Dark Crusade (17 page)

Cautiously Jarvo slipped into the wagon, opened the chest beside his bed. The familiar phial waited conveniently on top. Forcing his hands to steadiness, Jarvo poured out a measure of powdered cinchona bark, washed the bitter drug down with a swallow of water.

Orted Ak-Ceddi inhaled a tiny portion of pulverized coca leaves from the back of his thumb. Snorted, sneezed, swallowed. He gulped a mouthful of brandy to remove the bitterness that penetrated before numbness settled over his nose and throat.

The tingling rush of cocaine glowed through his cramped limbs, obliterating the dullness of sleep as a flame touches spiderweb. He rubbed his face, refreshed as the last vestiges of hangover melted away. Beside him on the bed, Esketra made plaintive noises without awakening. Orted looked down at her naked body, dispassionately, as a sated reveller stirs and contemplates the remains of a feast, dully wonders how the banquet was passed.

Pulling on a silken robe, the Prophet padded across to a high window, drew aside the heavy curtains. Daylight flooded the chamber, but no shadow fell back from the man who stood framed in the aperture.

It was well past noon, not surprisingly--it had been dawn when Orted had called to Esketra and left the banquet hall. Kane had wished him a good night; it annoyed Orted that his hulking general seemed unaffected by the hours of carousal.

The memory of Kane drew Orted's eyes to the veil of smoke beyond Ingoldi's walls. The smoke of a thousand fires. The Sword of Sataki had returned to Ingoldi, driving before it a numberless army of neophytes from the conquered cities of the southern kingdoms. Orted thought upon the treasure-laden train of wagons that had rolled endlessly through the gates of Ceddi. Were it not for the expenses of waging war, his fortress would surely lie buried beneath an avalanche of gold by now--even as the walls of Ingoldi swelled to bursting from the ever-growing press of new worshippers.

Tonight another great banquet in honor of the endless victories of the Dark Crusade. In honor of Kane.

Orted frowned at the smoky pall of Kane's camp. What was the hidden motive of Kane's return? The Prophet's spies reported that certain elements within Shapeli already whispered that Kane might rule an empire as well as lead an army...

Orted dug another pinch of powdered coca leaves from his golden snuffbox. Kane had served him well--thus far. But each knew they played a deadly game, and neither intended to lose. Orted snuffed, rubbed his nose, and smiled thinly. A game, but the rules were his own, and Kane might have cause to regret his triumphal march into Ceddi.

Replacing the snuffbox, Orted reached for his goblet.

Kane drained the chalice and set it negligently aside. The die he had just cast showed two. Reaching across the table, he moved one of the featureless jade cubes one space across the hexagonally patterned gameboard.

Across the table from him, Colonel Alain, his second-in-command, grunted in his yellow beard and cast the die in turn. Five. He studied the board in silence, finally moved one of the jade cubes one space across, to confront the piece Kane had just moved.

He pursed his lips. "Challenge."

"Accepted." Kane turned the jade cube over, revealing a three. Alain did likewise with his piece: a four. Kane removed Alain's piece, reversed his own and edged it into the vacated space. Alain ruefully scratched his beard; of his twenty-one pieces, Kane now had captured nine, against losing two.

"Go on with your report," prompted Kane, reaching for the die.

Dolnes tore his attention away from the gameboard, shrugged his squat shoulders. "That's all of it."

Kane cast a three, hesitated an instant, then withdrew an advanced piece one space. He turned again to his spy.

"Is it? You're certain she's the one?"

"As certain as I can be," Dolnes assured him. "You got to remember it's damn near impossible getting any kind of information. Things have just been too torn apart and kicked around here. No records of anything, generally too few survivors left to talk. You got to find people who might know, who might remember, and who might even talk about it. And asking questions is about as safe work as doing stand-in for a sabre drill dummy."

"I know the difficulties," Kane said coldly. "If it were simple, I'd not be paying you so generously." He added: "Paying for results."

"Well, she's the one you want--near as I can tell without asking her."

"That isn't necessary," said Kane, moving another piece. "Challenge."

"Denied," Alain grudgingly decided. He withdrew his piece to the rear, and Kane occupied the contested space.

"What does the die determine?" Dolnes asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"From which face of the hexagon a piece can be moved," Kane told him. "You can find the girl, I assume."

"Of course." Dolnes studied the strange board. "How are the pieces ranked?"

"One is of the highest order, descending to six. There are as many of each rank as each piece's numerical value."

"I'm not familiar with this game," Dolnes commented, intrigued.

"It's quite old," Kane told him drily. "I want this girl brought to me. Tonight. Without fail. Colonel Alain will assign you men for the task."

Dolnes nodded. "The pieces all look alike. How can you tell the value of each piece as you move them about?"

"Through memory," Kane advised. "Coupled with a lot of deduction and guesswork. And you can always challenge."

"What if you guess wrong?"

"What do you think?" said Kane.

The command performance of The Invincible March of the Sword of Sataki was a huge success. That the audience was drunkenly exuberant may have helped. Certainly the aloof, black-clad priests would never have given vent to such raucous applause.

Within the Prophet's citadel, one end of the great hall had been cleared, and a stage set up. As the evening wore on, wagonloads of sets and costumes rolled into Ceddi, accompanied by actors, chorus, and as many others of the guild who could find excuse to share in the Prophet's lavish entertainment. By the time the main courses were picked bones, the audience was in a boisterous spirit, and the performers were anxious to begin.

The pageant itself was a long, loud, tumultuous affair--basically a series of tableaus and processions, interspersed with dramatic speeches and noisy sham battles. A narrator supplied continuity and interpreted the action, while the chorus shouted chants and battle songs, musicians battered their instruments, and the stage crew dashed about with sets and sound effects. The overall effect was somewhere in between a morality play, a travesty, and a free-for-all. The audience responded with enthusiastic shouts and catcalls.

The performers were elaborately costumed and masked, clad in lightweight stage armor and brandishing wooden weapons. Cavalrymen galloped about with wickerwork horses suspended from their shoulders. With as many as forty or fifty performers onstage in a given battle--all shouting and laying about and rushing back and forth--the uproar was deafening. Most parts were indistinguishable, so that the slain rank and file rose again between scenes, to do battle and be slain again. Key figures in the drama often had speaking roles--usually soliloquies and dramatic speeches--delivered center-stage with extravagant gestures and posturing.

The character portraying Orted Ak-Ceddi had the lead role--a tall figure in black silks who made numerous stirring declamations, and who always charged fearlessly about in the fore of each battle. However, most of the audience preferred the Kane--a beefy actor in oversized armor, who forever rushed about shouting commands and imprecations, crushing all who stood before him. Minor roles went to important officers, brave and courageous men all, and to the leaders of the enemy forces, rotten and cowardly to a man.

The role of Jarvo, portrayed by one Insiemo, was typical of the latter--part buffoon, part dastard. While Jarvo's armor would turn up again on half a dozen other players as the pageant wore on, the Sandotneri archvillain was easily recognizable by his scarred face, gruesomely exaggerated with stage make-up. In addition Insiemo wore an absurd blond wig, heel pads within his sollerets to increase his height, and spoke in a high, lisping voice. It was an excellent impersonation, a favorite of the audiences, and his efforts were applauded with loud boos and yells.

Jarvo made a short, cackling speech about how he would blaspheme Sataki and crush the Dark Crusade. Laughing fiendishly, he cavorted about the stage butchering unarmed peasants and mothers who crouched over shrieking children.

A pause to shift sets and for the dead to scramble back to the wings, during which the narrator droned on, and the chorus chanted dirges and calls to battle. Kane and Orted appeared at center stage, made long and improbable speeches, embraced in friendship. Kane raised his sword. Newly resurrected actors in mail and armor rushed to join him, stage horses swaying about their hips. Kane marched them all about the stage, their ranks swelling, everyone loudly singing "The Sword of Sataki Is Drawn." The audience cheered and joined in.

Again a shift of sets. From the opposite wing, Jarvo and his band of killers strutted onto stage. At the sight of the Sword of Sataki, boldly riding forth from the other wing, the Sandotneri cavalry halted in disorder. Jarvo squealed and rushed about in fright, shouting for his men to protect him. Useless. The Sword of Sataki swept across the stage, knocking over the panic-stricken Sandotneri troopers with joyful mayhem. Jarvo capered all about, seeking escape--only to blunder up against Kane's charge. Shrieking for mercy, for Sataki to forgive him, Jarvo died wretchedly beneath Kane's wooden ax and a tumult of shouts and jeers.

The pageant had an hour yet to drag on, but Jarvo's part was finished. Grimly he stripped off his costume and armor, while Kane and the victorious Sword of Sataki marched about the stage and sang "The Sword of Sataki Strikes True." Technically Jarvo should remain with the troupe to assist with sets and costumes, serve as an extra in forthcoming battles--but everyone connected with the guild who could con a pass was here for the performance, and he would not be missed.

As part of the gala, the celebrators wore fanciful masks--covering only the upper half of their faces, so as not to interfere with dining and drink. Jarvo peeled off his wig and stage make-up, appropriated an elegant, not-too-threadbare doublet from the costume store, and carefully adjusted the mask he had brought with him. It was a waxen caricature of his own face.

So accoutred, he slipped away from the backstage confusion, moving into the shadows of the great hall to mingle with the servants and guests. After the pageant, there would be acrobats and dancers, more drinking and general carousal. The performers could join in, so long as they held in the background. No one would remark upon him, and in the milling throng he could find a way to reach Esketra.

Beyond that, Jarvo had no firm plans. His first great gamble was won, however--neither Kane nor any of the others had seen anything amiss in the Jarvo who pranced about the stage. Why should they suspect, after all? Jarvo was dead. Yet, with Kane...

No matter. Luck was with him tonight. The fever had subsided to only a heady surge of his blood. He had penetrated undetected into the stronghold of his enemies. When he reached Esketra, they would find a way. In the drunkenness and revelry, and the confusion of packing up after the performance, anything was possible.

Accepting a goblet of wine from a servant, Jarvo confidently swaggered through the shadows surrounding the banquet tables. There were several hundreds of seated guests--officers of the Sword of Sataki, along with officers of the Defenders of Sataki and of the growing regiments of the Prophet's infantry. Others of the Prophet's flatterers and advisors joined in the banquet, along with other important personages. Also seated, but not joining in the hilarity, were numerous of the black-robed priests of Sataki. Whatever their thoughts of the raucous dissipation that reigned in their ancient sanctuary, their faces remained hidden within the shadow of their cowls. Beyond the tables were gathered a jostling fringe of servants and retainers, personages of lesser rank, stray entertainers, guards, and, doubtless, spies.

Jarvo took a position beside a column from which he could view the high table. Kane was there, his massive presence unmistakable despite the lion mask. He sat at the right of Orted Ak-Ceddi, the latter wearing a mask of featureless black. Apart from the increasing gaiety, they appeared to be arguing tersely. For all Jarvo's anxiety, they were completely ignoring the pageant.

To the Prophet's left--Jarvo's blood roared through his temples. The kite's mask could not conceal the proud features of Esketra.

Kane's temper was smouldering beneath the double mask of lion fur and of politesse. He wanted better than supercilious evasions to his questions, and the Prophet was not to oblige him.

"But it's foolhardy to continue our advance," Kane growled.

"Why not?" Orted demanded. "We're winning every battle. Keep after them until the last city has fallen."

"Yes, and we take casualties with every victory, too. I need more men, more horses, more..."

"I've sent you reinforcements by the thousands."

"I need still more. The farther our front moves from Shapeli, the more men I have to detach to guard our rear and to keep supply lines open. Damn it, I've cut a near thousand-mile swath through the southern kingdoms as things now stand."

"And you can go a thousand miles farther," Orted cut him off.

"Do you have any conception what that kind of distance means in terms of an army on horseback? This isn't a jog across the parade ground. It means long weeks, months in the saddle--foraging for food and water as supply lines grow uncertain, cutting across mile after mile of hostile country."

"This is the Dark Crusade, Kane--not a raiding party. If you can't solve simple military problems, I'll find someone who can."

"The solution is evident," Kane snarled. "I need more cavalry, and I need time to consolidate the territories we've won."

"I'll see that you get what you need," Orted promised curtly.