A Coven of Vampires (8 page)

As he fell smugly silent a new voice arose, a voice hitherto unknown in Chlangi, which said: “Bravo, Lord Fregg! Bravo! An object lesson in deduction. How well you understand the criminal mind, sir.”

All eyes turned to Tarra Khash where he now threw off his blanket robe and draped it over the back of the camel he led; to him, and to the beast itself, which trotted straight to the other three and greeted them with great affection. Plainly the four were or had been a team; and since this burly bronze clout-clad Hrossak was their master…what did that make him but previous owner of treasure and all? Possibly.

Tarra was flanked by a pair of hulking thugs from the guardroom in the west gate, who seemed uncertain exactly what to do with him. Fregg could have told them; but now that he’d met the Hrossak, so to speak, he found himself somewhat curious. “You’re a bold one,” he told Tarra, coming forward to look him up and down.

“Bold as brass!” one of the guards ventured. “He came right up to the gate and hailed us, and said he sought audience with the king or chief or whoever was boss here.”

“I’m boss here,” said Fregg, thumbing his chest. “King Fregg Unst the First—and likely the last. Who are you?”

“Tarra Khash,” said Tarra. “Adventurer by profession, wanderer by inclination….” And he paused to look at the dead men where their bodies lay sprawled in the dust of the courtyard. “Excuse me, but would these two be called, er, Hylar and Thull?”

“Those were their names, aye,” Fregg nodded. “Did you have business with them?”

“Some,” said Tarra, “but it appears I’m too late.”

The session was breaking up now and the crowd thinning as people went off about their business. A half-dozen of Fregg’s men, his personal bodyguards, stayed back, keeping a sharp eye on Tarra Khash. Others began to bundle up the treasure in the blankets.

“Walk with me a little way,” said Fregg, “and tell me more. I like your cut, Tarra Khash. We seldom have visitors here; at least, not of their own free will!” He chuckled, paused, turned and said to his men: “That ring on Drinnis’ finger—I want it. Make sure it’s with the rest of the stuff and bring it to me in the tower.”

“Hold!” said Tarra. “A moment, King Fregg.” He stepped to blanket and stooped, came erect holding the jewelled hilt of his scimitar. “I’ve a special affection for this piece,” he said. “It belongs in the scabbard across my back. I hope you don’t mind.”

Fregg gently took it from him. “But I
do
mind, Tarra Khash!”

“But—”

“Wait, lad, hear me out. See, I’ve nothing against you, but you simply don’t understand our laws. You see, upon the instant loot is brought into the city, said loot belongs to me, its finders, and to the city itself. And no law at all, I’m afraid, to cover its retrieval by rightful owner. Not even the smallest part of it. Also, I perceive these stones set in the hilt to be valuable, a small treasure in themselves.” He shrugged almost apologetically, adding: “No, I’m sorry, lad, but at least two men—and likely a good many more—have died for this little lot. And so—” And he tossed the jewelled hilt back with the other gems.

“Actually,” Tarra chewed his lip, eyed the swords and crossbows of Fregg’s bodyguards, “actually it’s the hilt I treasure more than the stones. Before it was broken there were times that sword saved my miserable life!”

“Ah!” said Fregg. “It has sentimental value, has it? Why didn’t you say so? You shall have it back, of course! Only come to me tonight, in my counting room atop the tower, and after I’ve prised out the stones, then the broken blade is yours. It seems the least I can do. And my thanks, for in your way you’ve already answered a riddle I’d have asked of you.”

“Oh?” Tarra raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed. For if you were rightful owner of this hoard in the first place, why surely you’d agonize more over the bulk of the stuff than the mere stump of a sword, not so?”

Tarra shrugged, grinned, winked, and tapped the side of his nose with forefinger. “No wonder you’re king here, Fregg. Aye, and again you’ve gauged your man aright, I fear.”

Fregg roared with laughter. “Good, good!” he chortled. “Very good. So you’re a reaver, too, eh? Well, and what’s a reaver if not an adventurer, which is what you said you were? You took this lot from a caravan, I suppose? No mean feat for a lone wanderer, even a brave and brawny Hrossak.”

“You flatter me,” Tarra protested, and lied: “No, there were ten of us. The men of the caravan fought hard and died well, and I was left with treasure.”

“Well then,” said Fregg. “In that case you’ll not take it so badly. It seems you’re better off to the extent of one camel. As for the treasure: it was someone else’s, became yours, and now has become mine—er, Chlangi’s.”

Tarra sucked his teeth. “So it would seem,” he said.

“Aye,” Fregg nodded. “So count your blessings and go on your way. Chlangi welcomes you if you choose to stay, will not detain you should you decide to move on. The choice is yours.”

“Your hospitality overwhelms me,” said Tarra. “If I had the change I’d celebrate our meeting with a meal and a drink.”

“Pauper, are you?” said Fregg, seeming surprised. And: “What, penniless, an enterprising lad like you? Anyway, I’d warn you off Chlangi’s taverns. Me, I kill my own meat and brew my own wine! But if you’re desperately short you can always sell your blanket. Your camel will keep you warm nights….” And off he strode, laughing.

Which seemed to be an end to that.

Almost….

• • •

Tarra was one of the last to pass out through the courtyard’s gates, which were closed at once on his heels. On his way he’d given the place a narrow-eyed once-over, especially the tumbledown main building and its central tower. So that standing there outside the iron-banded gates, staring up thoughtfully at the high walls, he was startled when a voice barked in his ear: 

“Hrossak, I overheard your conversation with Fregg. Quickly now, tell me, d’you want a meal and a wineskin? And then maybe a safe place to rest your head until tonight? For if you’re thinking of leaving, it would be sheerest folly to try it in broad daylight, despite what Fregg says!”

The speaker was a tiny man, old and gnarly, with an eye-patch over his left eye and a stump for right hand. The latter told a tale in itself: he was a failed thief, probably turned con man. But…. Tarra shrugged. “Any port in a storm,” he said. “Lead on.”

And when they were away from Fregg’s sorry palace and into the old streets of the city proper: “Now what’s all this about not leaving in daylight? I came in daylight, after all.”

“I’m Stumpy Adz,” the old-timer told him. “And if it’s to be known, Stumpy knows it. Odds are you’re watched even now. You’re a defenceless stranger and you own blanket, saddle, camel and gear, and leather scabbard. That’s quite a bit of property for a lad with no friends here, save me.”

“I wear loincloth and sandals, too,” Tarra pointed out. “Are they also lusted after?”

“Likely,” Stumpy Adz nodded. “This is Chlangi, lad, not Kliihn. Anyway, I’ve pillow for your head, cabbage tops and shade for the beast, food and drink for your belly. Deal?”

“What’ll I pay?”

“Blanket’ll do. It’s cold here nights. And as Fregg pointed out: you’ve your camel to keep you warm.”

Tarra sighed but nodded. “Deal. Anyway, I wasn’t planning on leaving till tonight. Fregg’s invited me to call on him in his tower counting house. I have to get my sword back—what’s left of it.”

“Heard that, too,” said Stumpy.
“Huh!”

He led the way into a shady alley and from there through a heavy oak door into a tiny high-walled yard, planked over for roof with a vine bearing grapes and casting cool shade.

“Tether your beast there,” said Stumpy. “Will he do his business?”

“Likely,” said Tarra. “He doesn’t much care where he does it.”

“Good! A treat for the grapevine….”

Tarra looked about. Halfway up one wall was a wooden platform, doubtless Stumpy’s bed (Tarra’s for the rest of the day), and behind the yard a low, tiled hovel built between the walls as if on afterthought. It might one time have been a smithy; cooking smells now drifted out of open door.

“Gulla,” Stumpy called. “A meal for two—and a skin, if you please. Quick, lass, we’ve a visitor.”

Tarra’s ears pricked up. “Lass”? If not the old lad’s wife, then surely his daughter. The latter proved to be the case, but Tarra’s interest rapidly waned. Gulla Adz was comely enough about the face but built like a fortress. Tarra could feel his ribs creaking just looking at her. Looking at
him
,
as she dished out steamy stew in cracked plates atop a tiny table, she made eyes and licked her lips in a manner that made him glad his bed was high off the ground.

Stumpy chased her off, however, and as they ate Tarra asked:

“Why the
‘huh!’
,
eh? Don’t you think Fregg’ll give me back my sword, then?”

“His own, more likely—between your ribs! No, lad, when Fregg takes something it stays took. Also, I fancy he makes his own plans for leaving, and sooner rather than later. I’d make book we’re kingless within a week. And there’ll be no share out, that’s for sure! No, this is just what Fregg’s been waiting for. Him and his bullies’ll take the lot—and then he’ll find a way to ditch them, too.”

“Why should he want to leave?” asked Tarra Khash, innocently. “It seems to me he’s well set up here.”

“He was, he was,” said Stumpy. “But—” and he told Tarra about the Lamia Orbiquita and her assumed demise.

Hearing all, Tarra said nothing—but he fingered twin sores on his neck, like the tiny weeping craters of mosquito bites. Aye, and if what this old lad said about lamias were true, then he must consider himself one very fortunate Hrossak. Fortunate indeed!

“That treasure,” he said when Stumpy was done, “was mine. I’ll not leave without a handful at least. And I want that sword-hilt, with or without its jewels! Can I buy your help, Stumpy, for a nugget of gold? Or perhaps a ruby big enough to fit the socket behind your eye-patch?”

“Depends what you want,” said Stumpy carefully.

“Not much,” Tarra answered. “A good thin rope and grapple, knowledge of the weakest part of the city’s wall, details of Fregg’s palace guards—how many of them, and so forth—and a plan of quickest route from palace, through city, to outer wall. Well?”

“Sounds reasonable,” the oldster nodded, his good eye twinkling.

“Lastly,” said Tarra, “I’ll want a sharp knife, six-inch blade and well balanced.”

“Ah! That’ll cost you an extra nugget.”

“Done!—if I make it. If not…you can keep the camel.” They shook on it left-handed, and each felt he’d met a man to be trusted—within limits.

Following which the Hrossak climbed rickety ladder to shady platform, tossed awhile making his plans, and finally fell asleep….

• • •

Tarra slept until dusk, during which time Stumpy Adz was busy. When the Hrossak awoke Stumpy gave him a throw ing knife and sat down with him, by light of oil lamp and floating wick, to study several parchment sketches. There was meat sizzling over charcoal, too, and a little weak wine in a stone jar beaded with cold moisture. Stumpy lived pretty well, Tarra decided.

As for the Hrossak: he was clear-headed; the stiffness was still in his shoulder but fading fast; the two-pronged bite on his neck had scabbed over and lost its sting. What had been taken out of him was replacing itself, and all seemed in working order.

He took leave of Stumpy’s place at the hour when all cats turn grey and headed for the south gate. At about which time, some three hundred and more miles away in the heart of the Nameless Desert….

Deep, deep below the furnace sands, cooling now that the sun was caught once more in Cthon’s net and drawn down, and while the last kites of evening fanned the air on high—in a crimson cavern with a lava lake, where red imps danced nimbly from island to island in the reek and splash of molten rock—there the Lamia Orbiquita came awake at last and stretched her leathery wings and breathed grate fully of the hot brimstone atmosphere.

She lay cradled in smoking ashes in the middle of a smouldering island which itself lay central in the lava lake; and over her warty, leathery, loathsome form hunched a mighty black lava lump glowing with a red internal life of its own and moulded in perfect likeness of—what else but another lamia? And seeing that infernally fossilized thing crouching over her she knew where she was and remembered how she got here.

The whole thing had been a folly, a farce. First: that she failed to make adequate preparation for her journey when she knew full well that the five-year cycle was nearing its peak, when her powers would wane even as the hated moon waxed. Next: that having allowed the time to creep too close, and most of her powers fled, still she had not used the last of them to call up those serfs of the desert, the djinn, to transport her here; for she scorned all imps—even bottle imps, and even the biggest of them—and hated the thought of being in their debt. Finally: that as her choice of guise under which to travel she had chosen that of beautiful human female, for once the change was made she’d been stuck with that shape and all the hazards that went with it. The choice, however, had not been completely arbitrary; she could take comfort in that, at least. The human female form was small and less cumbersome than that of a dragon; and where girls sometimes got molested and raped, dragons were usually slain! She could have been a lizard, but lizards making a beeline across the desert are easy prey for hawks and such, and anyway she hated crawling on her belly. Flying creature such as harpy or bat were out of the question; since they must needs flit, they could not shade themselves against sun and moon. Her true lamia form was likewise problematic: impossible to shade in flight and cumbersome afoot. And so she had chosen the shape of a beautiful human girl. Anyway, it was her favourite and had served her well for more than a century. The victims she had lured with it were without number. Moreover, yaks and camels did not shy from it.

Ah, well, a lesson learned—but learned so expensively. A veritable string of errors never to be repeated. The ravish ment had been bad enough and the beating worse, but the loss of her rune-book and ring were disasters of the first magnitude. Orbiquita’s memory was not the best and the runes of metamorphosis were anything but easy. As for the ring: that had been gifted to her by her father, Mylakhrion of Tharamoon. She could not bear to be without it. Indeed, of the entire episode the one thing she did not regret was the Hrossak. Odd, that….