Omens of Kregen (17 page)

When it was all over, we waved our open hands to sweep the clinging dust away and to gain a little fresh air. The light remained level and constant, not as brightly yellow as in some of the rooms but amply sufficient for our needs.

Seg shook his wild black hair back.

“By the Veiled Froyvil! I never was fond of skelebones!”

“They’ll do for you,” ground out Loriman. “I have hunted them before. If they fasten their jaws in you — you’re done for.”

“I,” put in Nath the Impenitent, “have not fought these skelebones of yours before this, having always lived a rational life. By Chozputz! One does see life down here!”

“And death, if you don’t jump sharp enough.” Loriman abruptly turned from being a normal decent comrade into the domineering Hunting Kov as he bellowed at his retainers: “Collect up your bundles, you lazy cramphs!”

Then he swung back to glare haughtily at me.

“I said I had seen you before, Jak, the Bogandur, although you were not dubbed the Bogandur then. I thought you dead.”

“You got out past the statue of Kranlil the Reaper,” I said. “Yes.”

He sucked in a breath. He stared at me as though I’d risen from the grave before his eyes just like those poor damned skelebones.

Then he said, “We did well, did we not, in the Chamber of the Flame in that Armipand-begotten Moder?”

We talked for a space about that fraught time. Loriman told me he considered this maze vastly inferior to that one at Moder.
[7]

I said, “I have often thought of you and wondered how you fared.” Then, because I could not stop my prattling tongue from waggling, I added, “You are somewhat different now from what you were then.”

“I have seen what happened to Spikatur. That would turn a saint.”

I’d told Seg many and many a time a great deal of what had chanced down the Moder, so he was able to keep abreast of the conversation.

Loriman said, “That great damned bar of iron you call a sword convinced me. I did not really believe, not until you spoke.”

The Krozair longsword had carefully gone back into the scabbard so cunningly hitched over my back. We walked on out of that chamber of desiccated skelebones and into another where we had a brief set to with a pack of Crippling Crabs. The next room offered the chance to get to grips with a herd of mummies, all duly linen-wrapped after one of the fashions of Balintol. Some of these we burned.

The Lady Hebe, sheathing her sword, walked over to say, “I would like a rest now, and Hurngal wants to press on.”

Before Loriman could stop himself, so wrought up was he on this sore point, he burst out: “I see! When you want me to do something for you about that damned man then you ask. I see!”

“If that is the way you wish to speak to me, after all that has passed—”

“Aye, Hebe! Passed seems right. I’ll tell Hurngal, d’you understand that? I’ll
tell
him!”

On that instant a hullabaloo broke out from those in front who had just passed out of this chamber, exclamations of astonishment and cries of wonder and delight.

I believe I knew what this meant. Seg said: “Y’know what that means, Jak?”

Everybody ran off to see the new wonders for themselves. I put a hand to my chin.

“Aye. There’s a big room up there beautifully furnished, with tables groaning under food and drink, and comfortable beds and curtains and everything weary delvers could require. And, Seg, y’know what that means?”

“I do.”

Neither of us wanted to say the confounded name aloud. But both of us knew that Csitra had provided the repast and rest, and that was clear evidence that she had us under observation, was spying on us.

We were drawing closer to her. Slowly we were finding our way through her maze of tricks and traps, of monsters and magic. What we both recognized was that she was in control. She would allow us to reach her only when she wished, after she and her uhu Phunik had had their fun with us.

Had Khe-Hi and Ling-Li been with us, as had been planned, would there have been a difference? Perhaps this Khibil sorcerer might yet live up to his high reputation. I was confident enough to take a wager on it that had Khe-Hi been on the bridge when the little flying furry horrors attacked he would have banished them back to their cesspit before they could stick a single needle-tooth into anyone’s flesh. Still, maybe the apparent lack of competence of our Khibil San Aramplo had not drawn Csitra’s attention, for it was certain she’d have known if Khe-Hi and Ling-Li ventured in — unless, well, if Deb-Lu could sneak in here without her knowing, then so could his colleagues, surely...?

So with these muddled thoughts in my noggin I trailed along with Seg after the mob into the splendors we anticipated.

Seg and I sat down at one of the laden tables and began to eat and drink.

Loriman said, “Is that wise?”

Seg swallowed down and reached for a fresh bottle.

“The last time the food had no ill effects.”

“By Numi-Hyrjiv the Golden Splendor!” bellowed Strom Tothor. “Save some for a thirsty fellow who’s walked a wearisome way!”

Seg laughed and handed over the bottle and the lion-man upended it over his mouth.

Everywhere people descended on the food like famished warvols. The slaves ate themselves into stupors, and Hurngal had to order the guards to keep the slaves away from the drink. I wondered if these guards would stay away from it themselves for long enough to remain compos mentis. The notion of a pack of drunken slaves and guards rollicking about these treacherous passageways might seem attractive; it would be self-defeating in the end.

The pathetic way in which the Lady Hebe and Kov Loriman circled around each other, allowing far more than the usual required amount of body space, might have been amusing in other circumstances. Kov Hurngal looked to be in the driver’s seat here, winning all the way down the line.

Loriman stormed over to us and threw himself down on one of the marvelously upholstered and decorated chairs, all twining vine-leaves picked out with gold leaf and pearls. His eyebrows made a black bar of baffled fury.

“That man!” Having, as it were, broken the ice with us and put his foot in it, he accepted the consequences of confidences. At that, I suspected he, being the choleric, outspoken damn-you-to-hell person he was, welcomed the opportunity he found so rarely of being able to talk to someone instead of shouting orders or insults at them.

I leaned forward on the smooth linen napery. “When I said I believed you to be the leader, I see I was wrong. But that man—”

“I am the instigator. The Lady Hebe was
my
friend, and she very willingly agreed to get to know Hurngal and persuade him to finance the expedition.”

“Ah,” said Seg, wisely. “These things always cost money.”

“And you, kov—” and here I gave Loriman a look he must recognize as shrewd “—spent all yours either for or against Spikatur.”

“Aye. Both.”

“We all have our own purposes for venturing here. You just picked Hurngal out of a hat?”

“More or less. He has money, connections, and he is Hamalese.”

Loriman, like the fabled Spatzentarl Volcano on the lost island of Naripur, boiled and bubbled within himself and refused to allow himself to blow up. He simmered dangerously close to an explosion, though, and he wanted to talk to someone; that was perfectly plain.

“Why Hamalese?”

“Oh, I trusted he would be killed down here.”

“Yet the Lady Hebe—”

“I did not intend to bring her. That was her and that cramph Hurngal’s idea.”

Seg said, “I had the honor and the wonderful good fortune down here to meet the lady who is now my wife, praise be to—” A tiny hesitation, then: “Pandrite All-Glorious.”

Loriman was too wrought up in his own problems to take much notice of what anyone else told him. He brooded, brows drawn down, face fierce, gripping a golden chalice slopping with red wine.

“When Spikatur fought against the Hamalese, those were the days. Now, Spikatur is criminal.”

I said, “You know that this witch runs SHS for her own dark ends?”

“I didn’t. She will die with all the others, never fear.”

“At the moment she merely toys with us. This is a kind of refined torture in which she specializes. Her uhu is less subtle. They will amuse themselves with us for a space yet, and, in Armipand’s vile truth, we have seen very little of the horrors yet.”

Well, Csitra did toy with us. A full record of our travels and travails on this occasion in the Coup Blag would run to many cassettes, I feel, but if you can taste the flavor of the place, the darkness and the unexpected illumination, the sense of constant pressure, of eyes watching, of ears listening and the sudden devastating onslaught of nightmare creatures, beasts of claw and fang, and insubstantial wraiths of mind-numbing power, if, I say, then perhaps you may also gather a little of the expedition’s growing distress.

One item of information I did not pass on to Loriman was my belief that Csitra had no further use for Spikatur Hunting Sword, and that therefore the organization was already finished. Loriman, in the mood he was in, might not have relished that. Also, he might have decided to quit the search and attempt to march his people out.

By this time, as we wended our way deeper and deeper into the maze, Seg, Nath, and I were fully armed and accoutered. Seg had his long bow; the poor red-headed fellow from Loh had vanished head first into a giant stone flower that came alive and sucked him in. His boots and his bow were all that were left of a stalwart Bowman of Loh.

This continual drain of lives was wearing the expedition down.

Everyone wondered who would be next.

The principals of the party originally made the decision to enter the Coup Blag. Their reasons might vary; still they were responsible for themselves.

“By the agate-winged jutmen of Hodan-Set!” rasped Kov Loriman. “We must be drawing near by now!”

We slid cautiously down a slanting ramp of pure white marble, shiny and slippery under a pervasive yellow glow from the fire-crystal ceiling. I hitched the longsword and the torch I carried stuck through my belt — unlit, of course — more comfortably, and slid down with Seg and Nath. The ramp debouched into a chamber of somber magnificence.

Thirty or forty heavy iron-bound boxes stood stacked against one wall, half-draped by a green curtain with golden tassels.

“Treasure chests!” shouted Kov Hurngal, and strode across exultantly.

He touched the chests and nothing happened. We dragged them down and nothing happened. We opened the first and threw the lid back — and still nothing happened.

The chest was crammed to the top with golden coins.

Loriman’s lip curled as Hurngal directed his people to transfer the gold from chests to sacks.

“At last!” cried the Rapa zhanpaktun, Tyr Rogarsh the Rattler. “By Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls! It has taken long enough, but we have found the treasure.”

Seg said to Loriman, “Two things, kov. One, gold is too heavy for delvers to carry out. Two, I understand the witch is capable of causing it to turn molten and burn and flow away to nothing.”

“Aye,” I said, nodding. “The gold will melt, although it may not have been this witch who caused that when I witnessed it.”

Loriman’s heavy face showed a grimace of pleasure. “Is Hurngal then on a fool’s errand?”

“Oh, there is probably genuine treasure about,” said Seg, airily.

In their manic delving the slaves were simply scooping handfuls of gold from the chests and filling their sacks, not bothering to empty one chest before passing on to the next. Nath hitched forward a wallet he’d picked up.

“Gold is something I need. If it melts, it melts. That I will risk, by Chusto!”

He reached into the first chest which had been pretty well emptied before the slaves simply scooped up the easier gold from chest to chest. I looked at him with sympathetic understanding.

A corpse-white tentacle as thick through as a man’s arm whipped out of the box, lapped Nath, dragged him in.

“Nath!”

I leaped. I reached the chest and was dragging out my sword when a second tentacle slapped its corpse-white length about me. Headfirst I went into the box after Nath. The bottom of the box did not halt that hurtling descent. Neither did the floor of the chamber.

Helplessly, wrapped in tentacles, Nath and I plummeted down, clean out of the chamber into pitchy blackness.

Chapter seventeen

Concerning a toad’s supper

We hit the water with an almighty splash.

Deep, we were dragged, deep beneath the surface. The tentacle constricted about me like a steel band, trapping my left arm. The short sword remained in its scabbard. There was no time now to wonder how Nath fared. In that automatic gasp as the tentacle caught me and hauled me down, my lungs had not exactly equipped me for a dive underwater.

Accounted a merman as a swimmer and a fish as a diver though I may be, I am only apim. Air! If I didn’t get a breath of fresh air pretty damn quick I was done for.

The old sailor knife scabbarded over my right hip came out with oiled sweetness.

I knew where the tentacle was, all right, I could feel it pressing in on my chest. I put the knife against it and then with a burst of savage anger sawed the blade across, and across again, and then lifted it, dug the point in, and so sawed again like a manic witch stirring a magic brew.

The tentacle unwrapped and nearly took my knife with it. The blackness surrounding me was shot through with little flecks of fire. They were in my eyes, not in the water.

Something big and soft bumped against my side. There was just time enough for me to stay the automatic knife thrust. This bulky lolling object was Nath the Impenitent and I felt the thick tentacle about him. I severed that one as I had severed the one pinioning me.

Grasping Nath and queasily conscious that whatever monstrous thing had seized us with his tentacles might have more than two, I shot for the surface.

I knew that here in Csitra’s maze, created for her enjoyment, at least one lake swarmed with fish and monsters all teeth and jaws. They’d chew up a school of piranha before breakfast.