Beasts of Antares (19 page)

The people moving slowly on the boulevards and sitting at the tables all wore a pinched look, a grayish cast to their gizzards. They spoke in high-pitched voices, and laughed a great deal, with exaggerated gestures. They fooled no one. They were not in the Jikhorkdun, and therefore were, for the time being, out of the main pulsating current of life.

We sat down to eat. This was a good time for service. Nothing much happened outside the Jikhorkdun when the games were on.

The Jikhorkdun itself comprised all the inner courts and practice yards, the barracks, the cells, the animal cages and, as the focal point of all the effort, the arena within the great amphitheater. My job was to get Tilly, Oby and Naghan the Gnat out safely. Before that, I must make sure of a voller. Despite the importance of airboats to Vallia, I would not jeopardize my task of freeing my friends for the sake of a single flier. First things first.

“I am not an overly religious man, Jak,” said Unmok, leaning back, “but sometimes I question the judgment of Ochenshum in arranging my life for me. As for Havil the Green, I think his days are numbered.”

“How so?”

“Why, did you not hear that Vad Noran and his crony. Callimark? It was Flem this and Glem that, and anything-lem, all the time.”

I knew exactly what Unmok was talking about. I felt the hateful repugnance for the evil cult of Lem the Silver Leem. I looked hard at Unmok, hoping he was not involved with that blasphemy. Right or wrong, my friends and I had determined that Lem the Silver Leem should never sully Vallia.

“Some secret religion of theirs. I’ve heard of it vaguely.” Unmok’s middle left stump twitched. “I know nothing of it and wish to know nothing. But there’s a lot of it about.”

“From what I know,” I said, speaking with caution, “I fancy even Havil the Green is preferable.”

“Every week you hear of babies gone missing.”

I buried my face in squish pie. My thoughts were far too black and my face would have expressed my murderous feelings for the monsters who butchered babies to the greater glory of the Silver Leem.

We had managed to rid the martial race of Canops of the cult of Lem the Silver Leem, and the whole nation had been peacefully resettled on the island of Canopjik, situated at the mouth of the Gulf of Wracks which leads from the Ocean of Clouds into the Shrouded Sea. The island was considerably larger than their original home of Canopdrin and they flourished and maintained friendly relations with Migladrin, among other peoples and nations of the Shrouded Sea and the Dawn Lands.

When our meal was finished, Unmok said he would go to see a client who, because of an indisposition, was confined to his bed and unable to take his reserved seat in the amphitheater. I excused myself with a vague comment that Unmok would make a better fist of it than I. I sauntered along the boulevard with the infernal din from the arena booming like the thunder of the Ice Floes of Sicce. The noise rose and faded away and each punctuation marked the end of some poor devil on the blood-soaked silver sand.

Vollers cost money.

After my adventures the money remaining would not buy me the kind of voller I required, even if I could find someone to sell the craft. Production was tightly controlled, and the information that Vad Noran was engaged in voller manufacture came as a revelation to me.

So that meant I would have to liberate an airboat. I have done this before and was to do it again. All the same, I fancied in this case I’d recompense the person from whom I borrowed the flier. That seemed only fair. Vallia was not at war with Hyrklana. Ludicrous though the notion may be, it does have weight, this idea that stealing from one’s enemies is not stealing in the true meaning of the word. Well, it is not, true, but you have to ponder the question and, sometimes, come up with unpalatable answers.

While the blood-antics went on in the arena was as good a time as any and better than most for work of this nefarious nature. The flierdrome I selected lay beyond the Walls of the Sapphire, between them and the new walls. The suns burned down as I walked gently along. Unmok had been as good as his word, and I wore decent Hyrklanan clothes: a blue tunic, a gray wraparound and high-thonged sandals. I wore only the thraxter — and my old knife, of course — and had left the rapier and dagger at our camp.

Many roofs jumbled below me in a little valley. On the flat ground to the side rested many airboats, of different descriptions but all of a moderate size. It slowly dawned on me as I approached that this was now a factory as well as a flierdrome.

Large numbers of slaves were in evidence as well as men of the artisan class, those they call guls in Hamal. The place looked busy. Here they built airboats for Hamal. Guards patrolled, mostly Rhaclaws and Rapas; but I fancied I could elude them for the vital amount of time required.

The blue tunic and gray wraparound were detestable garments. But they had their part to play. Passing through the shadows of an outlying block with a gate and a guard before me, I stopped. Because there are two suns in the sky of Kregen everyone expects everything to have two shadows. So the word for shadow, umshal, is a plural, rather naturally. In a room where there is a single lamp, or at the times of solar eclipses, when a Kregan wishes to talk of a single shadow, he will say a nikumshal, half-shadows. In the shadows I put on a new face, as Deb-Lu had instructed me. The bees began to sting, but I would have to endure that. I marched briskly on.

“Lahal, dom,” I said as I came up to the guard. He was a cat-faced Fristle, bored and yawning, wishing he was in the Jikhorkdun — as a spectator! My use of the familiar word dom, pal, half disarmed him. I rattled on. “Vad Noran sent me, urgent word within — you know how it is with these notors.”

“Aye, dom, I do know. What is the latest?”

I had my wits enough about me to know what he was on about. I improvised as only an old kaidur could. I told him that one bout had seen off twenty Brokelsh coys and not a hair of the heads of their opponents scratched. This Fristle wore a blue favor. So I added to flavor the dish, “And the blues are doing well so, as a red, you will pardon me from laughing.”

He laughed and opened the gate and I went through.

Strutting along with the importance of the petty official about business, I penetrated between the buildings, and penetrated is a good word, there, by Krun! The place was alive with men and women scurrying about. The slaves ran. The guls walked to show their free status. The sounds of hammering and sawing floated from various buildings. This was Sumbakir on a large scale.

If I knew nothing at all about voller production, I knew that the silver boxes would not be made and filled here. They’d be freighted in for fitting to the vollers. Rhaclaw guards prowled. I ignored them, and my nose went up a few inches. The right petty bureaucrat, me!

My face was beginning to sting uncomfortably, but I did not want to relax in case I did not put on exactly the same face again.

Rounding a corner I looked up at the edge of the flat area. Steps led up. Only one Rhaclaw guarded them, and he was more interested in the lines of slaves hauling half-built vollers up to the finishing sheds crowning the edge. The slaves made a din. I judged that the valley had been chosen as the site because it was thought easier to defend against aerial attack. Towers studded the place, and archers moved in the fighting tops. They’d shaft an aerial attack, and they’d shaft runaway slaves. And — they’d shaft clean through anyone who attempted to steal a voller.

My lips drew down in that new face. This was not looking good.

Well, as long as I was here I might as well see how far I could get.

Now the weird thing was, and I swear this is absolutely true, as Zair is my witness!, the fact of stealing a voller and the story I had told, or rather hinted at, to Vad Noran brought vivid impressions into my mind. As I started up the slope I was thinking of Prince Tyfar and of Jaezila.

Prince Tyfar and I had gone through a few adventures together and he was a good comrade. Also, he was a Prince of Hamal, which was unfortunate. The son of Prince Nedfar of Hamal, Tyfar was intelligent, studious, a lover of good books, honorable and upright. Also he was a superb axeman. He’d gone back to Hamal after our last adventures and, I confess, I missed his company.

As for Jaezila — well, now! That commanding and beautiful woman, mistress of the bow and the sword, had plagued Tyfar cruelly with her manner and her willfulness. She worked for Hamal, although I was not certain she was Hamalese, and had been attempting to obtain fliers for the Empress Thyllis. She was a marvel, that girl, ravishing, alluring and damned temperamental, as Tyfar had discovered. When we’d been forcibly parted she could easily have gone with Tyfar back to Hamal, and there made the shattering discovery that the ninny she so contumed was a noble prince and highly thought of. I’d have liked to have witnessed that revelation, by Vox!

Maintaining that brisk gait I ascended the stairs. The Rhaclaw half turned to look. His leather armor was liberally studded with bronze and he carried a stux, one of the throwing spears that can burst clear through you. He was a Rhaclaw, a race of diffs more commonly found in Havilfar, with the enormous domed head fully as wide as his shoulders. He looked at me suspiciously.

I started my rigmarole of bearing a message as I neared him. As I reached the top, I paused, theatrically holding my side and gasping for breath.

“My Havil! That climb takes it out of a fellow.”

“You have no business here—”

Beyond him and beyond the edge of the finishing sheds I could see row after row of vollers. These were all the same, over at this end of the field. Six-place fliers, they were military craft, most useful for scouting purposes with enough punch if they got into a tight squeeze to scrape clear.

“Wait a minute, dom, till I get my breath.”

“You have no business.” He didn’t bother to finish talking to me. He half turned and opened his letter box of a mouth. He was going to holler for the Deldar of the guard.

So, unwillingly, I leaped forward and laid him down gently enough, and then ran on leaving him slumbering.

Security at this voller factory was not so slack as I’d assumed.

A hell of a racket began. As I ran I realized this was a bedlam of bells and gongs and ratcheted clackers, all kicking up their own brand of inferno. A file of Rapas doubled around the end of the finishing shed. Evidently, each sentry post was overseen by the next. Some system of checking could alone account for the rumpus.

If I could reach a voller...

Guards were running from every which way. They sprang up all over the field like dragon’s teeth.

I’d never reach a voller now... The finishing shed was the only cover. Instantly, I turned and hared off for the shadows.

Once aboard the voller and the girl is mine... The silly jingle kept running around in my head.

For a factory, the finishing shed proved to be a handsome building. Its eaves projected. I went into the shadows like a fish diving under a weir. Inside the shed the dimness could not be allowed to hinder me. Slaves started to yell, and the evil sound of whips and that hateful word “Grak!” burst out. I straddled three overseers who would awake wondering what had hit them. I hared on, running flat out, making for the far end.

Down both sides of the shed the bulks of vollers lay waiting for the final touches. No doubt here was where the silver boxes were fitted. If I got out of this in one piece it might pay to return here and investigate the mysterious silver boxes. A Rapa leaped at me, his thraxter a glimmering bar of steel. I slid his brand, chopped him in the wattles, jumped and ran on.

The pack hullabalooed after me.

If this was an example of how Dray Prescot liberated a voller, then Zair help him!

Out the far door, no time to blink at the blaze of suns shine. The next shed’s open door gaped an invitation.

Inside this one they were building a very large vessel. Very large indeed. Although not as huge as a Hamalese skyship, she towered up to the beams of the roof, and her bulk swelled to allow an alleyway at each side. Here slaves and guls labored to put the finishing touches to the hull.

There was no time to stop.

Then the thought occurred to me. Up to now thought had played little part...

I went up the nearest ladder and dived into the ship.

She was a fine craft. No doubt of that. Even in this uncompleted state, with holes in the decks and planks and ladders everywhere, sawdust and shavings strewing the decks, paint pots and buckets and all the bric-a-brac of ship construction lumbering the clearways, she still held a good line, still conveyed the sense of the power she would wield in the skies.

Noises inside echoed like gongs in a cathedral. Light fell confusedly. I hurried along. My face was now a blazing pain. To hell with it! With a feeling of enormous relief I let my new face disappear, and my own old beakhead of a face glowered out. Disguise is all very well. But there are limits...!

The gray wraparound had served its purpose. I unwrapped it and chucked it into a waste bin among oily trash. Now I looked like any horter, with a decent dark-red breechclout and a blue tunic reaching to mid-thigh. I hitched up the thraxter. The weapon had not yet been drawn.

A deal of noise spurted up from aft and below. This was noise not of slaves arguing among themselves or guls telling the slaves what to do, but of guards searching around for their quarry which had — for the moment — eluded them.

One thing I was certain of: I’d done the right thing in running. I’d never have talked my way out of that mess.

Down a corridor that was just about finished, apart from a lick of paint, I marched on smartly. At the end there would be a companionway down and I could emerge from any of the holes being filled with varters, or reach the lower fighting galleries and descend to the shed floor from there.

Voices reached me from ahead. I did not stop. Now I could bluff from an entirely new hand. News would not have reached this far yet.

Light shafted down from a broad opening in the deck above. People stood in a group in the center of the radiance. Some held plans, which they slanted to catch the light. A big fellow with a mass of dark hair was gesticulating around and jabbing the plan. Another man was standing a little to one side looking at the carpenters’ work on the near bulkhead, and he turned back to speak to the big fellow with the plans.