Beasts of Antares (12 page)

“I’d like to see Seg before I start,” said Turko. “But I don’t think it possible. By Morro the Muscle! I miss that man!”

“Me, too.”

“And it’s a pity Voinderam couldn’t cork it until the legal bokkertu was settled. I was counting on him. He is rated as a swordsman — not that swordsmen mean—”

“Quite.”

He smiled. “No, Dray. I mean Voinderam took up with the shield; he saw the possibilities early. He has gained a fine reputation as a churgur. I believe he would have put some useful regiments into the field.”

“Sword and shield men are still thin on the ground, I agree. But the Vallians are learning.”

And so was I. I tried to cram a hundred burs into every Kregan day, which Opaz has decided should hold but forty-eight. Drak and Farris and the Presidio ought to be able to handle affairs while I was away. By Vox! They had done it before, and for all my own long-faced doubts, what we had of Vallia was in better shape than anything seen for seasons. For all the work I did, I was not indispensable as an emperor. And that was the way I wanted it to be.

As always when Delia was in Vondium with me, the efforts proved not only more worthwhile but also much easier. Jilian trailed back to the city, swearing and swishing her wicked claw about, completely foxed. The elopers had run away and vanished.

The Lady Zenobya proved popular in the assemblies and balls. Filbarrka hung about the city, working on plans for the cavalry force of freedmen. Nath Karidge took delivery of his six hundred first-class zorcas and the EDLG grew as prime men came in.

Although I had promised myself I’d leave as soon as Turko flew off with his army, I now delayed my own departure until the EDLG had been properly raised, formed, and put into a reasonable state of readiness. This was one kind of excuse I did not need for myself.

Delia designed the uniform. I was delighted. It carried the brave old scarlet well, with yellow trim and a decent area of darker colors — varying with squadron — to set off the dashing effect. Guidons loaded with bullion were presented to the standard bearers of each squadron. The trumpets were of silver — we vetoed gold on the scores of weight and tone. Yes, the Empress’s Devoted Life Guard, glittering, polished, prancing on nimble zorcas, looked a superb regiment. They were not mere ornaments. Each trooper was a kampeon. They would give of their loyalty to Delia; they’d fight for her. They’d fight to the death.

Turko and Korero had agreed to disagree. Turko, as a kov, had a task. But he kept on trying to tell Korero what to do, the better to protect me with his shields.

Korero pulled his golden beard with his tail hand and said, “It is just as well we are leaving.”

And then Turko said the right thing, and they were friends again.

“I could do with a regiment like the EDLG with me, up in Falinur,” said Turko wistfully, as the guidons were presented. Korero nudged him. At once, Turko went on, “But, by Morro the Muscle! The Empress demands the best there is in all Vallia!”

Because I am weak in some matters, I gravely acceded to Tom Arclay’s request to accompany Kov Turko of Falinur.

I had done what had to be done over the death of Travok.

I will not detail the events, but I felt no slackening of my anger, my contempt. The world was not a just place, not Earth, not Kregen. And the fact that I had been in no real danger, hanging over the side of
Opazfaril,
must never be revealed. If Tom knew that he had sacrificed his twin brother’s life in vain...!

So, in my weakness and selfishness, I was glad to know Tom would be flying off with Turko. That great Khamorro would look out for Tom Arclay, now, with a special fervor.

But he had something else on his mind.

We were sprawled on the mat in the gymnasium, having contorted ourselves in a few falls, and tied ourselves in knots. Turko sat up and blew his cheeks out.

“They don’t go in for the martial arts in Hyrklana, Dray? No unarmed combat in the arena?”

I shook my head.

“It’s edged and pointed weapons. When you are lucky enough to be given them. Sometimes in the Jikhorkdun you are sent against wild beasts with your bare hands.”

“Well...? That would be—”

“Ghastly. I have seen it.”

So he said, “So, my old dom, you keep well away from the Jikhorkdun in Huringa—”

I found a craggy smile. “Deb-Lu-Quienyin told me that our friends are involved with the Jikhorkdun again.”

“No!”

“I shall gather more details before I go. It’s not the arena in the Jikhorkdun that bothers me so much. I just hope fat Queen Fahia and her neemus do not get a scent of me.”

Then we indulged in a few more falls, the skills and disciplines of the Khamsters pitted against those of the Krozairs, and both learning from each other. Queen Fahia’s pet neemus, feral, treacherous, black as a night of Notor Zan, decorated the steps of her throne. I was not enamored of the idea of seeing Fahia again or renewing acquaintance with her pets.

The moment Drak arrived I knew I’d be surrounded by an orgy of back-slapping, arm-wrenching, uproarious hullabaloo as my comrades of the First Emperor’s Sword Watch renewed their acquaintance with me. I knew they felt pushed away from me, almost slighted, but I’d impressed them forcibly with the notion that their duty lay with Drak, seeing that he was the one fighting the war up there. Now nothing would keep those ruffians of 1ESW from standing watch over me, as in the old days. Certainly, 2ESW would not. Nor would the Yellow Jackets, who would return with Drak. These kampeons felt they had a divine right to put their own bodies between me and the deadly shaft, the murderous sword. I was not happy about that, as you know; but I had to accept the needle, as they say on Kregen.

An interesting strand of the past was revealed to me at that time. Among the many people I saw every day on business of one sort or another there were always a score or so who came offering their swords, seeking a particular favor. I tried to accommodate them all, according to their merits.

One limber fellow was wheeled in during the bur I put aside for this purpose — the waiting room was always filled and Enevon would allow no golden corruption to seek preference — and I sized him up. The pakzhan glittered at his throat. His pakai was coiled around his shoulder three times, that mercenary’s record of trophies, the string of victory rings. His face was hard — as it would be, it would be! — and he held himself alert. He wore a tufted goat-like beard. He looked at me forthrightly.

“Koter Ian Vandrop, majister! Known to myself as Ian the Onker, for not having returned to Vondium sooner.”

This could be flannel, of course. But he looked likely. More than likely. He was hyr-paktun, experienced, with his tally of kills.

I quizzed him on his service and learned he had served all over Paz, our grouping of continents and islands on this side of Kregen. He would find employment with me.

“But not as a mercenary. You are a Vallian.”

“I almost forgot that, majister. But my father—”

“Vandrop?” There was the Bower of the Scented Lotus, a middling establishment at a crossroads of Southern Vondium, a fine place to take the Baths of the Nine. It had been smashed to smithereens in the Time of the Troubles. And Koter Vandrop had worn a goat-beard just like this strapping hyr-paktun.

“If I mentioned the names of Urban the Gloves and Travok Ott, Fat Ortyg — and the Bower of the Scented Lotus? Your father wore a goats-beard tuft as you do?”

He shook his head. “My father was clean-shaven, except when he awoke in the morning, a red-faced, serious, swearing man.”

I was about to brush this misplaced episode from the past aside when the hyr-paktun Ian Vandrop went on.

“My grandfather, may Opaz light his days, had a beard like mine, so I am told, and he patronized the Scented Lotus.”

Well, time flies, time flies. Grandfather...

“For the kindness shown by your grandfather, koter, I shall appoint you to the Emperor’s Yellow Jackets, if you so desire. An ob-Hikdar to start with. You’ll be a Jiktar in no time. There are recruits to train up—” I stopped as he looked puzzled.

“I thank you, majister, it is munificent. But — grandfather never said he met the Emperor of Vallia!”

“He is well, I trust?”

“He is with Opaz, majister, and well, I sincerely believe.”

“He will be. He was a kind man. Opaz will have him in his keeping.”

I mention this incident because it closed a past chapter — well, half-closed it. There were many men willing to serve. Vallia’s prodigal sons were returning home. The word that Vallia no longer employed mercenaries had spread. Also, word that the Vallian army gained repute also spread. The lads who had gone overseas to seek their fortunes, adventures and gold, now flocked back to Vallia to stem the invasions of her foes.

Everyone was needed. Ian Vandrop was worth a regiment, because he would train and command a regiment in the bloody battles to come.

What I had visualized when those happy maniacs of mine returned to Vondium with Drak transpired. Oh, yes...

Talk about a riot. Carouse, bender, splurge, debauch — the uproar went on for a sennight, at least. Mind you, during the day I worked, as usual, and they went on parade, staying upright by the simple force of will. Their names you know — many of them. There were new faces in the ranks. The two corps, the Sword Watch and the Yellow Jackets, were not just pretty, dressed-up guardsmen or tough fighting men, they were very much cadres for teaching warrior skills and for infusing the spirit of the emperor’s jurukkers into the whole army.

But that worthy objective must be seen in its true perspective, for the Vallian Army now possessed its own traditions and spirit. Created from nothing, building on courage and devotion, growing from guerrilla bands, the army flowered as experience matured it. Certainly the job would have been immeasurably harder had we not been able to call on the services and advice and training skills of my Freedom Fighters of Valka. And returning mercenaries, scarred with seasons of campaigning, added to our cadres. But the job would have been done. The Vallian Freedom Army was of Vallia. That was the lesson and the victory.

The daylight never lasted long enough; the lights of Kregen’s moons shone upon our labors. And through it all, I began to see the approach of the day when I could leave for Hyrklana. Deb-Lu-Quienyin returned to Vondium with Drak and was long closeted with Khe-Hi-Bjanching. When they saw me they looked much more relaxed than I would have expected.

“We are now convinced that the interference of Phu-Si-Yantong — for it was he — had no connection with the elopement of the Lady Fransha and Ortyg Voinderam.”

I stared. “Then, why did he exert all that force?”

They both started to speak, halted, and I said, “Deb-Lu?”

“We are aware of Yantong’s insane desire to rule all of Paz, rule it physically, that is. Mad, mad. He has to try to break down the occult shield we have erected. The concepts are difficult for one who is not a sorcerer—”

“One who,” put in Bjanching, “is not a Wizard of Loh.”

“True. We are engaged in a battle on the ethereal planes, to put it crudely, and this attack was a reconnaissance in force.”

“And there is no news of Fransha and Ortyg?”

“A Wizard of Loh needs knowledge of those he seeks in lupu — personal acquaintance, some artifact, a portion of themselves, the proverbial lock of hair, for instance—”

“But you discovered the whereabouts of my friends—”

“Yes, yes, majister. But they were sent to their destinations by sorcerous power.” Here both Wizards of Loh looked uncomfortable. Well, I knew that the Savanti nal Aphrasöe scared the hell out of any sorcerer. “I could follow that. We thought Yantong had had a hand in this elopement and that we could follow his trail. But he did not.”

“So Voinderam and Fransha are gone — and no one knows where?”

They nodded.

I said, “I shall reinforce Kov Turko’s army. We’ll have to hit Layco Jhansi so hard we start him running clear across Vennar and rush him up and into Racterland. And Kov Seg will attack from the east. It’ll be a fine old argy-bargy while it’s going on. But I’ll be back from Hyrklana by then.”

The sheer size of Vallia and our limited transport would give me ample time down south in Hyrklana to get our friends out and see about vollers before we hit Jhansi and the Racters.

It was at this time that the question of Barty Vessler’s will came before the courts.

He had left everything to Dayra.

He had been the last of his line, the Strom of Calimbrev, and, as far as the courts could see, any other heirs there might have been were all dead. I sent three men to the island of Calimbrev to hold the place in trust for Dayra. Also, I arranged with Tom Tomor in Valka to send a few regiments as security. I sent Pallan Nogan Westmin, a loyal member of the Presidio. Although folk do not change much over their better than two hundred or so years of life on Kregen, there is an odd strain, probably non-hereditary, affecting hair. Some people, men and women both, go gray and then white. It has nothing to do with senility. Pallan Westmin had shining silvery hair. It is not particularly common.

I sent an imperial Justicar, Nazab Vantile, an energetic man bucking for a bigger province in the imperial service.

I sent Chuktar Logu Le-Ka, who as a Pachak had given nikobi, the Pachak code of loyalty. He was now a Vallian citizen, with an estate and a fair income, and as a commander in the army would take control of the forces in Calimbrev.

All this I did for my daughter Dayra, yes, to keep her inheritance intact from those who might seek to snatch it away from her. But I truly think I did it as much — even more — out of remembrance of Barty Vessler. He had wanted this. I would do my utmost to make sure his wishes were carried out.

There is a theory or philosophy — to dignify the notion — sincerely believed in by those who hold to it that all problems will solve themselves. They can point to planning and interference by government or whomever and call attention to the resultant shambles. They appear to have a strong case. Laissez-faire, as a system, has been discredited but the tightly planned economies that have attempted to replace that way of going on have fared no better. Dictatorship, where one person wields the chop, or democracy, where everyone gets to shoot his own arrow, as they say on Kregen, is not to everyone’s taste. That old devil power rears his ugly and fascinating head.