a hat on I'd have torn it off, chucked it down on the floor and jumped on it! By Zair! No, by Vox. This idiocy, I said to myself most put out, was worthy of a ‘By Zim-Zair!'

By the leprous lips and pendulous posterior of Makki Grodno! The Star Lords had the infernal nerve to embroil poor old Fweygo, a willing and loyal kregoinye, in their maniacal schemes for me and for Paz. Well, at least he had the sense not to bow and scrape before this so puissant emperor. Perhaps the Star Lords had told him I disapproved of the full incline and slavish behavior of that kind. He treated me in ways not too dissimilar from the superior ways of my good comrade Pompino the Iarvin. Then the thought hit me. Djan have mercy! Suppose the Star Lords sent Pompino to me to help! Opaz forfend!

Fweygo said: “The Everoinye told me this today, when you and Tiri were fussing over that new young scruffy friend of yours. I am not sure—not quite sure—just how I should react, treat you, seeing how incompetent you are and in need of my constant care and attention.”

I favored him with a look that was more quizzical than hard. Extraordinarily difficult to tell what these confounded Kildois were thinking in their cool and crafty skulls behind those handsome faces. Yes, he could be speaking what he believed to be the truth. Or, he could be teasing me in that dry Kildoi fashion.

So, I made no direct reply.

Instead, I said, casually: “Oh, we are kregoinyes and we work well together. I hope we will become even better comrades. Let's leave it at that.”

“Quidang!”

When he said that, the formal acceptance of an order, I knew he wasn't altogether serious.

He changed the subject of conversation easily enough by taking out his new sword and examining it again. He shook his head.

“This blade is a marvel. It serves amazingly well—the balance is perfect. As for the edge, it is sharp, satisfyingly sharp.”

“I know Tolindrin steel is poor quality. Is there no decent steel in all of Balintol, then?”

“We have a small supply of good iron ore in Kildrin; as you can imagine that is reserved for those with money.”

Kildrin lay on the west coast north of Tolindrin and south of Winlan with the mountains barring off the east. Most, but not by any means all, Kildois hailed from there. That's where that rast Mefto the Kazzur was born on an evil day.

Later on that day after Tiri and I had taken a quick look in the bedroom Nandisha had generously put at our disposal for Dimpy, we started to think it time for a proper slap-up Kregen meal. Ranaj was out with the City Guard trying to discover some clue to Byrom's whereabouts. Nisha and her mother were still resting. I'd made up my mind to have a colored salad in preference to a green salad, the weather being on the hot side of warm, when one of the stewards bustled in. He said that a woman wanted to see me and that the guards had searched her and found no weapons beyond a little dagger which they had temporarily confiscated. She waited in one of the anterooms.

Excusing myself to the others, off I went, slightly intrigued.

The most probable explanation was that my private spy, Naghan the Barrel, wanted to see me. He'd been a tower of strength so far in Oxonium. The woman stood up as I entered. The guard looked blank-faced at me. I nodded. “It's all right, Ranto. You may leave us.” He saluted and went out, closing the door softly. I motioned to the chair and the woman resumed her seat. She was perfectly composed.

She wore a shamlak in the best fashion, not a tunic, and the cleavage down the front was wider than narrower, revealing glistening black skin. Her face was handsome, almost haughty, with dark eyes that must have slain many a poor fellow. Her hair was most tastefully done up into a pile upon that imperious little head. Her jewelry spoke eloquently of good taste. She was a Xuntalese, from the island off the southern tip of Balintol.

“You are Drajak known as the Sudden?”

“Yes.”

“I have a message. I will whisper it.” She stood up again.

Her breath was warm and sweetly scented in my ear.

“The Crystal Griffon. When the suns set. A man wearing a red eyepatch over his left eye.” She stepped back. She did not sit.

“I know the place. I will be there. Thank you.”

Those fine eyes widened at that. Then she smiled, a most charming smile that radiated personality. “I see why you are called what you are called.”

“And you will not tell me what you are called.”

She shook her head, still smiling.

“Then I bid you remberee.”

“Remberee, Drajak the Sudden.”

She walked with a seductive swaying movement towards the door and I opened it for her as was her due. Trust old Naghan the Barrel to find top class agents to employ in his schemes!

Tiri wanted to know who the mystery woman was and I told her the truth, adding that I had to meet a man later this evening. So, of course, I then had to convince her that she couldn't come along.

She became most hoity-toity at that so I mentioned Dimpy and she reluctantly acknowledged that, yes, well, she supposed she'd better stay. Her bottom lip stuck out. Fweygo said not a word.

So, just before the twin suns set, off I sallied. I wore my decent dark blue shamlak with a narrow cleavage well belted up. The rapier, the left-hand dagger and my heavy knife—I habitually refer to that lethal weapon as my sailor knife—over my right hip for my companions.

Just the once I glanced back crossing an avenue to see if Tiri was impishly following me. I didn't see her. I did see a fellow with golden hair just turning to look into a jewelry shop. Now Kildois can hold their lower pair of arms inside their clothes and wrap their tails around their waists under trousers or kilt and pass as apims. The golden color they share with numims would betray them so if they wish to pass completely that hair has to be dyed. Fweygo obviously hadn't had time to dye his hair. All the same, he looked apim enough, something like those golden-haired folk from Villodrin over in the continent of Loh.

Had I been in the habit of smirking I'd have felt a good smirk right now fully justified. Good old Fweygo! He wasn't following me out of idle curiosity. Oh, no, by Krun! He was on my tail because of what the Star Lords had told him; that I firmly believed. And my smirk would be because I'd spotted him.

Now the superior Xuntalese lady had not said those usual conspiratorial words so uniformly used in these situations. She had not in a dark and mysterious voice said: “Come alone!”

From that and my feelings that this was an effective way for Naghan to contact me I did not think I was walking into a trap.

Of course, on Kregen, that wonderful and terrifying world under Antares, all kinds of skullduggery—including traps—must routinely be expected. At the least, it made life interesting and kept the old blood pumping.

The last streamers of deep emerald and lustrous rose were fading and the first stars were pricking out when I entered The Crystal Griffon.

My hope clearly was that Naghan had turned up some information on the whereabouts of the young lord Byrom. Poor old Princess Nandisha and her daughter lady Nisha were in a dreadful state and I felt for them, by Zair. The unpleasant thought that Byrom was already dead had to be kept in perspective. Kidnappers are unpleasant people; until we knew to the contrary we had to assume they wanted something for the return of Byrom. Had they just wanted the young prince dead then they could have cut him down, there and then, finish.

The Crystal Griffon, as its name implied, was an upmarket establishment. They did quality meals here and the wines were of the first vintages, although, unfortunately, their cellars had no Jholaix. The red eye patch was easily identifiable. The man was a Gon, from whose head every vestige of white hair had been shaved and whose scalp gleamed with butter. He'd use the saponifying effects of the butter to shave religiously each day. Well, his race of diffs suffered from the mistaken belief that their white hair was unbecoming if not downright ugly. Thankfully, most of their women did not shave their hair and it glowed silvery white and splendid in the lights of the suns. He wore dark clothes and carried weapons. I sat down opposite him and the serving girl, a dainty Fristle fifi with impertinent eyes and roving tail, brought me a yellow Charwis, not too sweet and with a decent taste.

The Gon said: “Lahal, majister. I am—”

The look I shot him brought his backbone up. He was tall, as many Gons are, with smooth even features. A little flush seeped in over his cheekbones.

“Your pardon, Drajak.” He spoke in a soft voice and no one could overhear us in the noise of the tavern. All the same...!

I nodded my head and drank some Charwis.

He went on: “I am Nalgre ti Poventer. I was at the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. Third Phalanx. Bratchlin. I saw you there.”

“Lahal, Nalgre. Go on.”

He had recovered his composure and now drank a little wine and wiped his lips with a yellow kerchief. Very fussy, are Gons.

“The ambassador wishes to see you. By using me as an intermediary he hopes to avoid throwing suspicion upon you, maj—Drajak.”

That explained his elementary mistake. He didn't work for Naghan at all. He was employed by the Vallian embassy here in Oxonium. Elten Larghos Invordun, the Vallian ambassador here, had helped me already and I knew him for a loyal and clever man.

“When?” I said.

“I have a room here. There is a disguise. Tonight.”

I finished off the Charwis and stood up. Instantly Nalgre ti Poventer slapped his unfinished drink onto the table and rose. I sighed to myself. He was no conspirator, that was for sure. So I sat down again and called for more wine. He sat down too, slowly, and gave me a most puzzled glance. I leaned forward.

“For the sweet sake of Opaz, Nalgre! Relax. You're supposed not to attract any attention.”

He licked his lips. “I'm a brumbyte, a soldier more used to hefting my pike in the files. I'm used to showing respect.”

“If it hadn't been for people like you, Nalgre, we'd never have won Vallia's liberty. Now you have a new job that is different. We'll just saunter up, casually.”

“Quida—” He checked himself, and said: “A good idea.”

I allowed a gargoylish old Dray Prescot smile to plaster itself all over the inside of my head. To Nalgre I just looked what I must have looked like to him back during the Battle of the Ruined Abbey. The Third Phalanx, I recalled, had suffered casualties that day of blood. To him, I was the Emperor, the Majister, to be shown the utmost respect and to be faithfully obeyed in all things. If only he knew how I spurned all these titles and ranks! I loved giving away titles and estates to those who deserved them, and I valued the way in which things could be done simply because I was who I was. But through all that I remained Dray Prescot, a simple sailorman.

Fweygo was sitting inconspicuously in a corner where he could keep an eye on me. I didn't want him taking Nalgre to pieces. Nalgre had been a Bratchlin, a closer of the file, and was therefore well-used to issuing orders and keeping people up to the mark. But he'd be no match for the Kildoi—a redundant remark, that; very few fighting tricks were unknown to them.

As we were going up the stairs, Fweygo stood up and went out the front door. If I knew him he'd be looking for another way in. Nalgre's room lay at the far end of the second floor corridor, and, indeed, in that far end wall was a door which must lead to stairs going down outside. Just how long would it take my kregoinye comrade to make his way in there?

In Nalgre's room, furnished to a good state of inn comfort, he unwrapped a parcel. I did not feel surprise. I shrugged off my blue shamlak and donned the buff jacket with the wide wings, the buff breeches and tall boots and clapped on the wide-brimmed hat with the red and yellow feather. Then my weapons went about me again.

Nalgre also put on his Vallian clothes. He said: “I feel more comfortable in civilized clothes—Drajak.”

“Oh, they're more or less decently civilized here in Tolindrin, Nalgre. Except for some cramphs I've met. As to the other countries to the north, that has to be tested.”

“I was up in Enderli recently.” He hitched his rapier forward. “I can't say I cared overmuch for ‘em. Nice zorcas, though.”

Ready, we moved out. He opened the door onto the stairs and held the key in his hand ready to lock up after us and there stood Fweygo on the top step, a dagger in one of his fists, just about to force the lock.

Instantly the dagger disappeared. Only a couple of Kregen's smaller moons went scampering past so it was pretty dark. I kept the wide brim of the Vallian hat down over my face.

The Kildoi in his most pleasant voice said: “Your pardon, doms. I have a rendezvous and have lost my key—”

Whether or not he expected a couple of Vallians in a foreign country to believe him I couldn't guess. Sensible people like to stay out of trouble. Nalgre simply said: “I will lock up after you, dom.”

From the light in the corridor at our backs which threw us into silhouette I could see Fweygo's face clearly. His trick had rebounded on him. I was confident he did not suspect it was Dray Prescot who stood before him. Our Vallian attire was unmistakable even in silhouette with those wide shoulder wings and breeches and the broad-brimmed hats. He kept his composure remarkably.

“Thank you, dom. But—how do I get out afterward?”

“Why, dom, you must go with Cymbaro's grace.”

Fweygo had been hoist, as they say in Clishdrin, by his own varter. His handsome face, smooth and polite in the lamplight, smiled. Oh, yes, by Krun! I was getting to know my new comrade better at each stroke of adventure. “Why, thank you again, dom. I am sure I shall find a way out.”

Well, and of course he would! If he didn't knock the door out he'd knock over anyone who got in his way trompling down the inner staircase. That, of course, would be after he'd sorted me out, no doubt considering he'd once again rescued me from peril.

So, wishing not to attract attention to anyone of our party, I had to say something. What? Would it matter if Nalgre ti Poventer knew that Fweygo and I were acquainted? Perhaps I had become obsessed with secrecy, always plotting subterfuges, wearing disguises. But that must be in my scorpion nature. And, anyway, by Krun, it had saved my hide on innumerable occasions.

I said: “The lady became tired of waiting. She left.”

Nalgre half-turned to give me a quick puzzled glance, so he missed Fweygo's reaction. The Kildoi shuffled his feet around on the top step, said: “Women! Thank you, dom,” and started off down.

Nalgre's low laugh was only half amused. “He's right, by Vox!”

By the time Nalgre had locked up and we reached the alley running past the foot of the stairs, Fweygo had vanished into the shadows. The Maiden with the Many Smiles would be up tonight, and the Twins would add their lustrous pink radiance later on. Nalgre led. He hadn't sounded overly bitter in his remark about the ladies of Kregen so perhaps that was just a lover's tiff. Well, and by Mother Diocaster, there are plenty of them on two worlds.

A couple of streets along in the pinkish moonlight we heard a hullabaloo and a rout of people came storming along, all tangled up and bashing away with cudgels and blatterers and dwablatters. Nalgre and I jumped into a conveniently shadowed doorway as the rout hacked and hewed past.

The light showed up the favors, the schturvals plain.

“Khon the Mak's roughs fighting with Prince Ortyg's toughs,” commented Nalgre. “For the benefit of Vallia they can break one another's heads in and to the Ice Floes of Sicce with ‘em.”

“Aye. King Tom or Hyr Kov Brannomar are the folk Vallia must deal with.”

The City Guard took its time about sorting out the riot and this made me uneasy. It could be that they'd been bribed. It could simply be that law and order were breaking down in Oxonium under the pressures of the strains between the nobles. When the street lay deserted under The Maiden with the Many Smiles we set off again.

Fweygo would be somewhere near keeping an obbo on us.

We reached the Vallian embassy and Nalgre led around the back to a wicket gate to which he had the key. Inside the archway four extremely efficient guards shone lights upon us and demanded credentials as their weapons glittered. The Deldar recognized Nalgre and stood his men at ease and marched us off. At sight of the brave old Vallian uniform I felt all the nostalgia of a fellow cast adrift in the world dwaburs from his home. So many and many a time have I said why can't a simple sailorman like me be left on the beach in his home in Esser Rarioch with Delia? The Star Lords dictate otherwise, that's why.

The fuming sense of injustice boiled up again. The Everoinye and their insane idea that I, a single man, could become the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of Paz! Even if I did have the yrium, the special even stronger power than mere charisma, to assist? Ludicrous!

The Elten of Thothsturboin stepped forward eagerly when we were ushered into his study. He was as I remembered him, efficient, now a skilled diplomat instead of a tough warrior of Vallia.

“Lahal—Drajak?”

I nodded. Even here I saw no need to have the majister this and majister that bandied about. We sat down, refreshments were served and the occasion for this nocturnal meeting was revealed.

“You remember when you discovered the secret of the old king's sword, and your identity was discovered to Hyr Kov Brannomar, who Drajak the Sudden really is, we were overheard by Wocut.”

San Wocut was Khon the Mak's personal wizard, that gaunt, gray-faced individual I'd seen next to Khonstanton. He was not a Wizard of Loh; he had powers. Elten Larghos said he had a remarkable approach from the sorcerer Wocut. “He has not revealed your secret to Khon the Mak and—”

“Blackmail?”

“Of course. In return for his silence he requests asylum in Vallia, a pension, a villa, immunity from Khon the Mak's vengeance.”

“He will trust us to keep our word—once he's home?”

“He knows the stories of Dray Prescot.”

“Um.”

This, as you may well imagine, had been a great worry to me. Kov Brannomar, who knew, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Khon the Mak would seize the opportunity for deviltry. With all the tensions in the city one more strain in connection with Vallia could tip everything into chaos. That was a very real possibility. Not everyone wanted the treaty between Tolindrin and Vallia that Kov Brannomar had so set his heart on. Khonstanton might realistically want the treaty; if he could use me and the treaty to foment disorder to his own advantage he would do so, do so at a run, by Vox!

The signing of the treaty had been postponed until after Tom's coronation. He had made the necessary appearance as king at the Feast of Beng T'Tolin and preparations for the festivities of the coronation were well in hand. Khonstanton—and Prince Ortyg—would make use of anything to seize the crown. Tom wasn't really interested but Brannomar had persuaded him that he was the old king's choice and must therefore do his duty. Oh, yes, a secret regarding Dray Prescot would act like a fuse in this situation.

Nalgre ti Provender coughed and said: “If I may?” At our assent he wanted to know if, in our turn, we could trust Wocut. “He is able, is he not, to spy on us from a distance?”

Elten Larghos smiled. “The famous Wizards of Loh from Vallia have inspected the embassy and removed certain objects.”

Well, by Vox, I knew what that was about. Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi or Ling-Li made it their business to clean all our overseas buildings of signomants, the magical discs through which wizards may more easily observe at a distance. Also they placed detectors to warn if any wizard had gone into lupu to spy on us.

I told them it looked as though the chances were on our side. Once Wocut had committed himself he knew he would be in our power. I left the details of the transaction to the ambassador and scribbled a quick note to Drak, Emperor of Vallia, suggesting Khe-Hi check it out.

After another drink it was time to get back to the problems facing me here in Oxonium—the numim twins, and, interestingly, a rapscallion of an imp of Sicce called Dimpy.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter six

On the way back to The Crystal Griffon we witnessed another street brawl. This time the skull beating erupted between the adherents of Tolaar, the major religion of these parts, and that other, darker and more mysterious cult of Dokerty. Being practical, cautious fellows, we stood aside and let them get on with it.

As I doffed the buff Vallian costume and resumed the blue shamlak of Tolindrin I reflected that I had omitted to congratulate Elten Larghos Invordun na Thothsturboin on his promotion from consul to full flown ambassador. That must have come as a result of his work respecting the succession and the treaty. My lad Drak, like me, was overfond of rewarding people. In that he showed a trait at variance with the generality of his personality, which was stern and upright. Yet, as Delia knew, he was a loving and loyal son. So the fact that the Emperor of Vallia had chosen to elevate his representative in Tolindrin to the heights of full ambassador must strike Kov Brannomar as a positive omen of good relations between the two countries. Alliance, he must assume, was just over the horizon.

I asked Nalgre to congratulate Larghos for me, and added: “I think I'll keep the Vallian clothes—if that's all right.”

“Of course. They may serve again.”

Having given Nalgre my thanks and bid him remberee I trotted off back to Nandisha's palace. The cable cars still ran at night, at less frequent intervals. There were quite a lot of people about and everyone looked keyed up, tense. Trouble seemed to smoke on the air. The quicker the coronation took place and the treaty with Vallia signed, the quicker Oxonium could settle down.

Only a few lights burned in the palace as I answered the guard's challenge and went in. I gave an almighty yawn. A left-over scrap of vosk pie and a swingeing draught of red wine tucked away, and into bed I crawled and thought my last thought of every day, closed my eyes and awoke to see Fweygo bending over me, saying: “Up, you lazy gyp! Up!”

Blinking and stretching I tumbled out. I'd missed the first breakfast. On the way down Fweygo said: “Tiri's made up her mind. She's off today.”

I grunted. Fweygo and I were employed by Ranaj on behalf of Nandisha. The lady Tirivenswatha was a guest, staying on here in the circumstances of our acquaintance with the princess. The dancing girl had responsibilities at the Temple of Cymbaro and San Paynor, the chief priest before Cymbaro at his shrine in Oxonium, required her return. She was already eating at the second breakfast when we went in, the youngster Dimpy, looking resentful, sitting at her side. She pouted just a trifle and her lower lip stuck out. She said: “I love my work in the shrine and San Paynor. But I do like living here. In the dormitory with the other girls ... Well, it's not like here.”

“We'll come and visit you,” Fweygo told her.

“All these religions are fakes.” Dimpy spoke around a mouthful of breakfast. “All they want is your money.”

“Oh, Dimpy, you are dreadful!”

“Well, it's true, by Dromang!”

They glared at each other, eyeball to eyeball, high of color and breathing too rapidly. Fweygo's sly glance in my direction and my own reading of the situation curved my hard old lips a fraction. If Dimpy's business had not been done for him by this curvaceous and lively lass then I hadn't much idea of true romance. They were both of them quite clearly oblivious of anyone else in the refectory. Fweygo's tail hand swept across the table and knocked over a jug. The clatter brought them out of that locked glance of future passion. I heaved up a sigh inside myself—Delia! Delia!

I wanted to know what Dimpy intended to do about the frame-up and as we finished breakfast he told us his story. He was worried over his mother and sisters. If Sleed the Slick harmed them, Dimpy did not wish to face the consequences of that horrific thought.

“And it's not safe for you to return to the Hellraisers?” Tiri's question was just too artless to pass muster.

All the same, Dimpy bit. “I know how much I owe you for your help. Believe me, I am very grateful. But I'll hafta go back.”

“We'll speak to Ranaj,” said Fweygo in a casual way. “He'll find you a job in the palace. That'll be better than thieving for a living.”

Dimpy flared up. “I'm not a thief! I told you, that was a stupid Hellraiser test. Anyway, anything we take up here's been taken from us down there before!”

Tiri started up then and Fweygo and I realized when we weren't wanted. Dimpy was in an awkward position. He had a splendid chance to get out of the warrens, one not easily come by in the normal course of events, yet the problem of his family remained. I fancied young Tirivenswatha would have a hand in sorting out what eventuated. They made a fine couple, at that. The idea was not too ridiculous. We joined a group where Fat Lardo, one of the cooks, was retailing the latest gossip from the streets.

Yet another beautiful young girl had been found dead. Her naked and bloody body had been discovered early this morning dumped in the gutter of Penitence Alley which ran alongside the Temple of Tolaar. She had been murdered in a most brutal fashion, badly cut up, and her heart had not been found.

“Who was she?” Fweygo wanted to know.

“Paline Lanto. She was a respectable shop girl.”

“A lover's tiff?”

Oily Nath, the fry-up artist, burst out: “Blood and guts everywhere? Some lover! Some tiff!”

That appeared an appropriate comment and everyone solemnly nodded heads. Poor little Paline Lanto was only the last in a horrific line of murder victims. All had been nauseatingly mutilated. Affairs of this nature are best left to the proper authorities. The City Guard ought to be investigating. So far they had told us nothing regarding Byrom's kidnapping and I doubted if they'd have any greater success over these murders.

A waft of cold air breezed over us and Fweygo looked around sharply, one of his fists going to the hilt of his sword.

Directly opposite me a blue mist irradiated by an inner glow formed. I did not change expression; but I felt my heart give an almighty thump.

Slowly the blue mist thickened and took on the form of a man in a long robe. The familiar kindly features of San Deb-Lu beamed out at me. No one took any notice. Our comrade Wizard of Loh had powers, by Zair, powers! He beckoned. I stood up, excusing myself, and followed the apparition out and along the passage to a storeroom.

“Lahal, Jak.”

“Lahal, San.”

“This fellow Wocut—calls himself a sorcerer. Odd Type.” By the inflexion in his voice I could tell Deb-Lu was using capital letters to express deeper meanings to his words. “I've already checked him out. In his desire to emigrate to Vallia I Believe Him To Be Sincere.” Deb-Lu went on to say that Drak had given his assent and that in Vondium Wocut would have a very close eye kept on him by Khe-Hi and Ling-Li. So, naturally, I wanted to know all the news from home, and the sorcerer retailed many fascinating details.

He finished by saying in his doubtful voice: “I cannot pretend to understand why you remain here in Balintol, Dray. I do know there is a reason. Vallia muchly wants this treaty for the airboats and riding animals Tolindrin can provide. If I—”

I dared to interrupt the Wizard of Loh.

“The old king here did not approve of most sorcery. It is mostly religion and its mysteries. And I believe there are many.”

He sniffed. “Well, I must go. It is good to see you again, Dray. Leave your friend Wocut to us. Now I bid you remberee.”

“Remberee, Deb-Lu.”

Without a plop of displaced air, phut, he was gone.

Because of that meeting, so eerie to someone who does not do much business with wizards, I went to tell Fweygo I would go with Tiri to the shrine of Cymbaro. He nodded emphatically. “Yes. The greater danger lies with the lion children, and so I should be here.”

Well, by Krun, and what else would you expect?

My words to Deb-Lu about religion here barely scratched the surface. There were temples to many goddesses and gods and minor godlings on all the hills and a motley bunch to form any sort of pantheon they were, too. Unlike our Ancient Greeks they didn't have a temple to the unknown god. Any cult could run up a shrine, always provided they paid their taxes to the king, promptly and in full. The thought occurred to me to wonder if wriggling out of paying taxes was the reason why the red-robed priests of Dokerty met secretly, at night and in remote ruins.

Tiri had more luggage now than when we'd arrived and Ranaj appointed a porter to carry it for her to the temple. Standing by the doorway with her baggage at her feet, she looked a little forlorn. The porter, a powerful Brukaj, hovered, waiting.

As I approached, Dimpy appeared from the opposite direction and walked sturdily towards us, head up, color high. I could guess what he intended to do.

At that moment the blue wavering radiance formed before me and the phantom shape of Deb-Lu appeared, still smiling. He raised a hand. Striding on, Dimpy marched clean through that ghostly apparition. He shivered, suddenly, and looked about with wary eyes, as though expecting an ambush.

“By Dromang! What was that?” He lost some of his color.

Tiri's imperious little head twitched up and she frowned. In her clear acid voice, she said: “Unbelievers believe many foolish things, fambly.”

Dimpy bristled at that. Deb-Lu said: “What you suspected is perfectly correct, Dray. The young prince is being held prisoner by this charming fellow Prince Ortyg at one of his hideouts down below.”

“Thank you, Deb-Lu. Directions?”

Since the death of the Fristle, Fonnell the Fractious, his gang had split up. Some of the olive-green clad rogues had formed a smaller gang, some had joined up with other groupings of the ruffians down in the warrens and Ranaj—and King Tom—had made it their business to keep tabs on them. I had an idea of some of the spies they used; not all. Ortyg, who had employed Fonnell, must be continuing to use some members of the old olive-green gang.

The Wizard of Loh told me the way to the particular warren. He finished: “By the Seven Arcades, Drak! They're a mighty unhealthy bunch there.”

“Oh, aye.”

“You Watch Out. This whippersnapper Prince Ortyg is what people in these parts, I believe, call a right blintz.”

“They do. All the same, as ever, I wonder if he really—”

“Like your doubts about Phu-Si-Yantong?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

Tiri and Dimpy were eyeing each other, not hearing a word we said. The porter stared vacantly about, rubbing his head. Oh, yes, by Vox. Wizards of Loh have powers!

By those same powers my sorcerous comrade cloaked my own words. I asked him if Byrom stood in immediate danger and was reassured by the reply. What the kidnappers’ plans were we did not know. The fact that there was no ransom demand was certainly worrying; Deb-Lu considered they wanted something more than merely money, or putting Nandisha's son out of the running for the crown. When the princess was distracted past her wits’ end, Deb-Lu suggested, then the weasel-faced Prince Ortyg would strike.

Deb-Lu-Quienyin just put up his hand in time to prevent his bulbous turban from toppling over an ear. I enjoyed the sight, by Krun! After a few more words we said the remberees and Deb-Lu vanished.

With Fweygo to guard the numims I had two options. Tiri or Byrom. Ranaj was happy to provide an escort for the temple dancer and Dimpy stoutly declared his intention of going along. I excused myself, without explanation, and made the necessary preparations.

Within the bur I was kitted up and off into the devil's kitchens of the stews between the hills.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter seven

An arrow chinked off the wall a handbreadth from my head. I slid into the shadow of an ale barrel like a ferret down a rabbit hole.

Across the intersection of roads running at right angles through two valleys a crude barricade had been thrown up. Tables, wardrobes, barrels, upended carts, all jumbled together to make an obstacle to Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus. They shot at the defenders of the dismal street at my back and tried a charge which carried some of the barricade. The Raging Volcanoes fell back, slashing axes about in desperation.

These two gangs at each other's throats were damned inconvenient, by Krun. A girl staggered into my ale barrel and collapsed, an arrow through her throat. She gargled blood. Her grimy face carried a look of profound shock and her ripped-open tunic revealed a pallid body smothered in blood. She toppled and fell close by my side.

More arrows skimmed in, to chingle against the wall and tumble uselessly to the muddy ground. The girl twitched, dark blood pulsing with the last force of her heartbeats past the shaft. Her eyes glazed. The noise and confusion hammered on unheedingly.

What waste! What nonsense! Destruction, horror and death, and all for a measly hundred paces or so of tumbledown houses, filthy dopa dens and a muddle of ramshackle shacks. A spotted strowger with a broken arrow in his flank yip-yip-yipped across the road. I felt sorry for the little fellow; but—what could aid him now?

Mind you, I'd known a fat queen whose pet spotted strowgers loved nothing better than to chew on the bodies of her victims. The opposite cliff face glowed high up with the opaline radiance of the Suns; down here in the slot the shadows crawled as torches flared. The battle continued in mayhem and carnage. The Raging Volcanoes mustered a reserve and smashed back at Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus. Weapons clashed all along the barricade. Men and women screamed. Bodies tumbled to fall in red ruin and be trampled on by the blood lusting combatants.

Well, by Vox! The sharper I got out of this mess the sooner I'd be on my way to finding young Byrom.

Crouching behind an ale barrel as a fight erupted in front of me seemed to me, Dray Prescot, Vovedeer, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, to be the most sensible course of action in two worlds, too right, by the diseased and pendulous nether parts of Makki-Grodno!

The sides of the hills here were capable of being climbed with great difficulty so this is where I'd been led down, for where I wanted to go was hemmed in by practically vertical cliffs. There'd been no difficulty in contacting Naghan Raerdu through one of his men, for we'd arranged to have a reliable person on watch. Milsi the Slinky had given me no recognition; but at my jerk of the head she'd led off to where Naghan the Barrel could be found at this time. He moved around the city, logically enough. After that he simply detailed a party to escort me down, grumbling at the danger I insisted on placing myself in, and I sent them off long before reaching the bottom. Now I found myself embroiled in this infuriating fracas. By the hairy and infested nostrils of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! It was enough to make a fellow mad clean through!

A move had to be made soon if I was to succeed.

Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus held three arms of the crossroads and they wanted the fourth arm, currently in the possession of the Raging Volcanoes. Whatever treaty had been agreed in the past had fallen through, as was the way down in the warrens of Oxonium as up on the hills. I was on the Nasty's side of the barricade and my target lay somewhere down at the far end of the Volcanoes’ street.

Among the frantic figures fighting to defend the makeshift wall a dozen or so wore the olive green of Fonnell's old gang. So that explained why Byrom had been spirited away there. Prince Ortyg had maintained his connection with the olive green gang members.

This poor dead urchin girl at my side represented so much of what was wrong with two worlds. This profound if obvious thought was abruptly shattered. Something exceedingly hard and sharp pushed into my back. A voice like a bottle emptying growled: “Skulking, hey! I'll soon sort you out, by Reder, yes!”

That damned uncomfortable object prodding my back was a sword. Slowly I turned my head. He was hairy, broad, flat of nose and coarse of lip. In the nature of the fellow a glisten of scar ran down his left cheek and the eye above was puckered up. He was a Brokelsh. “Up, skulker!” He jabbed. “Up and at that barricade!”

In all the noise the door at my back had opened silently. I didn't sweat; the ugly thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was getting slow. One thing an old leem-hunter and a fighting man must never be is slow. I stood up and pointed to the dead girl.

“Easy, dom. Came back to see—”

“Save your whining excuses. I don't know you. I'll know you again, skulker, by Reder, I'll know you.”

Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus must be a sizeable gang, then. Fair enough that anyone wouldn't know personally all the members. I'd get by all right. When no one recognized me, as must inevitably follow, then, by Krun, would be the time to worry.

He took the sword away. He pushed me out from the barrel into the street. Mud slicked underfoot. There were more torches now and shadows lay uncertainly across the furious scene. A fresh onslaught developed as the Nasty's hurled once more at the defenders.

Caught up in the attack I found myself trying to clamber up an overturned hand barrow. A Rapa made determined efforts to degut me with his spear. My left fist wrapped around the shaft and I pulled.

He yowled and flew over the barrow to land on his beak. My new acquaintance stuck his sword through the Rapa who twisted and shrieked and tried to wriggle away.

“Stinking Beaky!”

A crossbow bolt flicked over my shoulder. The Fristle ahead threw down the weapon and dragged out a scimitar and slashed. My own return blocked the blow and sent the braxter darting at his chest. Startled, he backed off. The Brokelsh jumped up beside me. More Volcanoes were running up to guard this sudden breach. It was a matter of skip and jump, of cut and thrust, as we tried to hold the hand barrow for Nagzalla. An advang whose porcine features were convulsed with fury leaped alongside us to help hold the barrow. He swung a broad-bladed polearm and swept the head from the shoulders of a poor devil who failed to dodge in time. Blood spouted everywhere.

“To me!” roared the Brokelsh, hair flying all over the place. “Neemus! Neemus! To Brory the Bold! Neemus!”

A couple more Nagzallas ran up and for a space we held the barrow, trying to force our way on and being pressed back. In the erratic torchlight every move was dangerous. Keeping a balance and picking a target, hitting and trying not to be hit, the whole crazy combat proved difficult. A loud crack splintered up followed by two more splitting bangs. The barrow's bottom just caved in. Down we all tumbled, inextricably mixed up, arms and legs and heads all jumbled together like crabs in a basket.

Something clunked against my nose and water started into my eyes. I gave an almighty heave. Smelly hair thrust against my lips. I bit. I bit damned hard, I can tell you, not caring whose hide it was. In all the uproar any yell was lost. I got a good purchase and shoved the hairy one aside and rose up out of the shambles. The stink of blood roughened on my tongue. The Fristle clawed up beside me. He tried to give me a thwack but his scimitar had no room to swing and I just belted him on the nose with a clenched fist. He flopped back into the pile of bodies.

A bellowed roar: “Back! Set back, fanshos!” and we Nagzallas tumbled back out of the wreckage.

They were all panting, blood-smeared, evil of eye. We pulled back to rejoin the rest of the gang in their positions. For a space now it would be shooting until another charge could be mounted.

“By Reder, Brory!” The advang's snout was all aquiver. “We nearly did it! Another push and—”

“And we'd be cut off and chopped!”

That was true, by Krun. More Volcanoes had been closing on the barrow in the moments before it collapsed.

Brory the Bold eyed me. He were standing in the shadows of a doorway and every now and then an arrow fleeted in. “You fought well, skulker. Your name?”

“Kadar the Hammer.” The name popped into my head. I'd used it before and it was serviceable.

He grunted. “Stick close by me when we attack again.”

When I'd kitted myself out for this jaunt I'd selected a simple tan leather jack with a few greenish brass studs here and there. I'd taken off the shamlak and under the jack wore a common brown tunic. The braxter was munitions quality from Nandisha's armory and I was surprised and pleased the thing hadn't snapped across yet. In view of that almost inevitable happening I carried another scabbarded alongside the rapier. Brory the Bold gave the rapier a leery look.

“Fancy yourself with the toothpick, do you, dom?”

I summoned up a casual shrug. “When necessary.”

He grunted again in that coarse Brokelsh way.

He did not comment on the short-hafted single-bladed axe I had slung over my shoulder. Axes are useful in some fights. This specimen was not unlike one of the axes wielded by my Clansmen on the Great Plains of Segesthes. That, of course, was not surprising as those fair grazing and hunting grounds lay to the north over the mountains.

High above our heads a cluster of lights traveled slowly from one hill to the next. Up there, riding in the calimer on the invisible cables, haughty folk wouldn't even bother to look down at the chasms beneath. The lights of the cable car, high against the dark sky, did look romantic and mysterious. Down here it was all blood, dirt and death.

Most of the gangs organized themselves into sub-divisions called chapters and with conscious ostentation named their leaders with military ranks. This Brokelsh, Brory the Bold, turned out to be a chapter Jiktar, meaning he ran the chapter. Dimpy had told us he'd been a chapter deldar in his broken-up gang. Now the Jiktar busied himself putting together a fresh force for the next attack.

In my not un-extensive experience of street fighting I'd found that charging maniacally up an open street was usually a sure recipe for disaster. We generally burrowed our way through the buildings flanking the street. It seemed to me that Brory considered the barricade no real obstacle. Well, by Djan, it was a ramshackle enough structure; it had already proved too tough a nut for these bully boys to crack.

A pang shot through me. By Vox, yes! I could envisage my swods of the Emperor's Sword Watch or the Emperor's Yellow Jackets cleaning up this street like a giant broom. And the brumbytes of the Phalanx—they'd just swarm over the chairs and tables and carts like a tidal wave. Oh, well, they were far away and no doubt busy.

So that the next whooping charge met with the same fate as the previous efforts.

Although the valley was narrow the central roadway was flanked by buildings. I eyed them meanly. In my bones I could feel strongly that the Star Lords would not allow me to disport myself like this for much longer. They'd want me back on duty. They'd hoick me out in the very near future, that I darkly surmised. It behooved me to get that move on I'd promised myself some time ago when the Suns were flooding the opposite crest with opaline radiance. Now the slot lay in total darkness, and The Maiden with the Many Smiles would drift down a fuzzy pinkish light soon that would do something to relieve this infernal imitation of a night of Notor Zan.

Brory had taken a slight cut over an ear and his head was bound up in a red-stained yellow bandage. He grunted when I spoke to him; but he listened. He told me, curtly, that to go through the houses would destroy what they were fighting to gain. I said that they'd gain nothing but more dead and wounded if they didn't, whereat he grunted again. “You may crave violent action,” I said. “But action has to be directed. If you weren't the chapter Jiktar I'd say you were acting like a tanzy.”

He didn't grunt at that. Oh, no, by Djan! He bristled up in his uncouth hairy Brokelsh way. “Who the hell do you think you are? I run the chapter—not you! I don't even know where you come from. Nobody seems to know you.”

“Did I or did I not fight on the barricade?”

“You did.”

There were no torches near us so I could stand out in the street and point—dramatically!—at the barricade.

“Send your people to their deaths, Brory! Have them shot down and cut up! I'll find a way through the buildings.”

The blessed or cursed power I have, the yrium, blazed forth. The Star Lords had chosen me to be this impossible Emperor of Emperors. Wishing it were otherwise, still, I knew they had chosen well. Brory wilted. He caught the blast of the yrium in full flight. He obeyed.

Not sullenly, as might be expected, but in a sprightly way he organized afresh. He ran the chapter responsible for this end of the street. Other streets had their own chapters. He called in his hikdars and told them and they told the deldars and they shouted at the—I hesitate to call these ragamuffin rapscallions swods—at the bedraggled gang members who'd been beaten back so many times.

I did discover that Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus were in fact attempting to retake this section of streets they'd lost a season or so ago. They'd been weaker then. They'd been called Nagzalla's Neemus then. As they rebuilt their strength they'd put in the word Nasty to remind them that they had a debt to pay and territory to take from the Raging Volcanoes.

Brory might obey authority when he could see the sense of it. That did not mean he would forget his own position. He said: “You are not a member of the Neemus.”

“No. I'm tazll at the moment.”

By that he knew I was an unemployed mercenary.

He nodded emphatically. “When this shindig is all over and we've taken Nath Market Street and if you're still alive, I feel we will accept you as a full member.” He brushed hair away from the bandage. “As a paktun you understand these things.”

“Aye.”

Most of the runnels of Oxonium crossed a trifle askew of right angles so we chose the diagonal point with the least houses on the corner. Pickaxes were brought up. Unlit torches were handed out. There was a tenseness among these Neemus, a way of holding the breath, of speaking in clipped syllables. They'd taken a beating in their attempts to take back what they considered rightfully theirs. Now they were about to embark on what could be a crazy adventure. They could die more certainly this way than on the barricade.

And—at whose say so?

Some unknown plug-ugly who had suddenly appeared among them, telling their leaders what to do, handing out orders, cutting them down to size—merciless in his criticism.

Oh, yes, by the ruptured entrails and dangling eyeballs of Makki Grodno! This fellow Kadar the Hammer drove ‘em, drove ‘em good.

As for me, plain Dray Prescot, alias Kadar the Hammer, I looked around on this rabble, their eyes like coals, their grimy fists clutched about weapons, their mouths open and panting like wolves.

“For the sake of Reder! Wenda! Let's go!”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter eight

The last chunk of rock eased away and shuttered lanternlight struck across the room beyond. A storehouse, the place smelled acridly of vegetables in store too long. Brory shouldered through the gap we had made, wasting no time, sword in fist.

Other Neemus at our back pressed on, wraithlike in the encompassing dimness. We made as little noise as possible. All the same we were well aware that the Volcanoes must soon detect our activities and take immediate action in retaliation. The buildings at the end of the row were constructed of rocks fallen from the cliffs cemented together. Further on there were wattle and daub shacks and lath and plaster houses.

Brory gestured for men to start on the opposite wall.

“Quiet, you hulus!” he snarled and the picks chinked more delicately.

Outside in the cross street, noise flowered up into the starlit sky. The Neemus were putting in another doomed frontal attack to cover our activities. If this stratagem failed—I refused even to contemplate such an eventuality. On a purely personal basis I had to succeed. As San Blarnoi says: ‘A single man may succeed where an army will fail.'

Well, by Krun, all well and good, that might be true. I was that single man. On Kregen an army at your back is a mighty comfort. An opening was made, the rocks carefully prised loose and placed gently on the floor. This next building was a house from which the family had long since fled back into the warrens owned by the Volcanoes. A few simple furnishings stood forlornly abandoned. When—and not if, Brory had declared—the Neemus regained this street the people of theirs who had been dispossessed would return to what were their own homes. The noise outside increased. We were penetrating through the houses to the point where the barricade had been set up and we were under no illusions that the house would be undefended.

I said: “Make larger holes. We want to get reinforcements through as quickly as possible.”

Brory nodded and whispered the orders. All Nagzalla's gang wore a representation of a black neemu somewhere about their persons. The Volcanoes wore some fantastic spouting triangle. Up front, I peered into a room where slanting lanternlight revealed a window in the far wall. I frowned.

Whilst most of the houses were built in rows, not all were terraced, and here we had a cross alleyway leading from the main street to the trackway at the foot of the cliffs. A few strides took me to the window.

The alley was not wide and the structure opposite, wreathed in shadow, would be the building abutting the barricade.

Brory wanted to know if we should make a hole in the wall and I told him yes. We needed to get men up front as fast as we could. What I didn't say was that we might have to run for it just as damn fast, by Krun.

The uproar along the barricade died down a trifle. The Neemus must be faltering in the forlorn attack. We must hurry.

Through the window I went and sprinted to crouch by the opposite wall beneath a window. Cautiously I stuck an eyeball around the side of the frame.

I froze. A small brown scorpion waddled easily across the window sill in front of my nose. He moved in the arrogant swing of your true scorpion. I held my breath. He scuttled off into the shadows of the cemented-together stones forming the window surround and architrave. I let my breath out silently. Yes, I said to myself, oh, yes, by Zair. I agree. I agree with you absolutely, Everoinye. What was I doing puddling about in alleyways with a gang of cutthroats when I was supposed to be about the business of becoming an emperor? What indeed! Circumstances distort actions, as the Star Lords well knew. I had to get on with this affair, muy pronto. This thought made me more reckless than I usually am, Opaz forgive me.

I'd no idea if this scorpion was truly from the Star Lords or was simply a fellow who lived in these parts. That didn't matter. What did was the effect he had on me and on the subsequent events.

To my right the alley ran into the shadows of the cliff face. To the left shards of torchlight threw up the grotesque contortions of men and women locked in battle. I realized I'd done this all wrong.

I'd hoped to be able to worm through the houses and come out at the back of the barricade. The Volcanoes were too canny for that simple stratagem to succeed. The window revealed what amounted to the front line. Archers were shooting from windows to my left, cutting into the Neemus climbing the barricade, flanking them.

Other men and women were moving in and out of the doorway in the opposite wall of the room. A fellow was trying to restring a crossbow and cursing, and a Fristle was methodically running a sharpening stone along the edge of his scimitar. I ducked back. At my side Brory whispered: “There's a door here—”

“Get as many lads through there as quickly as possible. This room must be cleared instanter. On my signal. I'm going in through the window. That's the signal.”

“Quidang!”

With that I heaved up, took a last rapid glance into the room, and launched myself through the opening.

The Fristle sprang up, swirling his newly sharpened scimitar. The crossbow re-stringer dropped the bow and snatched for his sword. At the first blow my braxter snapped across. I didn't bother to waste breath cursing. The axe ripped free from its thong at my side and came around in a blurred arc. Down went the Fristle and the bowman yelped, and dodged, and the backhand swing took him across the top of his head. He collapsed.

The bowmen at the windows to the left were slow to react. By the time they'd turned about, yelling alarm, the room filled with Neemus at my back as I shot headlong through the door into the next room. Then it was a mad bedlam of hack and slay, dodging return blows, keeping a steady footing, and driving powerfully on.

Now we were committed. If we didn't clear these Volcanoes out very rapidly we'd be overwhelmed before our reinforcements arrived.

No time for niceties. Bash on, swing and hit, strike and bash on. Brory and his people supported superbly and we smashed our way through the enemy. The door to our left must—it had to, by Krun!—lead out onto the street abaft that confounded barricade.

In the lead, with a dripping axe in my fist, I catapulted through and the rest of the Neemus roared on after.

Torchlight splashed luridly over the action along the barricade. People were struggling like doomed wights in hell. Weapons flamed. The noises and the stinks beat maddeningly in our ears and nostrils. A massive yellow-skinned fellow hurled a trident at me and I batted it away. Brory was screaming orders in the tumult. We hit the defenders like a tidal wave. A bald-headed Gon called Garlash the Lips blew his trumpet. The notes rang clear and true above the hellish racket.

That was the signal for the final and triumphant onslaught of maddened Neemus outside. They charged in as we swept the wall clear from our side. Caught between two axes of attack the defenders crumbled.

When it was all over here and a screeching bunch of our fellows went hell for leather down the street chasing the remnants of the Volcanoes, I found Brory the Bold cleaning his sword and staring at a huddle of prisoners. Being still in somewhat of a hurry I did not properly clean the axe but wrapped the head in a chunk of cloth ripped from a corpse. The axe was so befouled cleaning would be a major task. And, I thought of improperly cleaned weapons and Vomanus.

Brory said: “Y'know, Kadar, I've been married four times. Each wife's been killed one way or another.” He nodded his head to a strapping prisoner whose dark hair floated freely about a flushed face. Her leather breastplate hung askew and her pale body showed weals and blood streaks. “A beauty, hey? Yes, I think a marriage is next.”

By the way the girl was slyly shooting looks the Brokelsh's way, might indicate the marriage would prove a success. It might also mean a dagger in his back on the night of the consummation.

I said: “I wish you well. I'll take a look down the end.”

“My thanks, Kadar the Hammer. A true black Neemu, so you are.”

I grunted, said something about seeing him later, and took myself off after our hunters of Volcanoes.

As I had indicated, this Nath Market Street was narrow. At the far end the streets leading off broadened out into Volcano territory. This rumble between gangs would be steered well clear of by the City Watch. Those Katakis were far too canny to embroil themselves to no benefit. A ponsho would get you a zorca they'd be sniffing round to buy as cheaply as possible any prisoners available to sell on to their disgusting slaver relatives. If Brory did marry that dark-haired beauty she'd be far better off than sold to the non-existent mercies of the Whiptails.

A wall-eyed chapter Jiktar called Nath the Seeing urged on his people as I came up with them. Nath the Seeing had taken over from Brory, whose folk were exhausted. By the same token the Volcanoes would have brought up reinforcements. This looked like the end of the road for Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus here.

But—oh, no, by Krun!—but not for Dray Prescot!

Nath the Seeing was not, as a grizzled old fighting man might expect, busily having a barricade built across the mouth of Nath Market Street. In any conurbation rules and laws must be worked out, written or unwritten. Between the two rival gangs this central crossroads forming a substantial plaza remained a no man's land. The reason for this reared up from the center.

From a rearing gray stone construction of squared masonry a lofting tower of cunning cross-struts reached up and up. In the darkness the top was not visible save for a warning light. A constellation of lights moved smoothly against the nighted sky over our heads, going towards the top of the tower where the cables between hills were supported. Up there, as I had thought before, the people in the cable car probably gave not a single glance down to the stews.

Much of the time people moved freely between the hills, for the gangs recognized the need for trade and barter. Food had to be brought in. Of course, the gangs took their own taxation. Only in times of trouble, as had happened this night, saw open warfare. Nath the Seeing cocked his head sideways to look across the kyro where only a few late folk walked home, thankful the fighting was finished.

“In Nagzalla's good time,” he said with great satisfaction, “we'll have all three of ‘em. Margayla, Homespun and Pin Streets. By Reder, yes!”

I said something politely in the affirmative. He cocked his head and focused an eye on me.

“You did well in the fight back there. Brory reckoned you were red hot. Good Neemu material.”

What the devil was I doing standing shilly-shallying around like this being patronized by a jumped up gang member! I told Nath the Seeing that if I ran Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus there'd be a lot of changes, mostly at the top. I finished by bidding him the remberees and walking off smartly, leaving him with his moist mouth hanging open.

The place I wanted was located in Margayla Street, directly across the plaza. On one side Pin Street was also Volcano territory. Homespun on the other was not, being controlled by the Skullbiters, a sub-group of the Hellraisers. Now the commotion had died away the Kataki City Watch would be on the prowl once more so it behoved me to keep an eye open. There were ale houses open. I licked my lips.

No. Duty before pleasure. Young Byrom must be thoroughly frightened, feeling sick, wondering what was going to happen to him. He must be my only concern. As for the Kataki Watch and the Star Lords, they must be pushed to the back of my vosk skull of a head for now.

Passing an ale house, open, with lights shining and men and women entering and leaving, some staggering, I reflected that ale was a food. This ale was thick and sweet and dark. Once they put hops in it and turned it into beer it became bitter and pale. I went resolutely on. Something was always going on through the night down here in the abyss and I was importuned for many a weird and wonderful product or service. Vibrant life, energetic and raw, pulsed all about me. The fighting was remembered but was now a thing of the past—until the next time.

Despite the dubious pleasures being enjoyed down here, you surely could feel sympathy for the folk trapped in the stews between the hills—but! But never forget these people owned slaves too.

Although Balintol is a nice warm continent, the temperature drops a few degrees down in the slots, naturally—one reason why the exposure of the wide-cleavage shamlak is not popular. Apart from the pestering peddlers no one offered to halt my progress and very shortly the end of the street came in sight sketchily illuminated by hanging lanterns. The next square had its cable car tower; there was a significant difference between this masonry construction and the last.

Here a guardhouse was built into the base. Here the notorious Kataki City Watch maintained what amounted to a police station, a precinct house, from which they could sally forth on raids and to which they could return for safety. A chair lift could hoist them to the platform at the top, where they could pick up a cable car.

There were quite a few of these Watch guardhouses situated in the runnels; most of the time the Whiptails would sail down in lifters to go about their nefarious activities and return to their barracks above.

I ignored all that and turned to survey my target.

The place was not a tavern as I had expected—oh, yes, there was a drinking saloon on the ground floor—but the lanterns and signs proclaimed the four-storey solid-looking building a house of ill-repute. It was well patronized and probably never closed its doors. Everything about it indicated it was a high class house. Some of the olive-green bunch had done well, then, and Prince Ortyg must be well satisfied.

Round the back, find a window, reach the top floor—that was the ticket. By the sticky nostrils and pendulous lips of Makki Grodno! The things a fellow has to do in this life!

The dolorous alley at the back, running in liquid filth, was lit only by a single lamp. This showed a window drowned in shadows. A cloth screen obscured the interior; but a cautious lifting of one corner allowed me to see a room piled with mattresses and bed frames, stools and benches. As I went in I just hoped that Naghan the Barrel was ready to play his part in this night's affair as arranged.

Out in the dim corridor the stair well showed me the way up.

The first floor landing above the ground floor had carpets and two doors. One must lead to the front and the rooms above the drinking saloon. I took the other and found the expected passage lined with rows of doors. Judging by the sounds most were occupied.

They hadn't built the stairs going straight up, the flights were staggered. The end of the passage brought me out to a landing with a balcony on one side I had not expected. I looked over cautiously.

The room below was well-furnished, elegant in a tatty way, and there were even a few drooping palms in pots. Music played softly. Girls of different races of diffs in various states of undress sat or walked about and the customers were being looked after by an ancient and stunted little Och lady. Just as I started to move back and be about my business all hell broke loose.

The double doors to the room burst open. Three men flew through the air to land with bone-crunching crashes among the ornate furniture. Immediately the girls began screaming. When I saw what had flung the men through the doors I didn't blame them. Blind panic broke out in a bedlam of shrieks as everyone tried to run. I stared down, fascinated by the thing that smashed into the lounge.

It wore long robes of a deep and sinister red. It carried no weapons. But the face! It had once been apim, Homo sapiens sapiens, like myself. No more. That engorged face, bloated, distorted, the eyes like branding irons, the jagged, fang-like teeth, radiated such an aura of immanent evil I recoiled, physically revolted.

What on all of terrible Kregen was this nightmare?

The thing's hands were twisted into obscene claws, raking the air in uncontrollable anger. Spittle ran whitely down its chin. It was clearly insane, obsessed with the maniacal desire to kill and go on killing. It threw heavy furniture about like matchsticks. Its strength was colossal. It kicked anything in the way out of its path.

Those baleful eyes turned up, white crescents under bloodlust. It saw me. Instantly, the thing, snarling incoherently, started for the stairs leading up to the balcony and to me.

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Chapter nine

I, Dray Prescot, Vovedeer, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, turned and fled along the balcony and went up the next flight of stairs like a mountain zerzy pursued by a mountain leem. Too true, By Krun!

Whatever that monstrosity from hell was, I wanted nothing of it, not one little tiny bit, by Vox!

On the next landing, four men, armed and armored, must have heard the uproar from below. As I belted off the top step I bellowed: “Trouble, doms! A customer's gone berserk! He's smashing the place up!”

“We'll sort him,” snarled the leader with the golden sash about his waist. “By Salinchez, we'll have him. Come on!”

The four rushed off down the stairs and I didn't hang about but pressed on rapidly, very rapidly, by Vox! I had a single stab of pity for those four finely-dressed bully-boys, then I got on with my own business. Well, that was not strictly true. My business concerned the Star Lords, not rescuing kidnapped young princes, although this kind of affair is, as you know, unholy common on wonderful Kregen.

A Rapa popped out of a door in the corridor at the end and seeing me yelled: “Get away from here, you blintz!”

Continuing my charade I shouted: “There's trouble downstairs! A customer's gone berserk—”

The Rapa whistled his trident about. “That's nothing to do with us. You go and sort it.” A second Rapa appeared, drawing his sword. His rusty black feathers bristled. “Schtump! Clear off!”

They both wore olive green, in addition each had a badge of a flame spouting triangle. I tried again. “They need all the help they can get. I've come to get everybody—”

The noise from below increased. Horrified screams knifed up. That must be those four unfortunates who had gone so uglily down. All the time I spoke I walked steadily forward, spreading my left hand in a gesture of appeal, my right gripping the braxter down at my side.

“For the last time, you blintz! Schtump!”

Now I was up level with them and they didn't mince matters. The one with the trident thrust viciously at me. The other Rapa's sword swished down in a lethal blow. I swerved avoiding the trident, slid the other's blow and hit him cleanly with my sword. The confounded blade broke close to the hilt. He was down but I did a foolish thing. In that split second I reflected that, knowing the poor quality in the steel of the munitions braxters, I shouldn't hit so hard.

In that fraction of time the first Rapa thrust again with his trident. One of the flank tines pierced my leather and I felt the smooth point stick into my flesh.

Instinctively I grabbed the shaft. I growled out in my old gravel-shifting voice: “I'll take that, dom,” pulled the trident out of me, reversed it smartly, and struck him through his gizzard.

Both Rapas were down, and I glared back down the corridor. The unholy racket persisted. There was little time left before that apparition from hell raged up here. I looked into the room.

A Sylvie, all tinsel and tissue and curves, stared back at me with wide horrified eyes. On the truckle bed lay Byrom, just sitting up, his tousled hair over his eyes, his face streaked with tears.

Those Rapas were his guards, all right, and had tried to do their duty. I motioned with the bloody trident. “I shall not harm you, Sylvie. Byrom! Get up, do not make a noise, and follow me!”

There was no doubt I'd have to carry the boy. I wanted to have to do that as late as possible. If that red-robed monster got up here...

That was a fatuous thought. There was nothing between him and us to stop him. That was as sure as Zim and Genodras rose each morning.

The Sylvie remained absolutely still. She was, as they say in Clishdrin, scared stiff. Although far too over-the-top and voluptuous in their sensual female fashion, Sylvies are human beings and I couldn't leave her here with that uncanny monster lusting upwards. I grabbed her arm, and her scent gusted overpoweringly. “Come on!”

Byrom was a princeling; he behaved well. He was up off the bed and running out the door with me. Up I went, climbing the last flight of steps to the roof. So much noise boomed up from below, the echoes rang in my head. The Sylvie's tissue garments billowed revealingly about her figure as we ran. She was panting and her eyes remained wide and staring. Byrom concentrated his little legs on running as fast as he could. We tumbled out the trapdoor onto the roof and immediately I was searching the night sky.

Naghan Raerdu the Barrel had not been chosen by me to be my chief spymaster here without ample good reasons. A dark cut-out shape against the stars moved. The airboat turned and smoothly lowered down. She hovered and a dimly-discerned face peered down.

“Lahal! Swifter?”

“Lahal! With no Kink!”

With the password and countersign duly established, the airboat landed. Strong arms hauled Byrom in and there were plenty of volunteers to assist the Sylvie lady. I didn't smile. I vaulted up and Naghan snapped to the helmsman: “Take her up!”

As though arranged by some signal, the Maiden with the Many Smiles shot her first fuzzy pink rays over the lip of the hill. The radiance illuminated the roof. From the trapdoor exploded a titanic figure of malevolent fury. Red robes flailed in the violence of the thing's movements. It clawed its hands aloft, clear silent imprecations. It danced with foiled fury. Everyone felt the full blast of horror, of blood red violence, of chill foreboding, a maelstrom of terror.

Some of Naghan's crew called on their gods and spirits.

“What was that thing? Evil, evil...”

I said to Byrom, holding his shoulders: “You're safe now. Don't worry about any of that nonsense.”

Naghan's helmsman swung the lifter up and away and we left that gibbering creature from hell raging far below. If I sweated easily I'd be running with it. Now we had to get on with our mission. Naghan had brought a needle lady with him, a nice Hytak woman, who cooed over Byrom. She took his head between her hands and massaged his scalp, turned his head this way and that. Naghan nodded.

“Yes, Drajak. Nessve is a larvan as well as a needle-woman.” The best way to translate larvan is to say: ‘A Layer On of Hands.’ They can ease aches and strains by head manipulation, reducing tension.

I found I was still grasping the Rapa's trident. Well, he had no further need of it. It was not a Shank weapon. The tines were long and well-set and damned sharp. On the cross bar letters had been punched into the steel. I recognized them through the magic of the Savanti's language gift. They were Lohvian, ancient Lohvian. The word they spelled out was ‘Prodigal.’ I set the trident down in a corner and went to make sure Byrom was all right.

The horrendous experience through which we'd just gone affected me profoundly. By Opaz! That—thing—was the living embodiment of the worst nightmares imaginable. The inevitable reaction among the crew of the lifter set in and Byrom looked decidedly queasy. The puncture lady had stuck him and the Sylvie with her cunning needles. The Sylvie's name was Salarnie and eventually the puncture lady gave her a draught and sent her to sleep.

The flight back did not take long. Naghan had the lifter descend in moon-drenched darkness among shadows and I carried Byrom off to his mother's palace, calling a soft: “Remberee.”

Well, as you may readily imagine, there was uproar and confusion, much running about and the flaring of torches, and bright tear-filled eyes as young Byrom was delivered back to his mother's arms.

When we were alone, Fweygo, in his calm Kildoi way, said: “You were lucky, Dray Prescot. The Everoinye have not spoken to me.”

I just grunted.

“You—”

I interrupted. “All I want right now is some food and then to get my head down for a month of She of the Veils. I'll see you in the morning.”

He flicked his tail hand by way of reply. So—I ate and slept. In the morning a new day dawned with all its anticipated evils.

They wanted to make something of a hero of me, and that I very quickly brushed aside. This was no fairy story. To add a grim and nauseating point to that, another poor young girl had been found overnight, disgustingly ripped to pieces in Cutler's Alley. Noni Seng, that had been her name. She'd been a sempstress, very respectable.

“The City Guard can do nothing,” Ranaj told me, very somber.

The thought occurred to me that, should Tiri's bloody body be discovered in a gutter by her temple, I would not be surprised on Kregen. But I'd be angry. I'd be so angry that I would do something foolish in the best tradition of Dray Prescot, vosk skull, onker of onkers.

As for young Tiri herself, Dimpy had duly delivered her to her Temple to Cymbaro. She'd made him promise to make me visit her soon. There was something important and serious she wanted me to do. Dimpy shook his shock-haired head. No, he'd no idea what that could be, by Dromang.

There was no doubt that the succession of horrific murders made everyone jumpy. Girls were warned not to roam the streets alone. The City Guard announced they had doubled their patrols. There was even talk of employing some of the City Watch to patrol on the hills.

General opinion was divided on the reasons behind the murders. Bloodlust as a cause had its adherents. Sheer sexual frenzy was advanced by other people as the reason. Many whispered that the killings were ritual, that a maniac religious cult was at work in this ghastly fashion.

Dimpy said: “You know what I think of these stupid religions. Yes. Well, if it is one of them it won't be Cymbaro.” He looked decidedly defiant. “Tiri wouldn't have anything to do with this stuff.”

From what I knew of Cymbaro I fully agreed. From what I surmised of the cult of Dokerty, well, then, yes, it could be the maniacs in their red robes who killed and mutilated young girls to the glory of Dokerty.

The cult of Lem the Silver Leem must still exist, driven underground in places, but still disgustingly killing very young girls to the greater glory of Lem and their salvation.

I did not care to face the implications that these murders in Oxonium were the work of the Leem Lovers. They did not fit the pattern. The girls torn to shreds here were grown up into young womanhood. If this ghastly work was the foul hand of Lem the Silver Leem then my work here was ordained. The Star Lords abhorred the Leem Lovers as much as I.

Trying to think the problem through, I came to the tentative conclusion that the murders were not carried out by that monstrous—thing—encountered in the rescue of Byrom.

I certainly wanted to know more about the gibbering manic thing. Somewhat reluctantly I broached the subject with Fweygo. He just shook that golden head of his and indicated he knew nothing of anything like the thing I described, although he added that there were plenty of other hideous monsters on Kregen. That, I knew.

The problem of Dimpy was partially solved when, as Fweygo had suggested, Ranaj took the lad on in Princess Nandisha's household. I felt keenly for the rapscallion. Up here on the hill he could be near the object of his affections. Down in the warrens he could look after his mother and sisters. The dilemma was acute. As Fat Lardo said: “We can't bring every tatterdemalion and his family up here.”

Asking Ranaj for the loan of a messenger, I sent word to Tiri at her shrine that I awaited her commands.

That evening Dimpy was not to be found in the palace. In addition a pair of braxters had gone missing from the armory. The Armory Deldar, scarlet, bristling, sweating, gave it as his considered opinion that young brats should not be allowed in the place at all and that he'd lose a swingeing great chunk of his pay in paying for replacements for the two swords gone from his charge.

Fweygo allowed himself a mocking smile when I paid up for the weapons.

I told him: “Dimpy will be back. Tiri's got her hooks into that young sprig of the warrens.”

Princess Nandisha's puncture lady gave me a very annoyed look, tut-tutting with a most reproving click of her sharp little tongue. “An onker—that, indisputably, is what you are, Drajak.”

“That I have been called many times. In this, though, I believe I'm right. Dimpy's passion for Tiri is—”

“Onker!”

I stared at her in puzzlement. “Mother Firben?”

A short, stout woman, she shook her head in perennial female disbelief at men's stupidity. She bustled forward. She whipped out a particularly long and vicious-looking needle and—snick!—in it went. At once the pain vanished.

She nodded with satisfaction and went to work on my wound. Mother Firben could not know that thanks to my dip in the Pool of Baptism in far Aphrasöe any wounds I collected adventuring around on Kregen healed with incredible speed. And, anyway, in my line of work pain is something you have to turn to your own advantage. Given a few days the wound would have healed of itself, and the pain would have vanished. I said, meekly: “Thank you, Mother Firben.”

She just clicked that needle-sharp tongue around against her teeth and finished tying the yellow bandage.

As to the leather brass-studded jack, one of Ranaj's men had already taken that off to the armory for repair.

That, of course, made me think of the two swords that had broken in combat. Think, I may add, very darkly indeed, very darkly indeed, by Krun!

“The Kurin-forsaken blades,” I growled. “I just hope the two braxters Dimpy took don't break so easily for him.”

The steel of the trident that had wounded me was of good Lohvian quality, apparent at once. The name Prodigal within a frame of chiseled decoration, I recalled, appeared a mere part of that decoration and unreadable to any but those who had studied the old manuscripts out of the Empire of Walfarg—and to me equipped with the Savanti gift of languages. A kind of half-regret passed over me. The trident was lying about somewhere, unless, as was far more probable, one of Naghan the Barrel's people had picked it up as a likely weapon. At least, Prodigal wasn't going to snap in two at the most awkward time of a fight.

When Tiri's answer came and I found a silver Bhin for the messenger, I first went down to the armory. Ranaj in his open numim way told me to select the best weapon I could find. Fweygo came with me to offer sound advice. In the upshot I had to content myself with a couple of the ordinary braxters of the country, without a scrap of confidence in either.

Still, I still had belted on the rapier and main gauche, the Jiktar and the hikdar. Would they, I brooded uneasily, be of any real use if I confronted that monstrous red-robed thing?

Whatever uncanny manifestation it was, no reports of anyone sighting it came in—it might as well have ceased to exist. Word from the runnels seeped up to the hills well enough. Maybe, and the grisly thought chilled, everyone—apart from the folk in the lifter—had been torn to bits by the creature. I wasn't at all sure Byrom had seen it and I certainly did not want to question him quite yet.

That red-robed maniac monstrosity spelled trouble. Trying to push the Djan-condemned thing out of my mind, I hitched up my swords, and took myself off to the Shrine of Cymbaro and Tirivenswatha.

Now what did the little madam want?

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Chapter ten

They did not ask me to remove my weapons in the Temple of Cymbaro the Just. Had they done so in this cloistered sanctuary I would in the normal civilized way have had no objection. Remembering the attacks and the fights that had flowered in blood all along these arcades and flower beds the first time I was here, I might have remonstrated with the priests.

The young priest, who'd greeted Tiri and me on that occasion, called Logan, smiled. “You are welcome, Drajak the Sudden.”

I acknowledged his greeting and we passed through the outer courtyards where the peace of this place could be felt as a tangible presence of the spirit. He conducted me to an inner chamber simply furnished where soft drinks and fruits lay appetizingly on a small table. “San Paynor and Tiri will be here shortly. Now I ask you to excuse me. I have duties.”

“Certainly, San Logan. And thank you.”

Whatever the young madam wanted, they were making an occasion of it, that was certain sure, by Opaz.

Presently San Paynor appeared and with him Tiri. The san was dressed as I expected, in a long brown robe. He did not lean too heavily on his curiously carved staff. Surprising me, though, Tiri, instead of her attractive shape charmingly displayed in a shamlak, wore a brown robe down to her feet. When she walked I noticed her feet were bare. Every scrap of her hair was covered by a brown four-pointed cap. She wore no jewelry of any kind.

After the polite greetings had been exchanged, San Paynor said: “I owe you not one but two thanks, Drajak.”

“Oh?”

“We of Cymbaro abhor fighting but will fight if it is just in the eyes of Cymbaro. Your actions here were praiseworthy—”

“I chance interrupting you, san,” I said, interrupting. “These thanks are entirely unnecessary. My actions were necessary.”

His thin face betrayed a quiver of a smile. “Indeed. You know San Padria?”

San Padria I had met on the road with his protégé, Nath. A pair of shoes had exchanged feet. I nodded, guessing what was to come, and so was able to say: “Again thanks are unnecessary, as I indicated at the time. Rather, as I said, my thanks were due to San Padria for so graciously accepting the shoes.”

Again he smiled. “I think Tiri has chosen wisely in you.”

Some of the old Dray Prescot abruptness sharpened my words. “Yes. Just what is it you have in mind for me, young lady?”

Before Tiri could speak, Paynor said: “There are many things about us you do not know. Tiri is a temple dancer, true. But she has a higher vocation.”

Very soon after meeting Tiri I'd sensed there was a lot more to her than appeared. From the way she was dressed I'd had a sudden startled thought she was to be the victim in some pagan sacrifice. Still, that wouldn't be in accordance with what I knew of Cymbaro the Just.

San Paynor went on to tell me that certain women had strange powers. Well, by Vox! All women have strange powers over men. Paynor indicated that Tiri could become a mystic, which didn't surprise me. He wouldn't say more than that about her actual powers.

Again I asked what she wanted me to do.

There was to be a ceremony. The way they explained it, Tiri would have to undergo some complicated and extremely arcane rites. In this ritual pain was involved. From past experience the priests were aware that these young girls could not stand that pain. So they had champions who, in some spiritual way, linked up and drew off the pain leaving the girls free to concentrate on absorbing the knowledge of the keys to unlock the powers within their brains and spirits.

“To choose as champion someone outside the temple is so unusual as not to have been heard of before. But Tiri insists.”

“I do!” flared Tiri. So I saw there had been an unholy row before she'd got her own way.

The whole business was somber and serious. Paynor warned me that if a champion failed his lady, then: “The full weight will fall on her. Her mind and ib will be blasted forever. This is a most serious responsibility, Drajak.”

Tiri turned her head to look up at me appealingly.

“You will agree, won't you, Drajak?”

There was no room in this place, it seemed to me, to call upon Makki Grodno or the Divine Lady of Belschutz. All the same—

“Yes, Tiri, and thank you for the honor.”

And if you want to call me a creep, then a Herrelldrin Hell take you!

More surprises were to follow. The Temple of Cymbaro on the surface was indeed a small and insignificant structure compared to the grandiose temples and palaces around. I had penetrated into almost the whole of the ground area by now. A group of brown clad priests entered and bowed. They formed an escort for the san and Tiri as we left the chamber. We went down. By Vox! We went down all right.

Spacious rooms were here piled one upon another connected by wide staircases. This subterranean temple was rather like an inverted skyscraper, an earthscraper, perhaps. Everything I saw appeared tasteful. There was no vulgar ostentation, as Sjames would say. Soft light from samphron oil lamps illuminated and enhanced the decorations. The air tasted sweet upon the tongue. I followed on, silently, down and down.

Just about every hill in Oxonium was honeycombed with tunnels and secret chambers. In this the builders merely followed the custom of Kregen in providing palaces and temples with many secret passages. The color schemes soothed. Down we went. The gravity of the situation was not lost on me, yet I felt calm in face of the ordeal before me.

We reached a chamber draped somberly in earth brown. Lamps glowed in chandeliers. At the far end an altar reared a single black block. I could see no ominous bloodstains there.

There was no idol.

Six girls were waiting, all dressed in brown gowns, with flowers woven into their hair and in loops and belts about their waists. They carried Tiri off through a side door. At the door she half-turned and favored me with a smile that trembled her lips. I nodded.

A man approached San Paynor. His brown robe was tightly belted and he carried two swords and daggers. He was apim, with a face pale with passion, gaunt, the face of a man obsessed, driven by the needs of the spirit. His very intentness appalled.

“San.” He bowed.

“I have tried, Duven, as Cymbaro is my witness, I have tried.”

Duven's strong hands clenched, clenched and relaxed, shaking.

“But it is against all tradition, all we believe in. Cymbaro the Just is the only true force in all the world! We cannot gainsay him! We are of Cymbaro. We are of the Just.”

“Some of what you say is true, Duven. But not all. We do not gainsay Cymbaro, for we follow the precepts. The chosen girl has the right to choose her own champion.”

The trembling passion in this Duven struck out like a physical force. He was controlling himself only by the exercise of will. His dark eyes surveyed me with a distant, all-encompassing look.

“And this is the man, this is the champion. He is not of Cymbaro.”

“He has proved himself.”

“A pair of shoes!”

“Aye. And in the battle for us all here.”

Duven lifted a fist, helplessly. “I was on my way back from Farinsee!”

“There is no blame attached to you, Duven.”

San Paynor's words were calm and strong. He would not be deflected. He had asked Tiri and she had insisted on having me. This Duven would have been Tiri's champion had I not turned up. Then, and I felt with a genuine emotion, he acquiesced. He bowed his head.

“It is the will of Cymbaro, before which everything—everything!—must bow. Cymbaro the Just must rule the world!”

He took a few paces towards me and stuck out his hand. As we shook, he said: “I wish you well, in the sacred name. Bear yourself bravely. Tirivenswatha has the gifts. Do not fail her.”

“All that I can do, that I shall do. I swear.”

He nodded and stepped back, satisfied. His very fanaticism drove him on to the greater glory of Cymbaro, and in the grip of that over-riding passion he would do anything for Cymbaro.

The priests took up positions around the walls, and Logan and Duven joined them. Paynor and I waited in the center. He said: “Duven is so unlike his twin brother, Drendi. He went off to be a paktun when Duven joined us in Cymbaro. One is intense and passionate, thin, the other easy-going and stout. Sometimes twins are like that, totally dissimilar.”

I did not say that any paktun worth his salt is not too easygoing, and stout mercenaries slim down after a few battles, until they become crumblies. I stood lightly, waiting for Tiri and what was to happen.

Presently more dignitaries entered the room. They moved with the deliberate motions of people who knew exactly what they were doing and the reasons for each action. Other priests high in the hierarchy joined Paynor. Priestesses, too, formed in their allotted places. Paynor told me I must remove all my weapons and clothes. They put a long brown gown over me which was wrapped loosely across the front. A small orchestra trooped in and took station to the side. The preparations were made. The silence rang profoundly in all our ears.

A trumpet blasted. The silver notes soared, hovered, died.

A bevy of flower clad maidens entered, escorting Tiri.

They opened out to allow her to glide gracefully into the central space. The music began, low at first, swirling, beating, growing in tempo and violence.

And Tiri danced.

She wore flowers. In any other circumstance the eroticism of her dance would have shrieked to the skies. Here, the dance expressed the true joy of Cymbaro, the flowering of life, of happiness, of a oneness with all created things upon Kregen. I watched as she moved, seductive, more voluptuous in her sinuous twinings than any Sylvie, enraptured within herself, beautiful.

When at last the dance ended and Tiri sank down, head bowed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other extended, her arms reaching out before her, I felt emotionally purified.

Not a sound disturbed the silence of that subterranean chamber.

Like the astonishing smash of a bolt of lightning a flame leaped up beyond the altar. The trumpet pealed. I was led forward to the altar where Tiri was conducted by her handmaidens. We met.

Stone steps were cut into the block. We two ascended. Many hands removed my gown and wove ropes of flowers about us. Tiri would not look at me. We stood, firmly pressed together, as the scented blooms formed their coils about us.

Music continued to play in a slow languorous melody. The priests chanted in sonorous levels and the priestesses joined their voices to soar above the melodies like larks ascending into the blue.

My surroundings became hazy. I knew I held Tiri in my arms, as she held me. I could hear the deep strong voices of priests chanting, and more felt than saw San Paynor and a sweet-faced woman laying their hands upon Tiri. The flame writhed silently. I felt heat, cold, dryness, dampness. Tiri moaned. Something like a red-hot sword drove cleanly through my midriff.

The world turned corpse white before my face.

I was standing on the quarterdeck of a little sixty-gun ship not fit to sail in the line and a monstrous great hundred and twenty-gun four-decker sailed effortlessly past our stern. In turn, gun after gun, he raked us. A stern rake, a destroying broadside that pulverized the ship, whirled in a conflagration of iron, smoke and flame.

The deck under me changed to that of a small swifter of the Inner Sea of Turismond. Spray-glittering, the bronze bound ram of a powerful swifter smashed splintering into our beam, flinging the broken bodies of oarsmen aside, wrecking us in blood and horror.

The background lurched and I saw Seg Segutorio drop his great Lohvian longbow and clutch futilely at the long black-fletched arrow through his throat. I saw Inch's head fly from his shoulders under the lethal sweep of a Saxon-pattern axe. I saw Turko ripped into bloody fragments by a black-furred many-armed monstrosity. I saw Mevancy's bindles ping harmlessly from plate armor and a swarm of flung darts shred her body. I saw Hap Loder trampled beneath the iron hooves of a stampeding herd of Voves. I saw—I saw...

My friends and family paraded before me, destroyed in many gruesome ways. The physical pains attacked my body as though I was being stuck through by a thousand red-hot lances, as though my flesh was being plucked from me by a thousand white-hot pincers. I shook uncontrollably.

But—but the physical pains were as nothing to the mental agony. I saw my children dismembered. My mind writhed and coiled and I lurched desperately close to complete insanity.

I saw Delia. I saw Delia...

“No!” I screamed, foaming. “No!”

Ghostly blackness descended, blackness drilled through by darting scarlet streaks, each shaking me, each driving me closer to the brink of despair. Some tiny portion of my mind told me that I could not sustain this terror. Told me that I must give in, relax all my willpower, surrender myself to the ultimate darkness.

In the roaring maelstrom I felt something move against me. I looked down, dazed, uncomprehending. Something pressed against my naked chest. Vaguely I made out Tiri's pale body squeezed against me. I felt her arms clasping tightly around my neck, her finger nails digging into my flesh. I felt her smooth bare back under my hands.

Even then no real comprehension hit me. The pain continued.

Delia—My Delia had been—This softly firm body in my grasp was not that of Delia. It did not fit properly, did not mold with me, was not the same. No, of course not! This was young Tiri. This was not Delia, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains. No. This trembling form was Tiri's, and she was sobbing and shaking and the flowers draped us and light returned to the world and I could see again in reality. The grisly phantasms receded, dwindled and vanished.

Hands gripped me, held me, steadied me.

A soft yellow cloth was passed over my streaming body.

The flowers were removed, light from the flame died and the samphron oil lamps beamed their mellow radiance.

I just about fell rather than descended from the altar after Tiri.

A pure white gown was flung about her. That gown was no whiter than her face. The tears were wiped from her eyes. She would not look at me. Assisted by her handmaids she was led away. I stood there like a loon, completely drained of emotion. I could still feel the hellish agony of the red-hot lances piercing my flesh, an echo of pain, as though poison seeped through me. That was nothing, now.

Delia! I had seen and I had believed and I had welcomed insanity as a refuge.

San Paynor did not smile. His thin grave face regarded me, his head a little to one side, calculating. His eyes were those of a mystic. The sudden sweet waft of flowers enveloped us.

“In the name of Cymbaro the Just, I thank you, Drajak the Sudden.”

“Is it over?”

“It is.”

“Thank Opaz for that.”

“Ah, yes. Opaz. Of Opaz we have heard. There is much in common between Cymbaro and Opaz.”

With the suddenness of a rashoon of the Eye of the World my knees gave way. I would have fallen had not Logan on one side and Duven on the other caught me under the armpits and supported me.

“You must go to the Ibserrail Chamber for a time.” He was talking about a room where the spirit might find resuscitation. I hung in the priests’ grip.

“Willingly,” I said. “And then I'd like to visit the Baths of the Nine.”

They draped a cloak about me and led my tottering feet off to the Ibserrail Chamber. Every now and then my teeth chattered and I could not stop them. That was one experience I would never, ever, voluntarily undergo again.

Just suppose—

Delia...

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Chapter eleven

They told me that Tiri, having had the knowledge of the keys vouchsafed her, must now go to a place—whose name and location they would not reveal—where she would learn to use the keys to unlock the mysticism born within her. I lay back in the warm scented water, grunted, and got on with trying to forget what had just taken place. Since my dip in the Sacred Pool my memory was such that I did not forget things, although, thankfully, some of the more horrendous evils that have tormented me I have managed if not to forget completely then to push to one side.

When at last I felt as though I could face getting on with life once more I eased out of the water, donned a long yellow toweling robe and wandered off to the saloon.

Oh, yes, by Vox. I was still the same Dray Prescot as ever was. I could still wrap the brave old scarlet breechclout about me and go swinging about Kregen in deeds of derring-do wielding a great Krozair longsword—at least, I hoped I was.

But a fellow knows when he's been through something more than usually warm.

In the saloon Sans Paynor, Logan and Duven joined me. Also the priestess who had assisted Paynor with Tiri came in, looking serene. She was Sana Lally. At least, that was what she was called now. I learned she had been the Vadni L'Lallistafuros. When we settled down to a delightful repast served by attentive acolytes, I brought up the intriguing subject of these double capital-lettered names. They weren't exactly embarrassed by the remark as reserved. Eventually, by piecing bits of information gathered there and later, I now know that just about all the great families had the double capital letter. Some still used the form; some did not. Some said it was necessary for the dignity of their house, others that the form was old fashioned and cumbersome. In one vague sense it was somewhat like using a simple v for von.

I might have guessed, by Krun! Young Tiri was, of course and naturally, really T'Tirivenswatha.

“The fashion of use comes and goes,” explained Paynor, and he smiled upon Sana Lally.

They talked upon inconsequential subjects for a time. I saw this small talk was designed to soothe me and ease me back into the real world from the nightmares that had nearly driven me insane.

Presently Logan chanced on the subject of the spate of horrible murders of young girls.

Sana Lally, a smooth-featured woman with a generous mouth, drew her eyebrows down, and lines appeared around that curved mouth.

“It is disgusting. If the City Guard do not find the killer soon, who knows what will happen?”

“The answer is plain enough.” Duven's words ripped out like the sleeting hail of crossbow bolts. His intense face was drawn, hollowed, the eyes feverish. “Dokerty. It has to be.”

“I do agree with that summation,” murmured Logan.

Paynor nodded. “They practice revolting rites, it is true. But they take place in the privacy of their temples.” He passed a hand across his brow. “Why kill young girls out in the street?”

“Because they are decadent and should be put down!” blazed Duven.

Lally sighed. “If only they could be.”

They went on discussing the murders for a time, and it was noticeable that they ate very little. Presently I ventured to change the topic of discussion.

“You are religious, and have access to arcane knowledge. Your libraries must be extensive, your records comprehensive. Also, you know far more of Oxonium and Tolindrin than do I.” I paused, not for effect—I swear!—but to take a sip of the excellent wine they had served. “I have seen a—thing—that puzzles and horrifies me.” I went on to describe the red-robed manic monstrosity. I finished: “However, I doubt if this thing is murdering these girls.”

They sat without moving, without talking, frozen. I could have tossed a freeze spell among them.

I gave my lips a tongue swipe. “If I have offended you, I apologize—”

“No, Drajak the Sudden. You have earned your nickname. It is just that...” here Paynor held a napkin to his lips.

“This thing—these things—are known.” Logan looked distressed. He took a gulp of wine. “Perhaps, San Paynor, we could show Drajak the records?”

We all looked at the priest. He deliberated with himself for some time. Eventually, very somberly, he said: “You have seen an ibmanzy, Drajak, you are certain sure?”

“If an ibmanzy is a monstrous maniacal thing clawing people—”

“Quite. Very well. Come.”

We went through the halls to a library. I say a library, for there were clearly other, ordinary libraries. Getting into this one behind its solid iron door was a rigmarole of keys held by Paynor, of bolts and bars, of literally opening up a most secure safe deposit.

Inside—! I knew that my comrade Wizards and Witch of Loh would give a very great deal to spend a few months of the Maiden with the Many Smiles in here, diligently perusing the arcane lore stored in hundreds of scrolls and enormous bronze-bound books.

“This is what we call our Black Library. It is not for those of feeble mind.”

“I believe it.”

Logan climbed the ladder to bring down the tomes indicated by Paynor. The priests together opened the vast pages and the leather binding creaked, dust and paper dust flew in a cloud. The page was smoothed out. Paynor pointed a finger, and, by Vox, that thin finger trembled.

“This?”

I looked. “Aye. That.”

There it was, on the page, drawn and illuminated in bold colors. Red robes flapping, crazed eyes bursting from its head, arms stretched aloft with raking claws, the body shown in more detail than I'd appreciated. The pictured representation showed the ribs breaking through the skin, as though some superhuman force within was bursting its way out from the fragile human body.

“That!”

They told me that everything had its spirit, its ib, and the ibma was the materialization of the ib. Aeons ago researchers had discovered ways of uniting a human with her or his ib. In the nature of things there were evil spirits within the spirit world. They waited their chance to emerge into our world. Interfering with the balance one with another could, in certain circumstances, open the doorway within a human body for the ib to emerge. No doubt in the beginning the researchers were motivated by genuine desires to improve mankind.

“But, of course,” said Paynor, “there were those who saw ends suited to their own dark purposes. A human being taken over by this horrific force, sometimes willingly, sometimes under duress, becomes more than human. Not superhuman, but an ibmanzy, the embodiment of evil breaking from a human body.”

I saw something in these words, then, and I trembled.

“Tiri? When we were bonded, and you gave Tiri the knowledge of the keys—?”

Paynor drew himself up. “Yes, Drajak. The risk was there. An ibmanzy might have seized Tiri had we failed. Had you failed.”

To think of that! Young Tiri, turned into a bloated screaming monster from hell, her lissom body being literally torn apart from within. She—rather the ibmanzy thing she had become—would have clawed and ripped and destroyed everyone until somehow or other it could in its turn be destroyed.

“I am glad you didn't tell me this before.”

“These things are secret, hidden. There have been no ibmanzies for many seasons.”

Duven in his brittle way said: “Let me show you this.” He turned pages, helped by Logan. The picture they showed me was just as dreadful as the first. The thing wore a green robe. Another page and a picture of an ibmanzy wearing a brown robe.

Lally wrinkled up her mouth. “Yes. Even an adherent of Cymbaro once fell into evil ways.”

“The reason I asked you to look at these others, Drajak, is obvious.” Duven trembled in the intensity of his purpose.

Slowly, I said: “The red robed ibmanzy. The red robes of Dokerty.”

“As Mabal and Matol rise each morning.”

No one spoke for a space.

San Paynor did not so much heave up a sigh as let out a small breath of profound regret at the follies of humanity. “If what we now suspect is true, then we can look forward only to awful dangers. What insane fool would wish to meddle with these spirits of darkness?”

Duven's mouth curled in contempt. “I can name you the top hierarchy of those blintzes of Dokerty-lovers. Any one of them or all of them together!”

They quizzed me more on my sighting of the ibmanzy, trying to establish the facts. Maybe, if some deluded fool of Dokerty was creating the monsters, then the murdered girls could have been torn to pieces by other ibmanzies. Now, that became a frightening possibility.

The tensions of these moments could not be sustained. I could feel the pressure on my skull. San Paynor, abruptly, said:

“Come. We will return to the saloon. A glass of wine.”

As we went out I commented: “All this vast wealth of knowledge. All these treasures of wisdom.” I shook my head. “All locked away.”

“Necessarily so.” Acid stung in Paynor's words.

“You are studious, yourself, Drajak?” enquired Lally.

“I like to know things.”

“Some things,” began Paynor. Then he stopped himself. Weird echoes of sententious words reverberated. I did not smile. But, by Krun, if a thing was necessary, then that thing must be known.

Something trembled up from my feet, through my legs, vibrated my backbone, shook me so that I stumbled sideways. Lally grabbed me to support herself. The ground moved.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling shuddered. The grinding sullen roar that accompanied this earth movement chilled the blood. The whole world gyrated around us.

“Earthquake!” Logan's yell was entirely unnecessary.

“Cymbaro will protect us.” Even as he spoke so calmly San Paynor tottered and fell, thrown violently off his feet.

Duven leaped to his assistance.

The whole wall fronting the room fell away in a thunderous avalanche and chunks of rubble cascaded down around our ears. A chip hit me on the thigh and a larger piece struck nastily across Duven's skull as he shielded the san.

People stumbled through the roils of dust, screaming, trying to avoid the collapse at their backs. Priests, girls, acolytes, they disappeared with awful finality as the floor opened before them.

They were swallowed up as a leem swallows a lopy.

The shaking shudderings of the whole place abruptly ceased.

Dust hung smokily on the close air, choking us, bringing stinging tears. I shook my head and stood Lally up, making sure she understood that the immediate danger was past. This was a foreshock. There might be more before the big quake. That would be followed by the aftershocks. Perhaps, I hoped, this was a mere warning, and the main earthquake would not arrive. No one could tell.

San Paynor stood up. Duven, as I had with Lally, made sure the san was in possession of his senses. Then the young priest crossed to the newly-created crevasse. He peered down.

Joining him, I too peered down through the hanging dust.

“The folk are trapped on the ledge.” Duven spoke flatly.

What he said was frightfully true. A huddle of people, those who so far had been lucky, clung together on a narrow ledge of the floor below. At their backs, the sheered side of the torn earth, reared a wall. Before them across the narrow lip of the ledge the black emptiness went on down and down and down.

Rather unhelpfully, I commented: “That looks like the entrance to the Ice Floes of Sicce down there.”

Duven did not reply.

The sheered wall offered precarious hand and foot holds. I thought that even if we climbed down safely, we'd never get those frightened people to climb that vertical face.

The whole situation was one of deadly peril. Many of the lamps had fallen; but there was ample light—light from burning curtains and furniture. The oppressiveness of the scene, the sense of being deep underground, the pressure of the rock all about, the smoke and dust, the flickering eerie lights, the shadows, threatened to overwhelm us. We could all be buried alive down here.

And the next shock might occur at any moment.

When it did those trapped people on their fragile ledge below would be tossed into eternity.

Duven threw off his robe and stood forth in a brown breech clout. He flexed his muscles. He swung himself over the edge of the chasm.

“Cymbaro the Just is with me, Drajak. So fetch a rope.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter twelve

There was absolutely no question of protocol here. Duven had acted. I must respond immediately.

Running back I shook Logan's arm. He was staring about vacantly, trembling in expectation of the next shock.

“A rope!”

He looked at me, and he didn't see me.

What of curtains there might be in this windowless space were burning, their pullcords flaring with them.

San Paynor in his firm soft voice, said: “The serving hatch from the kitchens, Drajak.”

I grasped his meaning at once and as he pointed I hared off to the undamaged wall. A small counter fronted a wooden hatch. I shoved this open viciously and, yes, there was the food lift with its rope. Wasting no time I hauled the rope in, flinging the coils back onto the floor. All the time I expected the next quake to bring everything tumbling down in final destruction about us.

I had no weapons, no knife. I bit through the rope where it was fixed to the food platform. Hauling the line abaft I raced back to the lip of the chasm. Dust still hung stingingly in the air.

Paynor was speaking to Logan in a quiet, almost cooing voice. He mentioned Cymbaro a number of times, and the love of life, and the utmost necessity of helping. There was no time to worry over that.

Looking over the lip I saw that Duven had almost reached the ledge. He descended with cautious and limited movements. I judged that he had done his share of rock climbing and knew what he was about, although just before he reached his goal he made two steps I considered risky, hanging from only one point before clamping onto a second. The situation was so desperate that I concurred with his judgment that the risk had to be taken. He was one tough bird, all right, by Krun!

Some of the trapped people were screaming, others sobbing, most were praying to Cymbaro. You could taste the stink of their fear. Duven climbed down to reach them.

Rapidly knotting a bowline on a bight I ladled the rope over the edge. “Rope below!”

Duven glanced up, his eyes white rinds. Bracing himself against the back wall he threw the loop over the nearest person, a mature priestess. He held the line, taking up the slack, and pulled her into position.

“Haul away.”

Obediently, I hauled in, knowing the poor woman was being scraped and bounced against the wall and collecting more bruises. When she came in over the top her face was beet red, tears gushed, and her robe was ripped to her waist. She fell against me. Working as fast as I could I took the loop off and payed it out again.

“Logan!” I bellowed, without turning around, supporting the priestess with my left arm. “Brassud, dom! Come and help.”

What San Paynor said to Logan I didn't know; but they both came across and took the woman away. I looked down into the chasm.

Duven yelled: “Hurry up, Drajak!”

The next was a girl who came up surprisingly lightly. Her bright black face with the cut glass features composed. “Thank you,” she said, as she pulled the loop from around her and tossed it down. She needed no help from the two sans at my back. She was a splendid example of the best of the Xuntalese women allied to her faith in Cymbaro. So, one by one, I hauled them up.

Whether or not they were being pulled to safety was entirely another matter, by Krun.

By the time there were only three priests left I began to hope that the quake had been an isolated shock. The crowd in the shambles of the saloon were quietening down. Logan had recovered from his first terrors and worked like a hero.

One more came up, then the penultimate one and the rope went down for the last.

With the bight safely around him I leaned back and hauled away and the ground shuddered like a beast in torment.

It was very necessary to spread my legs wide and to lean back and not to lose my balance and to haul like a madman.

The world vibrated all about me. People were screaming. Rubble fell and the noise hammered mercilessly. I slipped and recovered and clawed at the line and so brought the last priest inboard. Then I looked over the edge.

The ledge had vanished.

Duven was still there.

He clung to a knob projecting from the face, legs dangling. The look on his face was one of ecstatic joy.

Any second and he'd be gone, slipping down and away and vanishing in the turmoil of dust boiling in the abyss.

The reason for his heightened sensory state was obvious. He had performed a great deed in the service of Cymbaro and now he was about to die. His name would be remembered. Cymbaro would welcome him. There would be no long and painful struggle through the Ice Floes of Sicce, through the mists and the perils to the sunny uplands beyond. He would die a hero and a martyr to the dread forces of evil that lurked deep within the earth.

Well, by the disgusting diseased eyeballs and putrescent nostrils of Makki Grodno! He'd proved himself. He shouldn't have to die now. Not if I could prevent it.

I yelled at Logan and Paynor as the shocks ceased abruptly.

“Get some people! Tail onto this line!”

Give Paynor his due. He was the first. He marshaled the others and a party tailed on. Over and down I went like a grundal.

Twice the line jolted and swung down savagely as those above relaxed their grips. If those people up there let go I'd be taking a swallow dive out and down headfirst into the Ice Floes of Sicce.

When I reached him, Duven said with a twist to his lips: “You needn't have—”

“Get this bight around you, dom, sharpish.”

The old Dray Prescot intolerance must have blazed out then for he did as I'd bidden him. I had a hand over the projection; but my feet had no support. Between us, one hand each, we got the rope around him. I thought back grimly to my assessment of the risks he'd taken first climbing down here.

When we were settled, he in the bight and I with a fist clutching the line, I leaned my head back and hollered: “Haul away!”

They'd make heavy work of it, the frightened folk up there. I did not wish to contemplate sticking to the sheer face like a fly whilst they pulled Duven up and then lowered the line for me.

But—if they couldn't haul both of us, then, by Vox, that was precisely what I'd have to do.

We lurched away from the wall, swung, and then started to inch up and at that self-same instant the next shock struck.

I swear blind the wall before me danced a saraband. We were swaying and swinging, swinging and swaying, as though perched in a swinger of far off Aphrasöe.

We'd have been all right, too, for the people up there stuck bravely to their task. They did not let the rope slip.

The sense of tons of rock poised above my head ready at any instant to come tumbling down in an avalanche that would bury me for good and all gave me a most queasy feeling, most queasy, by Krun.

Duven was gripping the rope just beneath my fist and my other arm wrapped about his body. We swung out, away from the face as the world went crazy, the ground tormented by forces powerful and violent. We swung in catastrophically.

The smash as our bodies hit the rock jolted me clear and I felt my fingers slipping from the line. A desperate clutch, a heave, the harsh line tearing at my skin, a final exhausting grab—and I was clear, free, floating, spinning over and over and falling headlong into the boiling turmoil of dust in the abyss.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter thirteen

Dust choked up into my nostrils, stung my eyes half-blinding me, scoured in ribbons across my face. Over and over I went hurtling, down and down and down.

I really began to think this colossal cleft in the earth went all the way down to the center where the fiery sprites worship their demons of flame, where Imphlor'tain pours rivers of molten lead that hold Kregen's course steady among the stars they can never see.

The dust thinned at last and with streaming eyes I could see below the sullen redness nearing as I fell all askew. Getting a few breaths of dust-free air into my lungs came as a blessed relief. With the relief, fresh alarm, as the unmistakable stink of sulphur, mixed with tar, pitch, and an acrid unfamiliar stench, billowed up, making me visualize the enormity of my perilous situation.

Down below probably bubbled a lake of boiling pitch. Even if I fell into a lake of clear water, and there are plenty of those beneath the earth's crust, I'd be done for. If I hadn't already reached terminal velocity I would very soon do so. I'd smash every bone in my body.

I let rip with a ferocious roar—and out croaked a husky little voice: “Star Lords! Everoinye!”

May Opaz make them hear! I said to myself. “Star Lords! Get me out of this! Put me back on duty guarding the numim twins!”

Of reply there was none. I continued to tumble helplessly down towards the redly glowing radiance beneath.

Well, if this was the end, then this was the end.

So much for the Star Lords’ grandiose designs for me to become the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of All Paz!

When I scrunched into a bloody mess the joke would be on them.

Something fine brushed across my face. Like spider silk a strand drew tight under my nose and broke. Another filament caught at me, and another. I stopped thrashing my arms and legs about and spread them out like a star.

Whether or not this was the work of the Everoinye I did not know. They would not tell me, as was their custom, until such time as in telling me they could make a point and put me in my place.

The strands thickened. They were difficult to see except in mass, where they bunched. Down I plunged through a gathering collection of filaments, fine as gauze, streaming them back as a seed streams back its silky coverings. Was my speed slackening?

There must have been other earth shocks as I fell. Rubble tumbled from the one wall I could make out in the lurid light, the sheer rock flashing up past my ear. That debris pitched in long streams down below me, going faster than I was. I had to be slowing this crazy descent; rather, these clumping streaming strands were slowing me down, acting like a drag parachute.

Wrapped in a gossamer cloud I fell. I just hoped that would not be a gossamer shroud when I landed.

The gory glow below shone to one side. Slower I went down, slower and slower, the silken strands wrapping me and tailing away aft so that I must have looked like a comet. The redness poured up from a veritable boiling lake of lava and the heat started to stifle into the close air. Underneath my falling body the spider silk clumped thickly. I readied myself for one almighty crash. When I did touch down the end swooped up with unexpected swiftness.

Flat on my back I hit the piled fluffiness. The experience was weird, as of falling listlessly in a dream. Strands covered me everywhere and I plunged beneath them. At once I started to thrash a way back to the top. I could be suffocated in here, by Krun!

The combined downward movement and my efforts succeeded in driving me into a slanting course, through the mass, still downwards but at an angle.

Eventually, breathless, panting, slapping clinging strands away, I tumbled out onto a moss-covered slope.

I staggered up. The air shimmered redly. The piled mass of spider silk reached up a long way, between me and the lake of fire.

“Thank Opaz!” I said, and to a Herrelldrin Hell with any futile thoughts I'd been saved by the Everoinye.

As far as I could see in the direction away from the silk and the lake of fire the rocky walls stretched into a horizontal cleft. They reflected the crimson glow. The moss underfoot was a sickly pallid off-white, springy, and quite pleasant walking.

There was only one thing to do in all of Kregen. So off I set, walking resolutely along the slot in the earth, seeking ways up.

An eerie blue column of fire grew abruptly directly before me. I stopped. The blue wavered, distorted, changed shape, almost died and then grew and thickened.

I felt a great leap of hope.

This must be a friendly Wizard or Witch of Loh, come to save me!

The uncertainty of the apparition convinced me this was not Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi or Ling-Li. No, this was our apprentice sorcerer Rollo. Good old Rollo! One of these fine days he'd master completely the arcane art of going into lupu and scrying on people at great distances. I waited, somewhat impatiently, for the figure of the wizard to appear fully formed.

A face stared from the blueness, vanished, returned. That face was not that of any of my friends.

The eyes were closed. The nose was sharp, the mouth thin, and deep lines of concentration furrowed his brows. This, then, was a Wizard of Loh whose powers were not fully developed. That he was a Wizard of Loh I did not doubt, quite apart from the red hair hanging untidily from beneath a flat crooked cap.

He opened his eyes.

He gazed upon the scene all about, at the redness, the caverns, the piled mass of spider silk—and at me. A look of absolute horror crossed that disembodied countenance.

The thin mouth opened and words must have spilled out; they were quite inaudible. He had not yet learned the art of speaking when in lupu. I said: “Who are you, san?”

By his reaction he could not hear me. He looked about him in terror, eyes wide.

Then he vanished.

“Well,” I said to myself, “and bad cess to you, too, dom.”

So, on again I went, walking stoutly along from cavern to cavern. Any second now I expected to meet the creators of that silken mass. Spiders, like as not, giant spiders, all legs and stings and eyes on stalks. And here I was, the so-called puissant Dray Prescot, clad only in a brown breechclout, the yellow robe long since gone, and not a steel weapon to my name.

Light from the lake of fire gradually faded as I advanced, to be replaced by the pervading radiance of the lichen clothing the walls. Dimpy had told me of this phenomenon and I was greatly pleased to have it. Yes, it is true the Star Lords enhanced my night vision so that I can see remarkably well in the dark; all the same, a little light does wonders for a fellow's morale in spots like this.

Twice I saw small scuttling creatures that skidded off at top speed the moment they were aware of my presence. I walk silently. Whenever a choice of direction presented itself I went up. Two or three times I came to dead ends and had to backtrack; but slowly I made my way along the crevices in the earth going steadily up towards the surface. There was the problem of just which surface that would be. I could come out onto a runnel; I could be climbing up inside a hill. Djan knew, they were riddled with holes like cheese.

Some of the passageways were narrow, damned narrow, by Krun, and I had a bit of a squeeze from time to time.

Anyway, just who the hell was that incompetent Wizard of Loh?

He'd been intending to spy on somebody. Instead, he'd wound up having a look at me in my predicament. Just what was he up to?

There was absolutely no use in expecting my own comrade sorcerers to pay me a visit. They were eternally busy, never having enough burs in one day to do all that they considered had to be done. We were fortunate that they were our comrades, and deigned to assist us from time to time.

A shape lumbered from behind a fallen boulder.

I stopped. The thing looked like a skinned ape, having two muscular arms and two stunted legs. White bone coverings obscured its eyes. Sinuous tendrils sprouted from its forehead, turning, searching, locating, finding—me.

Its clawed hands were busily stuffing the remains of a small creature, similar to those who had run from me, into a gappy and fang-filled mouth. With a last convulsive swallow the poor little beastie went down at a gulp. The skinned ape turned its attention to its next meal.

It stood perhaps a hand's breadth taller than me. It looked compact and muscular. That it was blind meant nothing down here; once it fastened those hooks into me, he'd have me, so all his previous experience told him. I stood motionlessly.

The silence was broken only by the thing's heavy breathing, by the pad of its feet on the ground as it shuffled forward. The moment he leaped...

When he surged forward with arms outstretched and claws extended to rip and rend, I swayed sideways. Instantly, he followed my movement. Snapping back the other way I laid a knobbly fist alongside his head, scrunching into his ear, and then dived on and flat.

He wasn't fazed in the slightest. As I jumped up, the stench of him fouling my nostrils, he drove in again. This time I hit him harder. He shook his head, no doubt puzzled.

He did stink, too, rotten. This time I kicked him betwixt wind and water. I had no desire to kill him. After all, like the scorpion, he was only doing what he was created to do.

Blind though he was, he was damned quick. So I leaped in, avoided the flailing claw-armed hands, and grabbed his tentacles.

All the time he had made no sound apart from his breathing. Now he let out a keening whine, most distressing, as I yanked savagely.

Gripping and twisting his tentacles, inside the reach of his arms, I laid into him, kicking him repeatedly. His screech shrilled higher in agony. Oh, yes, by Vox, I felt sorry for him. I kicked him good and hard and then with my left hand dragging his head forward by the tentacles I gave him a cracking blow on the jaw with a right. He went down, thump, and as I released him rolled over and so lay still. I stared down at him, impassively. He'd recover.

Shaking my shoulders, I walked on.

By the time I reached clear signs of the handiwork of people my insides were like the money-pouch of a fingerless pickpocket.

I gave a sigh of relief as I saw the palisade across the tunnel. The next step would have been to capture one of the creatures living down here and eaten the little fellow. I examined the barricade.

Clearly it was meant to stop people from going down into the depths from which I'd walked. When I'd taken down enough to allow me to pass through, I carefully re-erected it. Then I went on.

The exit was only a few paces on. I stepped out into the familiar dimness of the warrens. I was at the end of a side street where already the torches were being lit. The torch lighter looked at me in amazement, mouth open and light held high.

“What? Where'd you come from, dom?”

“Oh,” I said, off handedly. “I just dropped in.”

He'd lost most of his front teeth, so he splashed and mumbled when he talked. He was a slave. I decided to put a hangdog look on my face, and hold my head down, and with the brown breechclout pass along as a slave. I obviously had no weapon, and no money, either. That, I felt, would be the safest course to prevent being jumped and unnecessary aggro of that nature.

He was still staring after me and scratching his head as I shambled on. One of the lesser Moons of Kregen shot past in the evening sky, in view for a short time only between hill and hill.

I stopped and turned. “Oh, dom, whereaway is this?”

“Ravelstan Street. You'd better watch out. The Alley Leems are out tonight, hunting.”

“My thanks. ‘beree.”

He mumbled and I walked along the unlighted side of Ravelstan Street. People were about, doing what they did down here. Then I made another decision, a more delightful one this time.

Dimpy's address was not far, a couple of warrens away. I'd go and see what the young Imp of Sicce was up to. Anyway, I ought to put my outsides around some food to stop my insides complaining.

Nothing was to be seen of any trouble being caused by the Alley Leems gang. They all had their rackets. Some of the more lurid establishments were opening for the night, lanterns shining invitingly over tawdry porticoes. The young bloods from the hills would be down, indulging in what they fondly imagined to be the height of decadence. No doubt the usual couple or so would be hit over the head and robbed. They'd have their private guards. It all added to their conception of fun.

Sentries from the Hellraisers stood alertly at the crossroads that marked the beginning of their territory this side. No doubt they'd heard the Alley Leems were looking for trouble. As a slave I just shambled through and no one took any notice.

I'd expected to have to ask for Dimpy's house. I did not.

There was no mistaking what was going on. Dimpy stood in front of the sagging door to his hovel, a whole braxter in one hand and a broken one in the other. Facing him a yelling, taunting crowd of young hooligans were working themselves up to rush him and overpower him. From the windows the faces of two young girls and their mother stared in terror upon the scene and what was about to happen.

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Chapter fourteen

“The Watch! The Watch! Run! Run!”

The bellow burst over all the noise of the mob. Then, in an even louder roar: “Run! Katakis!”

That old foretop hailing voice struck immediate terror into the young hooligans. For a single moment only they stood, petrified, suddenly silent. They all knew that the infamous City Watch rarely interfered with big gang fights. In a small local disturbance like this, a petty rumble, the Katakis would come leaping in like leems, arresting anyone who looked likely. They'd be out for slaves. There'd be a nice profit to be turned here.

Again I yelled, running up and waving my arms.

“Run, you famblys! The Kataki Watch!”

That did it. Like a bunch of terrified ponshos as the werstings close in, they turned and ran. They ran in a helter-skelter bunch away from Dimpy's house.

Crossing swiftly to him I snapped out: “You're not safe here, Dimpy, that's obvious. You'll have to—”

“Drajak!” He gasped it out in shocked amazement.

“Aye,” I said. “We've got to get your family out of this.”

“But—but where'd you come from—?”

“No time for that.”

The noise of the hooligan mob was not decreasing. Rather, the shouts were coming back again. In the forefront of the canaille the boy who'd so basely tricked Dimpy with the sword had been urging them on. Now, in the uncertain light of torches, here he ran again, charging back up the street, waving his arms. The mob followed.

“Inside.” I grabbed Dimpy and fairly hurled him in through his open front door, back-heeling it shut after us.

The girls were clasping each other. They were not screaming. His mother, pale, worried, stared at me in apprehension.

From the windows we could see the mob, led by the trickster, haring back up the street. They ran gasping, with open mouths and staring eyes. Following them in full cry chased the Kataki-led Watch. Cudgels rose and fell. Some of the hooligans dodged, yelling; others fell with bleeding heads.

And I, Dray Prescot, laughed.

I'd chased them off with a false cry of the Watch, and they'd run slap bang into the real Watch out for blood and slaves.

I relished the joke.

“Sleed the Slick.” Dimpy sounded angry and contemptuous. “I hope the Watch take him.”

Now in the normal course of events in a situation like this one could go into a police station and request assistance. Down here with the Watch, a gang of little better than masichieri led by Katakis notorious for their hunger for human bodies to be collected up as slaves, such an open course would be disastrous. All the same, I had to get myself and Dimpy and his family up aloft out of this.

The pursuers and the fleeing disappeared off into the dimness along the street. Dimpy's mother said: “I do hope—” She put a hand to her forehead. “This is all so—so dreadful.”

“It'll be all right, mother.” Dimpy turned to his sisters. “Did you see Big Balla?”

They shook their heads—no.

I said: “Perhaps you'd care to introduce me, Dimpy.” By this I hoped to restore some normalcy to a fraught situation.

“Of course.” His mother was called Velda, the two girls were Samphron and Melly. They all bore the marks of living down in the warrens where existence was a daily struggle. They shared Dimpy's independent toughness, his resilience, his—not to put too fine a point on it—his bloody-mindedness. I liked them at sight.

“We can't stay here now.” Velda sighed, I guessed, at having to leave what, however ramshackle it might be, was her home.

Some vague kind of plan was already forming in my old vosk skull of a head. I nodded and told them to gather up what possessions they valued and could carry. With a careful survey of the street, carrying bundles, we slunk out. They turned for a last look back; then we set off.

“Once that tanzy Sleed shakes off the Watch, he'll be back.” Dimpy's voice was ice cold. “I just hope they take him.”

I wanted to know if they had anywhere they could hide and be safe for half a day. They were uncertain. Since the Hellraisers had taken over Roaring Fifties territory everything had changed. Their old friends had either died, been killed or had disappeared.

Now how the blue blazes was I going to get this parcel of folk up out of it?

If they could be stashed away somewhere safe, fine, I'd get myself aloft and get a lifter to come back for them. As it now appeared they had nowhere to go, that simple plan was squashed on the head.

The evening was gathering momentum, with people moving about, stalls with flaring torches and shouting barkers at every vantage point, places of entertainment gearing themselves for the night's first performances. The noise was bearable, even with occasional odd echoes bouncing off the sides of the hills. If fights erupted, they'd be personal. The gangs were not out tonight—yet.

Dimpy was not dressed in the decent clothes given him from Princess Nandisha's bounty; he wore a shabby old tunic. The ladies of his family wore the dress common down here, scooped as to neck and plain as to hem, in materials woven to give pretty patterns—flowers, birds, animals. They looked what they were, common folk from the warrens.

Among the throngs now out for the evening there would be eyes searching for Dimpy and his family.

My vague plan jumped a notch as I spied the place I needed. It didn't matter to me what kind of decadent entertainment was being offered here, just as long as it attracted the clientele I required.

The front was built out of stone from the cliffs but you were left in no doubt as to the amphitheater's capacity by flaring notices proclaiming the fact it was cut back into the earth. At the left side a narrow alley led back, on the right a wider road was obviously provided to afford access to carts. One such cart ground past now. We shrank back. The cage contained a muzzilla, all hair and fangs and claws, with a whiplash tail. The promoters of the fight might strap a dagger to that tail, if the muzzilla had been trained in its use. They were cantankerous beasties at the best of times.

Lanterns swinging on poles heralded the arrival of a party of young bloods. Their morals were none of my business. If they fancied that venturing down here, well guarded, of course, to witness a wild animal contest was adventure, then they were welcome to that, the famblys.

Jewels glittered and glistened from sumptuous clothes. Faces shone in the lights with gluttonous expectations. Lace handkerchiefs were waved in airy gestures, strong scents battling the various and dubious aromas pervasive on the air. Oh, yes, by Krun, they were a right dandified bunch. In they went to their play.

“Down here.” I led my party into the narrow left-hand alley. The ladies were bearing up in a wonderful way. I found a niche for them at the end, against the face of the cliff, and told Dimpy, in most stern and measured tones, to stay on guard. He nodded, started to speak, changed his mind, and nodded again.

Then I took myself off to pluck my chicken.

In my present condition, naked save for a brown breechclout, I'd never be let into Nalimer's Iridescent Faerling, even if I had the money to pay the entrance. The proprietor, Nalimer, hired plug-uglies to stand on the door and throw out people like me.

The uncomfortable feeling was that my friends in the alley were more than likely in for a long wait.

Now down here in the gullies life might be red raw and gang-ruled; the fact remained these were real people. I couldn't just hit somebody at random over the head and steal his clothes and money. That antisocial and criminal activity might suit a fairy story or an improbable romance, it did not suit me. Maybe at times in the past something like that had happened; then I was young and new to Kregen, hot-headed and intemperate, and desperately put upon by the Star Lords and various slavers of several evil kinds.

Mind you, by Krun, if I ran across a Kataki...!

The dandies allowed their guards in to see the show. They'd have high seating at the back, to be sure; but they'd be in and part of it all. One has to keep one's guards happy, you know.

When the noise burst up in crescendos of beast roars the fight had begun. Idly I wondered what the muzzilla was fighting. A couple of beautifully-dressed men came out to visit the house at the side and a single look told me they'd be useless. I didn't like the cut of their jibs one little bit. Eventually a fellow came out and I decided that this was it, now or never. He was a cadade, kitted properly in armor, wearing swords, a Hytak.

One can tell a great deal about an employer by the condition of his guards and particularly his guard captain.

“Llahal, dom,” I said politely, standing beside him. “I'm in a spot of difficulty.” I spoke precisely, hardly, as a noble would speak—not as a slave or commoner. He was attentive at once.

I explained that I'd been down to buy servants, had concluded the deal, and had then been hit on the head and robbed of everything. The servants remained with me. I wanted to know if he thought his employer could guarantee me safe passage aloft, as, in my present condition the Katakis would—”

“Aye, dom. They would, the blintzes.”

He gave me a good hard stare under a lantern. I returned his gaze, hard, unyielding, but not unfriendly. He seemed satisfied. He was Jiktar Zonder ti Rannellden. He had the pakmort at his throat.

He seemed in no hurry to return. Taking a chance I commented on the beast fight. His remarks were choice. He found the spectacle degrading and disgusting. Before I gave him my name I needed to know who he worked for. This turned out to be a Strom Logan. I'd not heard of him. Clearly I as yet didn't know all the nobility of Oxonium, let alone Tolindrin.

“Drajak the Sudden. I work for Princess Nandisha.”

I held my breath. But he smiled. “Old Ranaj, eh? He's a bonny lad in a fight, by Hartagas the Marvel.”

So, that was all right, then.

Jiktar Zonder had heard of Nandisha's troubles. He confided in me that Strom Logan had all along supported Tom. He'd be glad when the coronation was over and out of the way. We talked about the ghastly murders of young girls. Without any embarrassment at all I touched him for a silver or two to buy some food and a wet at a stall under its swaying lanterns. I was famished. When Zonder went back into the amphitheater to resume his duty I took the food round into the alley and we had ourselves a little feast. I reassured my new friends that everything was going well and a little more patience and we'd be off and out of it.

“And then what, Drajak?” sighed Velda. “What will happen to us on the hills?”

“Oh,” I said, firmly. “Don't worry over that. I've plans you can't dream of.” Dimpy gave me a quick almost hostile stare. I wasn't yet going to tell him that Esser Rarioch was where they were bound for.

This section showed no signs of the earthquake, although Zonder mentioned that there had been damage on Grand Central. I concluded that the quake shocks had not been succeeded by the big one, for if they had I would probably not have still been around in the land of the living. I just hoped my friends up there were all right. The numim twins most certainly were; the Star Lords would have had something to say otherwise, by Vox!

After that everything went off without a hitch. Strom Logan turned out to be a portly Hytak, an old paktun who'd served his time and saved his money and been rewarded with a small stromnate. Soberly dressed, he was accompanied by a couple of dandies for whom he had the same politeness as he showed my party. The young bloods were up from Laconden and in his care, to be shown the sights. We went up in the basket from the watch tower, hoisted to the waiting cable car. Whisked through the clean upper air under the stars we went our separate ways with my thanks and promise to repay Zonder.

As I had expected, there was surprise in Nandisha's palace that I was still alive. I'd fallen into the bowels of Kregen and the devil fires had swallowed me. That was swiftly sorted. I was not tired enough to miss what the news in the palace was.

Ranaj, on my solemn promise that Dimpy's family would be gone in the morning, found them sleeping quarters. Fweygo just stared daggers at me. Nothing, I gathered, had been heard from the Everoinye.

We sat to a proper meal before we slept.

Ranaj said: “Whilst you have been away, Drajak, we have had a visitor.” He brushed his golden whiskers. “Rather, a visitation.”

“Oh?”

Fweygo said: “A damned sorcerer. Probing and prying about the palace. Scared the princess and the children half out of their wits.”

“Yes.” Ranaj looked wrought up. “A damned weasel-faced fellow, sharp-nosed, thin-lipped. Red hair. Blue lights all about him enough to bring out any honest man in goose-pimples.”

Fweygo finished: “A spying Wizard of Loh!”

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Chapter fifteen

“And will Drajak make us slaves?” Samphron gave a decisive jut of her rounded chin. “If he does I shall kill myself first.”

“Oh, don't be silly!” said her twin.

“You're going to a land where they don't allow slaves.”

Dimpy laughed. “There's no such place in all the world.”

Very drily, Fweygo cut in. “There is. It's called Vallia.”

“Never heard of it!” quoth Melly defiantly.

“The first thing you two misses will do in Vallia is go to school. Reading, Writing and Arithmetic.”

“Oh!” in a chorus.

“And geography.”

When I spoke to Dimpy about his plans I already half-guessed what his answer would be. Much though he longed to be with his family, the thought of Tiri obsessed him. I gave him absolute assurances that his family would be safe, well-cared for and happy. He elected to stay in Nandisha's palace, working for Ranaj.

“After,” he said in his truculent way, “I've been to Cymbaro's temple and seen Tiri.”

“What's left of it,” I grunted. “And Tiri's gone away.”

I didn't tell him I thought the young madam had gone to Farinsee because I wasn't positively sure. It was most likely.

So that all turned out well. Without revealing who I was, arrangements were made by the Vallian Ambassador. There was a tearful farewell. The remberees were called as the Vallian voller lifted off. It was quick and sudden, a clean break, which was absolutely the best thing. Then, with Dimpy, I went off to Cymbaro's temple. Duven was not there. I'd wanted to congratulate him on his actions. Workmen were already trying to make sense out of the mess. The giant cleft in the ground had closed in the subsequent shock. The temple would be rebuilt. San Paynor was positive on that point.

When I mentioned the mysterious Wizard of Loh he looked grave but had no information.

The interrupting noise of banging workmen hammering and smashing away distracted the conversation. Workmen love to make a hideous noise. I don't doubt they're all deaf in no time. Have you noticed how workmen on a building site always shout at one another? It makes trying to work extremely difficult. By the disgusting dangling eyeballs and lacerated liver of Makki Grodno! Wouldn't it be wonderful if workmen were issued with rubber hammers to do their banging with!

Collecting my gear, which had been saved, I bid remberee and Dimpy and I took ourselves off.

We stopped off on the way back at a little corner shop for refreshment. Naturally enough, and there is probably no need to mention it, with a voller flying direct to Esser Rarioch I'd taken the opportunity to write letters. One of them requested one of our resident Wizards of Loh to contact me as soon as possible.

Watching the busy bustle all about I was once again struck by the vivid contrast between here and down there. There was bustle down there, all right; the differences remained startling.

Naturally enough the twin topics of discussion were the earthquake and the coronation. One affected the other. Oh, yes! Many people were openly saying that the quake was a bad omen. Should not prince Tom delay his crowning? In a religious community the wills of the various gods are considered to be expressed by forceful happenings. Natural disasters have to have an origin, surely? And who else but the gods possess the powers?

Sorcerers?

Don't make us laugh! the folk would scoff. That's why the old king practically banned wizards from the kingdom.

As you will readily appreciate, the earthquake had a profound and immediate effect on the course of history in the making, and of my plans in particular. Any delay in the coronation, I believed, meant continuing peril for Princess Nandisha. That, in turn, meant the numim twins remained in danger. And, by the pelvic monstrosity of the Divine Lady of Belschutz, that meant I had to lollygag around in Balintol instead of shooting off home to Esser Rarioch and to Delia.

As if to point up the somberness of my expectations, a nasty brawl broke out along the road before us. Many people had come into the city for the coronation and Oxonium was bursting at the seams. Cudgels rose and fell. Women screamed and stumbled away.

Dimpy half-rose. I put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back into his seat.

“Let ‘em get on with it, the hulus.”

Differently colored and stylized badges marked the combatants. What they were brawling about could be anything. It was no business of mine. At the moment, unfortunately, at the behest of the Everoinye, Fweygo and I had to look out for the numim twins. That was my business. So I'd better get back to the palace and get on with it.

Naturally, as this was taking place on Kregen, it wasn't as easy as that.

The brawl spread. Half a dozen struggling men sprawled across the ground before us and another battling group crashed into the pile. They were all yelling blue bloody murder and calling on their respective gods and goddesses and patrons. The tumbled mass hit our table, upended it, and bore Dimpy and me over backwards.

Makki Grodno's blessed name escaped my lips as I struck out and fought for air and space. Dimpy's fist hit a squat nose which burst and sprayed claret. I chucked a polsim away, staggered up and brushed off a Fristle who was trying to bite my legs.

My fist gripped under Dimpy's armpit and, struggling like a newborn Wersting, he was hoicked up out of the ruck.

“Come on, Dimpy. Let's get out of this!”

We span about, ready to run, and a damned great Rapa, his feathers all bristling, jumped in front of us from nowhere and hit me over the head with a monstrous great wooden billy.

I let out a yell—by Krun, I yelled!—and staggered back and tripped over an unconscious form on the ground. Dimpy fell all asprawl on top of me. I caught a frenzied glimpse of the Rapa lifting his club to smash Dimpy in the back of the head.

There was just time to haul Dimpy out of the way and so make this cramph of a Rapa miss with his savage blow. There was a familiar feeling of wetness on my forehead. Lumbering up as the billy swung for another blow I slid the descending strike. The wood was hard and polished with much usage and it slipped easily away off my right arm. I reached out and took the Rapa's scraggy vulture neck in my left fist. I clenched my fingers and thumb. I shook him.

His beady eyes popped and his beak clacked up and down like a pair of fool's clappers. I shook him some more, hit him between the eyes, and so threw him away. I was, as you will perceive, a trifle wrought up.

Dimpy screeched: “Look out!”

I ducked.

The flung knife went zzinngg! past my head.

Another Rapa charged at me. He was bigger, uglier and altogether more unpleasant than his comrade with whom I had just passed a few fraught moments. He tore out his sword, a slikker, and bore in with every intention of skewering my guts.

The petty brawl had, on a sudden, turned deadly.

Dimpy yelped out: “Come on, Drajak. Let's go!”

I wasn't prepared to turn my back on this rast so I didn't bother to reply. The slikker, halfway between a shortsword and a braxter, was held in a fighting grip and the Rapa was clearly skilled in its use. My reluctance vanished and I unsheathed a braxter and put up my blade.

The noise of the brawl all about spiraled, as it were, into another dimension. The stinks, the noise, all vanished into a single all-encompassing concentration upon the Rapa's eyes and sword.

All the same, fine though that is in swordsmen's jargon, I remained Dray Prescot, a cunning old leem-hunter, a fellow who's had more fights—to his shame—than most. So, centering my attention on the Rapa and the fight to hand, I still had a wary eye open for anyone else likely to jump me. It is a knack, and it keeps one alive.

The Rapa was good, a solid fighting man, and I determined, however base he might be, not to slay him. We foined, I did this and that, sent him one way, flicked his slikker out of his hand into the air where it span and glinted in the light of the suns, and put the braxter's hilt into his beak.

He fell down.

“Now you've had your fun, Drajak, will you come on!” The clear young voice was sharp above the clamor.

I scabbarded the unbloodied sword. I walked stiff-legged over to the young imp. I glared into his eyes.

“Fighting is not fun, Dimpy, not fun at all.”

“Well, you could have fooled me.”

Cheeky young scamp!

The idiots were still hard at it as we left, still yelling for their gods and goddesses and patrons, knocking hell out of one another.

By the time we'd reached the cable car terminus the City Guard were descending on the brawl in force. Putting all that nonsense out of my head, once again I mused on the people festering in the warrens below as the calimer passed so grandly by high above. There was time as we sailed along suspended from the cable over thin air to ponder on what had transpired over the past few days. The great nobles in contention had not given up their hopes of placing the crown upon their own heads. Those poor folk down in the canyons below were being used as mere pawns in the game. Prince Ortyg had his olive-green clad bully-boys. Khon the Mak would be busily at work recruiting for the showdown to come. All Oxonium, all Tolindrin, could run red with blood.

The car jounced into its retaining guides and we alighted. There was another call to make before I could get back to the numim twins and try to explain it all to Fweygo.

At least Fweygo supplied funds. A careful choice had to be made between one wine and another, for in our conversation Zonder had mentioned in passing that his favorite wine was Xalanx, a perfumed vintage out of Xuntal. Finding a satisfactory vendor I purchased a case of a dozen, hired a porter, and sallied off to Strom Logan's villa.

In his comfortable quarters beside the guardhouse in Logan's relatively modest residence, I said to Zonder: “Yes, I was badly robbed on the road and lost my pakzhan. Employment with Ranaj was most welcome, as you will understand. Replacement is most difficult.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who's he?” demanded Dimpy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nudged Dimpy.

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

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

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

“Onkers,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When we see—” I began.

Dimpy yelped and pointed. “Look!”

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

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

The workmen's annoying uproar stopped as though guillotined.

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

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

Dimpy still stood, rigid, pointing.

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

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

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

But it was real.

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

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

But it was real.

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

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

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

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Chapter sixteen

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

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

No one doubted it was the work of sorcery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The murders in Oxonium had begun again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep out of it, Rolan!” I shrieked.

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

The fight blossomed into a red roaring insanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fristle saw that and charged me, scimitar glittering.

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

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

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

“Now you are dead, apim!”

I ducked and surged forward. Our bodies collided with a thud and before he could recover I clouted him across his hairy jaw.

Before I could chase after either his kunsan or my rapier a Rapa slashed at me with his sword and I had to skip and jump. Facing him I got myself in front of Rolan who was just reaching down to pluck his dagger from the eye of the man he'd just downed.

My right hand was numb.

With my left I drew the main gauche and fronted the damned Beaky. He laughed his peculiar Rapa cackle and charged in and I had to swerve and thrust the left hand dagger into him as he went past.

The confounded onker took the dagger with him embedded in his feathered body.

After that everything becomes a blur. Scarlet flashes of faces, of blood, of wretches falling away with their arms ripped off, their faces smashed in, of wights doubling up in agony, flashes that bring some memory of that horrific fight.

I really thought we were all done for.

In the end it was with the wonder of a snow filled morning unexpectedly seen from the window that I saw crossbow bolts sizzling past us. The quarrels dug their cruel steel heads into the bodies of the assassins—and very few of them there were left, by Krun!

Nandisha's guards trampled in and the stikitches, what was left of them, scrambled the lifter up and away through the hole she'd made in the glass roof. Crossbow bolts followed them.

“Well,” snapped Ranaj, crossly. “What a mess!”

“Aye,” said Fweygo in his calm fashion. “You have to give credit to that blintz Prince Ortyg for trying.”

There was no doubt this was the handiwork of Ortyg—the commanding cramph in the bows of the lifter was recognized as one Nath ti Fangenun, by his insignia holding the rank of Jiktar. He had recently been taken on by Ortyg. Ranaj's sources of information were positive on that point.

“So why send a man in command we would know?” demanded Ranaj.

“The little fool must be getting desperate,” said Nandisha, her children clinging to her skirts. “I do not like this turn of events one little bit.” She was badly shaken.

Ranaj stroked his golden whiskers. “We shall double the guard on a permanent basis, princess.”

As for me, I brooded on the miserable quality of Tolindrin steel. As you know, during all my hectic career on Kregen I had never depended on one single favorite—and named—weapon to the exclusion of all others. A veteran fighting man will use any weapons that come to hand. As an example, young Tiri's handbag had dealt a doughty blow in combat. No. I'd have to get Ambassador Larghos Invordun to send to Vallia for a proper fighting man's sword. A great Krozair longsword in my fist—aye, by Zair! That would make a few eyes water!

Of course, really and truly, if I was honest, I'd have to admit that the fault lay with me. I just hit too damned hard.

During the course of the day Ranaj hired on a wersting pack. Their controller was Hikdar Nalan C'Cardieth, whose last employer had embarked upon a hazardous overseas holy pilgrimage to the birthplace of Benga Prodacta, one of the patron saints of sandal makers. He gave the Hikdar a glowing reference. We were very quickly left in no doubt that C'Cardieth was enormously proud of his double-initialed name, as a cadet branch of a famous family. Fweygo and I did not tease him on that score.

Anyway, his pack of werstings were a most ferocious bunch. The four-legged black and white striped hunting dogs, vicious, always in turmoil, should prove a most efficacious deterrent to further assassination attempts. These animals were dogs, yet I knew that, like the hyenas of Earth, they were born with fangs, and the moment their caul was licked clean by their mother they'd fight savagely amongst themselves for subsequent supremacy among their fellows. I was glad Hikdar Nalan and his assistants kept the animals on strong leashes.

The very next morning as ever was another murder was reported. Tansi the Lily had had her throat cut and been disemboweled on the steps of the somber Temple to the red god of blood—Dokerty.

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Chapter seventeen

That day Naghan Raerdu sent word that the body of an ordinary man had been stumbled upon in the gutter perhaps half a hundred paces from the house where the ibmanzy had caused such confusion. The fellow was thin to the point of emaciation, as though the life had been drained out of him. He wore a red robe. Pieces of skin were dislodged from his fingernails, and he was smeared in blood.

Down in the warrens where life in the favelas was cheap no one took much notice of another dead body in the gutter. The Watch had him taken up. He'd probably end in the crematorium where the ovens disposed of corpses properly, under strict supervision. There was little room for burial grounds down in the canyons and the poor folk could not afford to avail themselves of the cemeteries outside the city.

No one claimed him before the funeral service. It was certain sure no one would claim his ashes.

He was, I felt convinced, the poor devil who'd been turned into the ibmanzy.

Also on that day the familiar blue radiance formed as I practiced alone in the salle d'armes. A face looked out from the blueness. This was not the face of Deb-Lu nor yet of Khe-Hi. It was not, and for this I was profoundly grateful, it was not the face of the fumbling sorcerer recently imported by Khon the Mak.

There was little color in the features, save for the scarlet mouth. The hair was red, as any self-respecting wizard from Loh should have. Blue were the eyes in that sculptured face, formed as though by the hand of a master craftsman from the ivory of Chem, firm of rounded chin, with not a single trace of sagging skin anywhere. The scarlet mouth widened and now that was not a mere movement of the lips but a genuine smile, warm and affectionate.

“Ling-Li!” I said. “Lahal!”

“Lahal, Dray. Everyone is so busy these days; but we are anxious to do all we can whilst you—ah—potter about here in Balintol.”

I felt my lips start to rick into a grimace, and so stopped that betrayal to what I had to do here.

“There's a new damned Wizard of Loh poking and prying about in Oxonium.” I went on to tell her what had happened and she promised to make immediate enquiries. The Wizards and Witches of Loh like to keep track on what their associates are up to.

I asked after her husband, Khe-Hi, and the children and she gave me the latest news on the folk at Esser Rarioch that I so hungered to learn. Delia was off somewhere, and I knew she was, as was I, about the business of the Star Lords.

Just before we parted, I mentioned casually: “Oh, and, Ling-Li, you might let Deb-Lu know I found an object of antiquity that should interest him. It's a trident engraved with the old signs and language of Loh. I—”

She interrupted. “You have it?”

“Nope. It was left lying about when we had trouble with that blasted ibmanzy.”

She pursed those red lips. “Deb-Lu will be interested, yes, and cross because you lost it, Dray.”

“It was very old and I was busy and I didn't give another thought to it.”

Among the information she gave was the satisfying fact that Dimpy's mother Velda and his sisters were safely in Valkanium. A letter would follow. Among many of the cultures of Kregen where there are people who cannot read or write a somewhat more subtle system of making one's mark at the foot of the paper against your name written by the scribe is in being. Signet rings which, instead of being impressed in a wax seal, are smeared with ink and then stamped alongside the written name. There are millions of different identification rings, called queyfors, and whilst forgery is a fine art on Kregen, the system does give some guarantees.

Dimpy would recognize the mark made by his mother's queyfor.

The various knocks and cuts I'd been taking recently all cleared up with the miraculous speed conferred by my dips in the Sacred Pool of far Aphrasöe. Mother Firben, clicking that needle-sharp tongue of hers, had rubbed garlic into the wounds, a sure preventative of gangrene. Mind you, if I'd had decent weapons in my fists I might not have been so easily cut up, by Krun.

As Princess Nandisha told me, briskly, she was pleased I was healing. She wanted Fweygo and me near her with Ranaj, and she was not too enamored of plug-uglies with unhealed wounds in her vicinity.

This was as we set off for the palace of the Kings of Tolindrin. Apparently there was some argument among the priests connected with the earthquake of unhappy memory. Just about everyone went. Ranaj did not intend to leave any of his charges as hostages to fortune. Hikdar Nalan C'Cardieth and his pack of snarling werstings preceded us through the streets. I, for one, was glad they were there and on our side. Too right, by Krun!

When I discovered the reason for this conclave I lost a great deal of interest in the proceedings. Instead, I took note of the people gathered here, in a sizeable chamber of Tom's palace. The debate, hotly contested with much rhetoric and waving of arms, consisted of the chief priests of Tolaar and Dokerty claiming the right to crown Tom king. It was generally conceded that the earthquake was a direct reproof, a sure sign that the priests of Cymbaro were unfit to place the crown on Tom's head. Some went so far as to suggest that no one of Cymbaro should be anywhere near the coronation.

On the way we passed two mobs, all shrieking and waving cudgels and throwing brickbats. One gang shrilled abuse outside the Temple of Dokerty, accusing the red-robed priests of committing the series of horrific murders. The other gang was yelling outside the Temple of Tolaar. Among them, I suspected, were very many agitators paid by the Dokerty hierarchy to draw attention away from themselves.

Now, in the meeting, San Volar, with some pretensions to authority as the chief priest of the largest religion, suggested in his languid way that perhaps Dokerty, too, was not fit to conduct the ceremony. The chief priest of Dokerty—a large, almost bloated man, with the flushed face and breaking veins of one who indulges too freely in the good things of life—violently objected. He was clad in a red robe from neck to feet. His shoes were red. His hat was red. He was all red.

“I categorically deny that these murders are anything to do with Dokerty!” He was passionate, wrought up, seeming ready to burst into flames.

“Everything, San Cronal, points to the opposite.” San Volar spoke in his quiet, lisping way, vastly enjoying making this huge red-bloated fellow squirm.

There were a few other priests there, representing some of the minor cults. They appeared a timid bunch, seeking only to secure a small place for themselves in the rituals.

A single look at Khon the Mak's entourage told me that my engaging sparring-partner, Dagert of Paylen, a most rascally gentleman, was not in attendance. Khon the Mak and Prince Ortyg spent the time glaring daggers one at the other.

With red jowls all aquiver: “My name, San Volar, as you very well know, is San C'Cronal.”

Tom, sitting tiredly in a chair overseeing this quarrelsome gathering, raised a hand for silence. He tried to calm them down and to apportion certain parts of the ceremonies to various religions. I stopped listening and took stock of these great ones of the land, with their entourages backing them, as we backed Nandisha. Our werstings, of course, had been left outside, and as others had their own packs of savage dogs the leashes would be severely strained.

With San Paynor and the Cymbaro delegation I was surprised and pleased to see San Duven. He looked fit, slightly tanned from his travels, very upright. The way the meeting was arranged, with the principals in a circle around Tom and we supporters to the rear, meant I had only occasional glimpses of everyone. Hyr Kov Brannomar, after Tom the most powerful man in the kingdom, said very little. He knew I was Dray Prescot. He gave me a look when he spotted me among the crowd, a raised eyebrow, a half-smile, and then a turn away.

The wrangling went on. I shifted my feet, bored to tears. In that, as on many previous occasions on Kregen, I was very wrong.

Standing belligerently in the forefront of Prince Ortyg's followers Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun scowled at us. A large, florid man, with the shoulders of an ox, he looked like and was—as we knew to our cost—a great deal of trouble.

Presently the time came for the private part of the conference. All us followers trooped out and there was a lot of petty bickering as to precedence, a certain amount of shoving. Protocol and the importance of rank duly observed were vital facts in the lives of these high flown folk and their retainers.

I didn't give a damn where I landed up in the mob surging out. Ranaj said, curtly: “We take our proper precedence, Drajak. We owe it to the dignity of our mistress.”

Well, by Krun, you couldn't say fairer than that.

The parties lounged about outside. Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun sauntered over. He eyed us and then focused his gaze on me.

“I shall know you again, blintz.”

Fweygo did not stir at my shoulder. Ranaj started to say something and I cut in, sharply, with: “You and your men slew our good comrades. If you want to make something of it, step out into that garden. I am at your disposal.” He wore rapier and dagger.

Slowly he shook his head, face mottling.

“I think not.”

“Then,” snarled Ranaj. “Schtump! Clear off, blintz.”

There was a much more pleasant reunion as I spoke to Duven. He looked fit, bursting with energy, his every word indicating his absolute dedication to Cymbaro. I congratulated him on his courageous actions during the earthquake in brief soldierly words, not in any sickly fashion. Everything, he declaimed, was done at the behest of Cymbaro, who gave him the strength and purpose of will.

I said: “You went and returned from Farinsee very quickly.”

“Oh,” he said. “I took a lifter.”

“And Tiri?”

“I unfortunately did not have that pleasure.”

“A pity.”

He excused himself and went off and the moment he'd gone a lithe slip of a girl glided up to me. She was not slave, for she wore a revealing dark green shamlak and flowers in her corn gold hair.

As she passed she pressed a note in my hand. Then she was gone, skipping away with her long slender legs splendid in the lights.

Being a fellow used to wearisome intrigues I waited until I was sure no one observed me before opening the note. It was from Hyr Kov Brannomar. It requested an audience. Would I meet him at The Golden Zorca, a very private and high class establishment.

Now, having boasted of how wonderful I, Dray Prescot, was at the intrigue business, I now found myself slung by my own varter, as they say in Clishdrin. I'd stepped away from the crowd to the ornate gate to the little enclosed garden. A net descended over my head and I was brutally hauled in like a catch of fish, flung headlong to the ground beyond the gate and wall. The gate slammed shut.

“Right, you blintz!” came the voice of Nath ti Fangenun. “You asked me to step into the garden.” I rolled about in the net thrashing helplessly. “Here I am!”

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Chapter eighteen

He wasn't alone.

Well, he wouldn't be, would he, the cramph.

Nets are devilish things to get out of quickly, as I knew only too well. Useless to try to draw my knife and cut through. I took a strand in each fist and in the instant I savagely burst them apart a cracking great clout laid alongside my head and over I went. Instead of trying to rise, as these bully boys expected, I went on with the roll. Two of the net's strands parted and I started on the next square. A hard-toed boot crashed into my ribs and I let out a gasp. By Krun! These plug-uglies meant business!

More net strands parted and I fixed a most malicious eye on my attackers. A big Rapa jumped in to kick me again and I rolled away. On the other side another Rapa brought a damned great cudgel down. Going on with the roll I collided with his legs and swept them away from under him. He fell on top of me and before I could heave him aside his mate kicked him in mistake for me. That was quite pleasant.

My head was free and the last couple of bits of net dangled as I stood up. I gave the second Rapa a good kick as I did so.

They'd been kicking me and hitting me with bludgeons. This did not mean they did not intend to kill me. They wanted to have their perverted idea of a bit of fun first.

By this time I was so bitter and frustrated about the whole lousy situation in Oxonium I had no such inhibitions.

In a scrap of this kind the rapier would be the best weapon.

Out came the Jiktar with that sliding snick of a professional fighting man and the companion hikdar followed, snugging into my left hand.

I jumped for my attackers.

Standing at the back waiting their turn to kick and beat me, a polsim and a Brokelsh saw my face. They turned and ran.

The two Rapas were not so quick.

At the very last moment I deflected my blades so that, instead of killing them stone dead outright, I pinked them where it would hurt. They yowled, feathers extremely ruffled, and ran off.

Blades up, I faced Nath ti Fangenun.

Give the rast his due, he hadn't run off. He stood there, rapier and main gauche poised, watching me.

“I see, blintz, you have some skill—” he started to prattle on.

I just jumped in, slid his blades with the dagger, and hit him an almighty clout around the head. He toppled backwards, a glazed look sweeping over his eyes. He dropped his sword and dagger. He fell down. And I, Day Preset, drew back my foot to let him have a good one in the ribs.

I stood there, balanced on one foot, still feeling the blood pounding in me. By the disgusting diseased nostrils and dangling eyeballs of Makki Grodno! Was this what all this nonsense was bringing me to? Nasty little brawls in quiet gardens. Kicking a man when he was down? The rast wasn't worth soiling my boot on.

Thrusting the unbloodied weapons back into scabbards I gave a last malignant look at the unconscious Jiktar, and took myself off.

Mind you, a little brisk exercise gets the old blood tingling around the veins and arteries again, by Vox!

Nobody appeared to have heard the fracas, and in truth there had not been a great deal of noise. By the time our principals emerged from their secret conclave, Fangenun and his cronies were back on duty with their fellows. The two Rapas were wearing bandages. Ranaj gave me a long look; but said nothing. There was a great deal of hubbub which quietened down as the great ones took up their positions with their retainers.

With the werstings snarling and growling before us we wended our way back to Nandisha's palace.

When Dimpy heard there was no news of Tiri he looked morose. He was most restless. So I suggested when I got off duty late that evening we went along to the Temple of Cymbaro to see if anything had been heard of our dancing lady friend.

Dimpy brightened up at once.

After the hour of mid the young princess Nisha decided she wanted to go shopping. Naturally the lion maid, Rofi, would accompany her. I was detailed as part of the escort whilst Fweygo remained with the others at the palace. The princess was in a most playful mood and she and Rofi chattered like parakeets. I own I sighed for them, two young scraps of humanity trying to be cheerful and grow up into the hostile environment of Kregen. As a job, protecting them was not unwelcome, save—save for the ache for Delia and Esser Rarioch.

Thankfully, nothing untoward occurred during the shopping expedition. When I spotted a handsome red shamlak on a stall in the market I weakened. The loops and embroidery were a dull yellow, and the whole garment was in the best of taste. I could wear it off duty. So I bought it. Then we all trooped back to the palace for tea.

Although I say nothing untoward happened there were, of course, a couple of the quarrels erupting into fights going on in the market. We guards kept our charges well clear. The sense of oppressive thunder hanging over Oxonium portended worse and worse outbreaks to come. And, through it all, we had a fellow who did not want to be king, broodingly awaiting his coronation.

What the result of the meeting of the high ones might be was not at this stage revealed to us common folk. After trying to sort Dimpy with news of Tiri at the shrine to Cymbaro I'd have to go along to The Golden Zorca to meet Brannomar. He might vouchsafe the information. All the same, it meant little to me.

When, at last, I came off duty I put on that splendid new rose red shamlak. It fitted well. Hitching up my weaponry and with Dimpy in tow, off I sallied to see San Paynor. If Duven was there we might have a jar or two.

Logan met us and after a little time we were admitted to San Paynor's outer study. The temple lay quietly at this time, for the banging, slamming, shouting workmen had all gone home. It was very peaceful. Paynor looked up from architect's plans to greet us.

“Some of the old passageways were brought down and others blocked,” he told us. “We're worried in case the foundations are faulty.” He went on to say that, like all the buildings, a maze of tunnels existed under the temple. Many had odd exits long forgotten. We drank a fine pale wine, Dimpy as well; but there was no news of Tiri. Dimpy sat silently, his glass clutched hard between his fingers.

“Duven?” said Paynor. “Ah—you've just missed him. He's gone out to minister to a sick parishioner, a vegetable merchant in Momolam Street.”

I looked a question. Unexpectedly, Dimpy piped up. “I know that place. The Hill of Dancing Ghosts.”

“We generally call it Barter Hill,” smiled Paynor.

There was some time yet so I suggested we went across to The Hill of Dancing Ghosts. We might bump into Duven. In any event, the places would still be open and we could have our jar. Dimpy agreed and we said the remberees.

Taking the cable cars we soared out over the lower spaces. The lights were just coming on in the city and glowed like fairy lamps from the hills. Down below spits and sparks of light glimmered up. The young bloods would be decking themselves in their best and venturing down for their dark enjoyments. The cutthroats would be sharpening their knives. The cutpurses would be making sure their cunning curved blades were ready for the lightning slash. Was there in all this busy anticipatory activity some innocent young girl somewhere walking home destined to die, to be ripped to shreds this night?

One fact could not escape notice. Not one of the murder victims had been a devotee of Dokerty.

Momolam Street ran at the back of an avenue leading to the Kyro of Nath the Haggler. Dimpy glanced quickly up at me in the lanternlight. He must be thinking what I was, that here was the place we first met.

Everything was running flat out, the last of the day traders still hoping for last minute sales, the night hawks opening up. We passed a patrol of the City Guard, hard-faced, grim in armor. They could not be everywhere. They'd cut the size of the patrols down in order to increase the number. The vegetable shop stood at the corner of an alley evilly lit. Beside it lanternlight showed the facade of a temple to one of the minor cults, The Most Puissant Nethized, and as though to mock the very insignificance of Nethized, a more imposing frontage of a temple to Dokerty rose opposite.

The worried woman who answered our knock told us that her husband was very ill, the needleman was with him, and San Duven, may Cymbaro be praised, had spoken powerful words on the sick man's behalf. As for San Duven himself, that great man had just left.

“He went down Cabbage Alley past the grading sheds.”

We thanked her and then decided to follow Duven. Cabbage Alley smelled of the obvious. The lights were few and scattered. At the end where the alley joined the main avenue, lanternlight splashed a streak of brilliance into the dimness. From that direction came the muted hubbub of people about their various businesses.

We walked along steadily. Perhaps Duven had gone this way to take the opposite cable car to a different destination. He must be kept busy doing the visiting rounds for the folk of Cymbaro.

A thin bubbling scream scythed into the air. That shriek held all of terror and doom and death in its unearthly screech. At once it was cut off. The silence seemed to fall in after that hellish sound.

Dimpy and I sprang forward. “Stop! Murderer!”

Against the avenue lights the dark contorted silhouette of a man scrambled away, robes flapping. We followed—fast.

Dimpy fell over the body.

The silhouette vanished around the corner into the avenue and I stumbled as Dimpy crashed into me, so violent was his reaction to get away from the corpse.

I looked down.

There was light enough to see the gash in her throat, the dark blood, the terror branded on the pretty, innocent face. She must work at the grading sheds. Poor thing; there had been warnings enough about young girls walking alone at night.

Straightening up, I said: “Come on. We might catch the blintz along the avenue.”

That heart-rending scream had attracted other attentions besides ours. A patrol of the City Guard debouched into the alley from the avenue. Their lantern light flared upon the scene, upon the dead girl, on Dimpy, on me just straightening up from the dead body. The guardsmen let out a snarling growl of anger.

Many of the great ones had detailed members of their personal guard to assist the City Guard. One of those armored figures ahead recognized me.

“Stand still! Drajak known as the Sudden! Bloody murderer! Stay where you are!”

“Not likely!” I ripped out. There'd be no mercy from those men. I doubted if I'd reach their headquarters in one piece. The case was open and shut.

The guardsmen started down towards us, armor clanking.

“Come on, sunbeam,” I said. “Run!”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter nineteen

“I'd never have believed San Duven could've done these ‘orrible murders,” said Dimpy.

I felt the shock. “Dimpy! You can't really believe Duven is guilty!”

We crouched in a dark doorway. We'd thrown off that first pursuit and now we were getting our breaths back.

“We saw him! Didn't we?”

“We saw a dark figure—”

“And the vegetable lady told us he'd gone down Cabbage Alley.”

“All the same—” I shook my head. “If the murders are not the work of Dokerty, then my guess was that Prince Ortyg had put some of his gang up to it. That way he'd hit directly at Khon the Mak who is a strong Dokerty supporter.”

Dimpy didn't reply. He had a tough and resilient young mind and he'd seen plenty of unpleasant things in his seasons on Kregen. It was easier for him to believe in Duven's guilt.

He spelled out the obvious when he said that now the City Guard had me down for the crimes, they'd block all the cable car exits. Any known way off the hill would be guarded. All lifters would be watched. They had me trapped.

I didn't tell Dimpy that if I could reach the Vallian Embassy I'd be safe. Then I'd contact Kov Brannomar and he'd straighten out this mess.

Also, if I could get word to Naghan Raerdu the Barrel, probably through Milsi the Slinky, he would be a tower of strength.

So, it wasn't all gloom and doom in this desperate situation.

Dimpy brought those daydreams down to earth with a bump.

“They'll never give up till they catch you. I'll tell ‘em you didn't do it, in course. But they won't believe me.”

Would Brannomar believe I was innocent?

“And you ain't going to get off here easy, I can tell you that.”

“No,” I half groaned. “You're right.”

“I gotta idea.”

His voice hardened. I supposed it had occurred to him that if the City Guard caught us, Dimpy would be judged as guilty as was I, for he'd been there, standing over the body with me.

“Come on, Drajak. Lessee what we can do.”

So off we went, skulking like a pair of ghosts on the Hill of Dancing Ghosts. Dimpy knew his way about here, for, as he'd told me, this was a favorite stamping ground of the robber gangs.

Inevitably, we were spotted.

We'd just cautiously crossed from one alley to another. My description must have been broadcast by the patrols, for a shout lifted, high and shrill.

“That's him! Drajak the Sudden! Murderer!”

By the pendulous purple jowls of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! What a stinking mess we were in! We hared off at once into the shadows and in no time at all a howling mob formed and roared after us like a pack of werstings on the loose.

One of the many problems besetting me now was that if a person tried to stop me he would be an ordinary honest upright citizen helping the guard to arrest a despicable mass murderer. He'd be trying to do his civic duty. I certainly couldn't kill him.

We shot across the next street like two bolts from arbalests. The yells at our backs intensified. The next alley, ill lit, showed a line of dark back entrances. Dimpy spotted a broken window and hared across to it. I hesitated. Then I followed him.

If the mob sussed out we'd ducked in here we might find ourselves completely trapped. But there was a chance they'd go storming on and out of sight.

The window eased open under Dimpy's professional expertise. We squeezed through and the window closed at our backs. Utter darkness stretched ahead. There was a strange smell on the air.

Dimpy sniffed. “Kaff.” He spoke in a disgusted tone.

We groped forward. The racketing noise of the mob swelled at our backs, crescendoed—and then, blessedly, faded.

A wall came up and hit me on the nose. I did not swear. Feeling along, my fingers encountered a handle. I couldn't see Dimpy; but I could hear his light breathing. Quite an athlete, young Dimpy. Taking a breath, I turned the handle and pushed the door in.

A low pinkish radiance from a shielded lamp revealed a double row of low beds. Each bed held a man. They were not in this world. The stink of Kaff invaded my nostrils. They were all stoned to the eyeballs.

Dimpy, like a sinuous wraith, glided ahead between the rows. At the far end a door stood ajar and we peered around the jamb.

A hulking great Undurker, his borzoi nose in the air, was reading a book. He looked up, eyes widening. I leaped. He went to sleep and I trusted to Djan that he was not too injured.

“'Orrible stuff, Kaff,” quoth Dimpy. “You should have hit him harder.”

“You have to feel sorry for folk who indulge. It's their funeral.”

“Yes. Come on. It's not much further.”

We exited through the far door onto a street where the torches flared, and skulked along. On the next turning Dimpy turned down it and a few doors along stopped before a shopfront. The establishment was a carpet store.

“This is where the Hellraisers came up that day.”

I looked at the shop. It was nondescript, a likely place for the gang members to leave when they'd made the ascent. Dimpy tried the door. The place was in darkness and naturally the door was bolted.

“Give us a moment.”

He worked busily. Then the door creaked open. In we went.

I fell over a carpet, and cursed. Dimpy produced a tinder box, and when we had a light, we explored. Dimpy spent some time prodding and prying at the floor. By his face I knew the news was not good.

“They've sealed it up.” He sounded exasperated.

“I'm not surprised. You were being chased and they must have reasoned you were arrested. You'd tell where this place was.”

He looked murderous in the lamplight. “That Sleed!”

“Don't fret—”

“I'm not! Come on. There's still a chance.”

He extinguished the light and we went back out into the street. My splendid new red shamlak had been partly the cause of my predicament. The red of the shamlak had been immediately equated with the red of Dokerty, the red of the scrap of cloth found in the hand of Jenni Farlang, who'd worked in a jeweler's shop.

Although I'd so coolly told Dimpy not to fret, I was, myself, seething with frustration and disappointment. We could so easily have gone down the way Dimpy and the Hellraiser recruits had come up. I kept my futile anger to myself. Dimpy was doing splendidly and I did not want to jeopardize his confidence.

There were two obvious courses of action that might be followed, one initiated by me, the other not.

Using the skills taught by Deb-Lu I could change my face around. I could grab some fresh clothes, discard the braxters. I was enormously reluctant to abandon the rapier and main gauche; but if it came to a choice between those and my life, the decision was obvious. Even then, there'd be no cast iron guarantee of success. And Dimpy in that scenario?

He was the reason the other course of action could not be followed. The Star Lords might—might, ha!—reach down and hoick me out of this mess. They'd probably want to talk to me and to discipline me. I'd not had so much of that lately as in the Old days. Then they'd hurl me back to guard the numim twins. I did not want that to happen; I didn't want to leave Dimpy alone, and hunted.

Anyway, even if the Everoinye returned me to duty, that fact would soon be known and the City Guard would be around Nandisha's palace seeking my hide.

Mind you, if my plan succeeded and I reached Brannomar first, everything would turn out for the best. I'd just have to convince the Hyr Kov that the Emperor of All Paz didn't go around murdering sweet young girls and chopping them up.

Dimpy leading, we scuttled through the mottled shadows.

You could say this for Dimpy—he was the complete expert at keeping a low profile, of stealthily creeping along, of avoiding observation, of taking full advantage of every shadow. By Vox, you could say it, and it was true! Mind you, as an old leem-hunter I'd been at this game longer than he had. So we skulked along the streets, using the shadows, halting at the slightest sound, two fugitives from justice.

Waiting patiently for some time at a corner, he took careful stock of the street and of the shopfronts lining it. Eventually he motioned and we padded across to a cake shop. It was a middling establishment, emblazoned with the name Nath's Cake and Bun Emporium, and, of course, it was locked up for the night. Dimpy had us in there in no time.

The place was not abandoned but in business and Dimpy said they'd be new owners. We went down into the cellar where Dimpy prodded and pried as he had before. He grunted as he heaved up a trapdoor. A ladder led down into darkness.

“We Roaring Fifties used this.” He sighed. “Them was the days.” A lamp on a shelf was quickly lighted. We went down into the depths. I, for one, wondered just what I was getting myself into.

Very soon the way down changed from a ladder to a stonewalled passage, past an iron-barred door, into rough-hewn tunnels. The way was steep and treacherous. Nitre shone on the walls. The air smelled musty and stale. There was the stink of sulphur.

Dimpy was trying to go along at a breakneck speed.

“Apart from lack of food and drink,” I told him, “we're not in any tearing hurry. The longer they can't find us aloft, the more they'll slacken their search.”

He slowed down a trifle—not by much, by Krun!

The adventure down the tunnels was accompanied by many alarms and excursions. We met none of the skinned apes. We did run into a prowling praxul.

The thing's warty scaled hide bulked shoulder high for it was a full grown adult. Its three stalked eyes surveyed us in the luminosity of the lichen, and writhed away as the lanternlight fell across its head. It hissed, its claws slicing the musky air.

Dimpy hauled out his braxter. I did likewise. Side by side we confronted the praxul.

I had the light. I swung it violently forward and the praxul backed, hissing.

“He stinks like garbage left in an alley for a sennight,” I said. “Phew!”

Even as I spoke Dimpy leaped in and slashed. He missed the eye and jumped back, avoiding the return slash of the lethal claws. Watching for an opening as the thing weaved from side to side, I saw a chance, slid in, slashed, missed, and managed to skip back. The lights and shadows writhed madly along the walls and roof.

The lamp might not be essential now we had left the darkness of the ladders down and were in the luminance of the lichen. Stepping back I placed the lamp carefully down, keeping my gaze fixed on the praxul. Had our light been a torch, of course, we'd have singed the beastie to a nice crispy toast.

Unencumbered and using two swords I attacked again as Dimpy put in a distracting side feint. Two stalked eyes flew up into the air.

As always, as always, I felt sorry for the poor thing. It screeched and stank and turned around. Whining and howling it scuttled off into the confusing shadows.

We went on and down resolutely, alertly. All the time I kept wondering why the Everoinye had not plucked me up out of the tunnels and set me down to my duty. Why?

When the blue radiance formed Dimpy remained in complete ignorance of the phantasmal presence of a Witch of Loh. He could not hear Ling-Li or me. Her Ivory of Chem face looked as gravely beautiful as ever. “Gron-Arm-Chenlang. That's his name. Recently graduated.”

“I supposed,” I said drily.

“Deb-Lu at first was concerned he might not be a true Wizard of Loh—of Walfarg. Khe-Hi, too, was worried lest he was a—”

“Yes?”

She touched her lips with an exquisite finger. “Balintol is famous for sorcery, Dray. The old king in Tolindrin tried to suppress some of them because they were becoming too powerful.”

“I've only heard of low level mages here.”

“Quite. It is better that way. Oh, and the trident. Deb-Lu is looking into that matter.”

When I suggested she might like to give us directions as to the best way of getting out of this maze, and of contacting our ambassador when we did, she gave an immediate assent. Her directions were lucid and easily followed. After she had gone and Dimpy was with me again, as we went on down I saw that he was following Ling-Li's suggested route. We met a couple more nasty moments. But working together we came through unscathed and, at blessed last, debouched from the hole in the cliff face leading onto a side alleyway.

The mingled and wonderfully exotic aromas of the warrens wafted into my nostrils. There was little noise for it was near morning and the dopa dens and their ilk had at last closed. We crept out.

“This was all Roaring Fifties territory. Now it's Hellraisers'.” He sounded bitter. We paused at the corner of the street.

“Can you guide us to Skullbiter territory, Dimpy?”

He looked his surprise. “Why? Yes, of course I can; but—”

“Homespun Street.”

“Yes. Off Umpitor Kyro. The Katakis have a watchhouse there.”

“Nagzalla's Nasty Neemus. They'll help.”

He looked more than a little incredulous. He started to say something, shook his head, and didn't.

At this hour the gangs would not in the normal way be active. We had to be carefully on the lookout for the City Watch. That rabble would be only too happy to take up unwary pedestrians. The Kataki officers would gloat at the chance of a few more slaves. We went along the darkened streets between the hills with extreme caution.

One of the lesser moons of Kregen shot past above, a glinting spark one moment, gone the next.

There was little traffic along the cableways overhead. The place was not completely silent—what great city ever is?—a dog barked, carts rumbled complainingly, and a couple of late roisterers staggered past. I didn't give much for their chances, the famblys.

Although we'd rested on and off in the descent, Dimpy was obviously tired. We were both famished. We were still in one hell of a mess, and far from safely out of it yet.

Umpitor Kyro with its watchhouse was a major obstacle.

Dimpy tapped his foot nervously on the ground as we peered across the square. Homespun Street at our backs was beginning to think of coming to life for the next day. The Suns of Scorpio would not shine down here for a long time yet; people were up and about by the lights of lamps and torches. The whole place held that hushed air of expectancy ready to herald a fresh beginning.

A light voice at our backs said: “I've been following you, Dimpy. What you up to, then? And who's your big friend?”

We spun about. I'd been so watching out for the Katakis this young girl had followed us completely unobserved. I crushed down my annoyance at the mistake.

“Come on, Dimpy! By Ferzakl, I didn't expect to see you again!”

She was a Hytak, a fine strong girl with good features and a splendid body. She fingered the sheath of the dagger at her belt. Dimpy swallowed.

“Big Balla! Well—it's a long story.”

I cut in, and to Dimpy's surprise said my name was Kadar the Hammer. Very forcefully, using that sometimes hateful power of the yrium, I explained some of the situation, and told Big Balla we were going up onto the hill. Her reply, I suppose, shouldn't have surprised me. Not when all the circumstances were taken into consideration. Dimpy's response was immediate.

“Can she come with us? I mean—what with Sleed the Slick—”

“He's worse than being chased, is he?”

“Too true, by Ferzakl!”

This Sleed clearly was an unpleasant character, and I could see Dimpy was fond of Big Balla. If only for his sake I'd have to accede. All the same, it could prove an inconvenience, to say the least, by Krun.

“We have to get across to Nagzalla territory.”

“Nath Market Street,” said Big Balla. “They just took it.”

“Aye.”

So, the blessed fates had taken a hand again, for Big Balla simply organized our expedition to cut through an alley and then go through a house whose occupants she knew. An advang family, they were up and preparing themselves for the day's labors. They let us through without fuss, Big Balla thanked them, and we walked smartly along to Nath Market Street.

All the time the nagging sense of this whole scenario being, as it were, wrong, oppressed me. Why, for the sweet sake of Jaz the Impedimenter, hadn't the Star Lords taken me up and slapped me down again to my duty with the numim twins? Why? Had we failed? Had Fweygo been slain and the numims slaughtered? Was that the reason my presence there was no longer required?

Once into Nagzalla territory a very few enquiries brought me face to face with Brory the Bold. He came out from an inner room rubbing sleep from his eyes. As the curtains swished to there was just a glimpse of the maiden he'd claimed in marriage sitting up in bed. Her hair was ruffled; her face looked happy, which pleased me.

“Kadar the Hammer! By Reder—where've you been?”

I gave him a garbled account of being trapped in the hill and went on to request his help in getting us away. He looked undecided. A fresh round of the war against the Volcanoes was about to begin. He'd appreciate it if I'd help. So, once more, that imperious Dray Prescot yrium had to flash forth. Overpowering him, I demanded assistance.

The Neemus had their entrances and exits. There were ways up.

Both Dimpy and Big Balla remained subdued. Here they were with a gang with whom, in the not too distant future, their own gang might be at war for territory and control of the rackets.

The first priority was food and drink. We sat down to a good Kregan meal. If Ling-Li could organize it with our ambassador a voller might fly down for us. That would be nice. I did not count on it. Big Brory would have to come through.

We needed sleep and quarters were found. Dimpy said: “Can we trust these Nasty Neemus? They looked at our shamlaks a bit hard.”

“My wonderful show-off red shamlak,” I said, with more self-mockery than useless bitterness. “That contributed to our misfortunes.”

Dimpy grunted and curled up in his blanket.

If the Everoinye didn't call for me then there was no breakneck rush on my part to return up top. A good sleep, some more grub, and with a hitch to my belt I'd be ready. I slept.

That evening when we awoke Brory reported he'd organized a party to go through the hill. It was not safe for a few people. He was humming a little song, “Nandy Nath's Blind Pilgrimage” which, given the circumstances, was either in very bad taste or was grimly prophetic of disaster within the hill. His new wife came in and, in truth, she looked happy. We ate again, and drank sparingly, and then it was time for the off. I thanked Brory sincerely; but I also left him in no doubt that I had other fish to fry than joining the Neemus.

He'd put another Brokelsh, Brango the Toriner, in command of the party, a fellow with a bent nose and an oddly high-pitched voice.

We went through a quiet dormitory section and came out onto a cross street with its cable supporting tower without a Kataki watch house. Across the way the torches flared, people shouted, the night's doings were well under way. The noise increased alarmingly.

A mob abruptly materialized. Helter-skelter they ran madly past us, screaming. Brango grabbed a Gon and shook him. “What!”

“The Screaming Leems!” The Gon was almost incoherent with fear. “They've busted through the Cherry Chavonths! We're all doomed!”

“By the Resplendent Bridzilkelsh!” Brango looked wild. “The Screaming Leems have had this planned all along! I've gotta get back and warn Brory!”

As he spoke the ground moved beneath our feet.

Chunks of stone dislodged from the sides of the canyons began to fall about our ears. The noise boomed up drowning the pitiful shrieks of the humans trapped in their slots of darkness.

The tremor shook everything savagely. We staggered as though dopa drunk. A zorca-sized slab fell on a polsim who vanished save for arms and feet and spraying blood.

“Come on!”

I yanked Big Balla by the arm and with Dimpy we fled for the side wall, lurching as the ground lurched.

“By the slime-infested intestines and the maggoty eyeballs of Makki Grodno! This would have to happen now!”

The whole of Kregen, it seemed, roared and rattled and rumbled about us. Dust swirled madly everywhere. We crouched hard against the side wall as the hill above our heads disintegrated.

Mites of humanity, we waited for the end of the world.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter twenty

With Dimpy at one end and me at the other we heaved the slab up and toppled it aside. The mess of black blood and splintered yellow bones underneath had been a woman and her child.

The world had not come to an end. But it seemed not far off to the folk down here working like ants to clear away debris. There might still be people trapped. We found some alive; a couple of days later we were uncovering only dead bodies. We worked, ate and drank, slept when we fell. We wore scarves over our mouths and nostrils. The sights were pitiful, ugly, depressing. The spirit of the folk of the warrens was splendid. They toiled without stint. Members of opposing gangs worked side by side, enmities forgotten. Oh yes, in bringing death and destruction, the forces of nature can also bring out the best in humanity.

There was looting, of course. Looters who were caught received short shrift.

The cable car tower had fallen, trailing lines. One odd and interesting, if expected, fact of note was the complete absence of the City Watch. The Katakis and their masichieri scum had all been summoned aloft to assist the great ones as they cleared up.

Still, through all the horror, the Star Lords had not summoned me. What in a Herrelldrin Hell had happened to Fweygo, Nandisha, the children? It had seemed to me the only honorable course of action to stay and assist these people who had shown friendship to my friends and me. Dimpy and Big Balla slaved as we all slaved. Loyalty to new friends down here and to be shown. All the same, what was going on up there, above our heads, among the palaces and temples?

In some countries of two worlds the houses of the poor folk fall down of their own accord from time to time without the assisting nudge of an earthquake. The swathes of destruction along the streets was heartrending; rubble, shattered timbers, odd angles of wood and stone, all jumbled in dust-clogged piles. Three days after the shock Dimpy and I, smothered in dust and dirt, turned over a slab and to our consternation heard a faint cry. Frantically we dug, hauling blocks away, carefully making sure nothing would tumble down. We found a young girl about Tiri's age with smashed legs under a beam. She held a dead baby in her arms, and her granny lay in a black-blood pool at her side. She was not quite mad yet. Her face looked like a shriveled leather shoe. We carried her out. What else was there we could do? What was her life to be now?

The gangs organized food supplies. Brory told me with grim satisfaction that he'd led a raid that had taken up some of the rich farm produce destined for the hills. The carts had been intercepted, the guards slain or driven off, and then galloped into the dark slots between the hills. We all fed well that day. A few days after that, a very brief visit from Ling-Li told me Ambassador Invordun requested me to be at the center of the ruined kyro at the hour of dim.

I heaved a sigh of relief. We had done what we could to assist down here. Now I must find out what had been going on in the world above.

So it was with something of a tremble of apprehension I observed the fantamyrrh boarding the airboat. Dimpy and Big Balla followed. For them this was a fresh adventure. For me it might be the end of all my adventuring on the terrible and mysterious world of Kregen.

The red eye-patch looked like the black eyesocket of a skull as Nalgre ti Poventer greeted me. She of the Veils was up, riding the night sky between the stars. A gleam of roseate light struck a long curved shine from the Gon's shaven head.

The voller lifted and soared up and out of the chill horrors of the warrens. Nalgre told me that much of Oxonium had been knocked down by the tremors. There was important news, but: “I must allow the ambassador to tell you, Drajak.”

So I had to contain my curiosity until we were ensconced in Elten Larghos's inner sanctum. Dimpy and Big Balla sat silently, sipping wine and stuffing themselves with good Vallian food. When they went off to rest and Larghos and I sat alone, at last, I asked about the immaculate state of the Vallian Embassy in Oxonium.

He smiled. “Sana Ling-Li-Lwingling was here about our business when the shocks began. She recognized sorcery at once and was able, therefore, to counteract the effects here.”

“That confounded Wizard of Loh of Khon the Mak's.”

“Precisely. Interestingly, you will remember Hyr Kov Brannomar's sister, Sana Besti—”

“I'm hardly likely to forget,” I said, thinking of that nightmare ride through other dimensions.

“Quite. She managed to save most of Brannomar's palace.”

He went on to say that as a result of the sorcerer Gron-Arm-Chenlang's thaumaturgical upheavals at the orders of Khon the Mak, Prince Ortyg's palace had erupted like a volcano. The prince had barely escaped with his life. He had left the city at once. Princess Nandisha and her people had also left. Many, many citizens had fled. The only great ones left were Tom and Brannomar.

Well, by Zair, I said to myself, thank Opaz the numims are safe. But why hadn't the Star Lords sent me with them?

“The fury at Khon the Mak from everyone was quite remarkable. He had to fly for his life. Everything has changed in Oxonium.”

After he had given me information to fill out the details, I said: “Well, the murders have been pushed into the background. I must still go and see Brannomar. I want the hunt called off.”

“I saw him and he assured me he did not believe you were the mass murderer. But—well, the proof seemed pretty damning to everyone and the City Guard were determined to pull you in.”

“Bad cess to ‘em.”

After that it was a matter of having my clothes washed and ironed as I slept, of eating a massive breakfast, of telling Dimpy and Big Balla to stay in the embassy and keep out of mischief, and being chauffeured by Nalgre to Brannomar's palace.

Dimpy, of course, wanted to go to the Temple of Cymbaro. The cable cars were down so I asked Nalgre to take Dimpy when he got back. I wouldn't put it past the young scamp to persuade Nalgre to take him all the way to Farinsee. He was really missing Tiri.

Now this may sound farcically out of proportion in a normal man's perception of importances. But, by the Blade of Kurin! To me, plain Dray Prescot, Vovedeer, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, swordsman, the feel of the great Krozair longsword handed to me by the ambassador felt like—felt like—well, by Zim-Zair! I felt that perhaps now I might fight in the old wild Dray Prescot way without having blades snapping left and right under my blows.

As we flew over the city Oxonium presented a wretched sight. The fires were out but smoke still hung sootily here and there. I experienced a vivid flash of recollection of the time Delia and I flew out of the blazing pyre of Vondium the proud city. Still, we'd rebuilt. I did not doubt that the Tolindrinese would rebuild too.

They were digging out dead bodies. Rubble was carried away by the cartload. Provisions of all kinds were coming in, for the country folk had rallied to help the city dwellers. We swooped across Grand Central. The cable car between the king's and Brannomar's palaces was down. Both structures, apart from the loss of a tower or two, looked intact. Nalgre brought us down onto a lawn where the fountain stood dry and the garden walls lay strewn across the flower beds. At the moment no one was about.

Nalgre shouted down the remberee and took off. The landing of the voller would not have gone unnoticed and guards would be along at any moment. I had my story ready and had no doubts of seeing Brannomar quite easily.

Ahead stood a lenken door adorned with bronze chavonths. I pushed it open and went through. The entrance hall was wide, flanked by black marble pillars. Black beams stretched across supporting the ceiling. The floor was a blinding white. I started off striding along. A faint trace of jasmine perfumed the air. The silence was profound. This entrance hall was hugely impressive and it went on and on. All this, I marveled, inside a hilltop palace!

Eventually in the lamplights shining between the pillars a door showed up at the far end. Golden animals of mythological significance that escaped me writhed upon the ebon surface.

Beyond that door the silence struck ominously. There was absolutely no one about, not a living soul to greet or challenge me.

The room was octagonal, draped in crimson, lit by golden lamps. Gilded furniture stood here and there on the faerling carpet.

I knew what this was all about in the instant before the ghostly voice with the edge of steel rustled in the air all about.

“Come in, Dray Prescot. Sit down. There are refreshments and wine.” I looked at the wine bottle regretfully. It was a top quality Jholaix.

“It is too early for me for wine. If you have some sazz—”

On the word a bottle of sazz shot into being alongside the Jholaix. Pale rose, sparkling, it was delightfully refreshing.

“So this is where you attempt to discipline me?” Even as I spoke those foolish words of bravado I could feel my heart thumping.

“Your duty to the numim twins is finished.”

Quickly, I shot out: “They are safe? Fweygo—?”

“Safe. Another kregoinye has been appointed. Your duty, as you know full well, is to become the Emperor of All Paz.”

The nonsensicality of this did not warrant a reply.

“The Shanks have left Mehzta. They strike south. Many Chuliks are returning home in anticipation of an attack. The Shanks will bypass the Chulik islands. They will strike Balintol.”

“That is grave news.”

“Your duty, Dray Prescot, is to unite all of Balintol to resist the Shanks’ invasion. You must use your powers. This task is laid upon you. You will not fail.”

I sat silently. Not fail? The Star Lords must be going completely senile—or insane. “I recall Phu-Si-Yantong, the Empress Thyllis, King Genod Gannius—and others. They were mad with this phantasm of world conquest.”

“You will use your powers, Dray Prescot.”

Although I had this new relationship with the Star Lords, I still had to be circumspect. So I did not say aloud what was in my mind. “Whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad.”

The rustling voice of the Everoinye that could be millennia old went on to give me details of the movements of the Shanks. Those fish-headed reivers from over the curve of the world were recovering from the reverses we had inflicted on them. And I, plain Dray Prescot, had to unite the sub-continent of Balintol to resist them. And that was only the first step, for I then had to unite all of Paz. Dear old Makki Grodno's gross appearance flowed unhappily in my thoughts.

The mystery of the serial killings of young girls entered the conversation when the Star Lords informed me that my suspicions about Duven were, indeed, correct. His motives were quite clear. He sought to discredit the Dokerty cultists. I felt sorry for the idiot and also angry at him. His actions were just as mad as any real maniac who went about mass murdering without any lofty ideals. This also meant the Dokerty people were not as bad as was thought.

When the blue radiance dropped down about me and I looked up, there, hovering, immense, the Scorpion took me up into cold and darkness. The sensation of madly rushing through space, of being hurled down blindly into danger—oh yes, by Vox, these were the familiar sensations of my transactions with the Star Lords.

I'd had my fill of being an emperor. I'd been the Emperor of Vallia. Delia and I had abdicated in favor of our son, Drak, and his wife, the lovely Silda, daughter of our blade comrade, Seg Segutorio. The Star Lords were damned demanding. Of course, by Krun, they could afford to be. Their powers remained unknown to me; I did know they could banish me back to Earth, four hundred light years away, and there let me rot.

Mind you, making myself some kind of puffed-up emperor was one thing. Uniting the various countries of Balintol to resist the Shanks was quite another. That was a deed worth the doing.

My feet hit marble. The giant Scorpion disappeared. The blue misty radiance cleared.

I stood in an entrance hall with white marble floor, flanked by black marble columns. Jasmine blew on the air. Lamps burned mellowly. Ahead a lenken door stood ajar, near enough to be reached in a dozen strides.

On the floor at my feet lay the ripped body of a guardsman. Screaming in a futile effort to scrabble away across the marble, a woman shrieked for help. Savaging her was a black and white striped wersting, snarling, fangs dripping, shaking his head from side to side.

The Krozair brand ripped free. A single precise blow took the Wersting's head off. It span away trailing blood.

Lifting the woman tenderly I saw her legs were torn and bleeding but that she was otherwise unhurt. She was Sana Besti, Kov Brannomar's sister.

She shrieked again, unintelligibly; but what she was trying to say was abundantly clear by the racket roaring from beyond the door. Through her pain and fear she gestured impatiently towards the door.

The scene beyond the door was ugly. I hardly took notice of the elegance of the chamber. Brannomar's guardsmen were being ferociously attacked by a wersting pack. The black and white striped hunting dogs, snarling, yellow fangs lethal, leaped and bit, were cut down, and writhed in agony—but more and more leaped. The guardsmen were going down in the welter of their own blood.

To the side the controllers of the pack were taking no part in the combat. They were laughing and urging their dogs on. Whips in right hands and the leashes coiled up along their left arms, they were thoroughly enjoying this hideous spectacle.

The werstings first. Then the controllers. Chief among them the florid face and bulky shoulders of Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun stood out. That cramph saw me and his laughter changed to mean hatred. He had no whip. He drew his sword. I ignored him—for now, by Krun, for now!—and went hell for leather into the werstings.

Laying about me with a will I cleared a way through the black and white bodies towards Brannomar. The scar across his bronzed face looked like a vivid weal. He fought well, keeping his footing, using his sword with skill.

The noise of snarling dogs, of screaming men, the stink of blood, the raw choking stink of the whole combat, all blended into a bloody turmoil.

Brannomar was a great noble. In all the ferocity of the combat he saw me and panted out: “Lahal, majister. You are well met.”

“Lahal, kov.” I sliced the Krozair brand into a dog's body and he shrieked and dropped. Like our hyenas of Earth, these werstings’ jaws could exert a pressure on their rear teeth of seven hundred pounds per square inch. They crunched bones into splinters. If they fastened those fangs into you, well then, by Krun, you were in deep trouble!

Slashing and slicing away, keeping the ring, we formed a group about Brannomar. His guards fought well. The numbers of dogs lessened. These poor beasts by nature and training were intent on killing. Pity for them, oh, yes, I felt that. They were like the scorpion and did what they did because that is what they did.

They were not going to chomp me up, no, by Vox, and whilst I stood they weren't going to savage Brannomar.

Fangenun and his wersting handlers saw which way the fight was going with my entrance onto the scene. Weapons in fist they closed in to finish what their dogs had begun.

Well, then, if this was the last great fight then so let it be, so let it be. A Krozair of Zy knows how to die.

The clash of blades grated in that ugly menacing scrape so familiar to me. Fangenun joined in the fight now, thinking it won, instead of hanging back as he had in Nandisha's solarium. He struck with savage force, streaming sweat, scarlet of face, bulging of eye.

The paid swordsmen fighting alongside him were professionals, stikitches, and their style of fighting was altogether more compact and economical. I just managed to interpose the Krozair longsword between a guardsman and a braxter seeking his internal organs. A twist and an instant thrust and the stikitche went down with his guts instead of the guardsman's hanging out.

Shouts ripped through the chamber. Calls for assistance, brittle warnings of backstabbing, screams as the steel brutally slashed down, all jumbled into a cacophony of death.

I began to think we might prevail. Most of the werstings had crawled off, dragging bleeding bodies on trembling legs. The men pressed and we fronted them. The grating clang of steel on steel, the screams of anguish, the spouting blood, the stink of it all, sickened me.

A voice ripped through the turmoil.

“Notor! Hold on!”

Lord Jazipur, Brannomar's right hand man, led a rush of new combatants from the door. Immediate confusion embroiled us all as stikitches tried to switch their weapons around to meet this new peril, we hurled into them with vengeful brands, and the newcomers sought their targets.

After that the fight did not last long. An eerie silence fell.

We gazed around stupefied on the hideous scene of carnage. A few bodies twitched and writhed. Slowly the shrieks and moans of the wounded splintered into our consciousnesses and we realized the silence had only been in our heads, a reaction from the battle clamor.

Some of the survivors sank down, panting, white-eyed, overjoyed still to be alive. Brannomar stood straight and tall and splashed with blood. He stared levelly at Lord Jazipur.

“You are welcome. I expected you before this.”

Jazipur made one of his gracious gestures. He indicated the men he had brought to our aid. They were a patrol of the City Guard.

“There was no one else, notor. I was fortunate to find a patrol so quickly. I am happy to see you alive.”

Brannomar nodded. “Where is that scoundrel Fangenun?”

A Jiktar spoke up smartly, still wiping his sword. “He is not among the dead or injured, notor. He must have escaped.”

“His day will come.”

I said: “He is Ortyg's man. The young prince is a fool if—”

Brannomar interrupted very gravely. “Yes. But he has outrun his patience. His palace falling about his ears decided him.”

“And Khon the Mak?”

“He was forced to leave the city after the disastrous earthquake he and his sorcerer initiated. He has at last shown his hand.”

So—events were moving swiftly. My task for the Everoinye remained. At Brannomar's next words I felt a deathly chill grip into my blood and choke up my breath.

“Hyr Kov Khonstanton has gone to the Chulik Islands to recruit an army. Prince Ortyg has treacherously thrown in his lot with the King of Caneldrin in return for his aid. Both of them will lead armies against King Tom, against me. They have taken the final step to outright war.”

I felt the horror of an undeserved fate crushing me into a darkness like the cloak of Notor Zan.

Southern Balintol was about to be ripped apart as armies and factions clashed in a megalomaniac desire for power. Wars and Civil Wars promised a ghastly red-lit future.

And the Star Lords had ordered me to unite the continent! Failure would send me hurtling back four hundred light years—no. Oh, no! By all the deformities and defects of Makki Grodno and the Divine Lady of Belschutz! I wasn't having that.

Somehow, I, plain sailorman Dray Prescot, had to save this situation. These idiots must be talked to, their heads knocked together to make them co-operate instead of feud. A way must be found.

My Val! My future was one of near impossible tasks that must be accomplished. For my sake, and, supremely, for the sake of Delia without whom everything was dust and ashes, whatever might be needed, that must be done.

“Selah!”

[Back to Table of Contents]

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.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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.