Storm over Vallia (8 page)

She had ascertained that Lon the Knees really did know nothing about whose hand had loosed the bars of the wild animals’ cages. He genuinely had no idea who might have done that hideous deed. He had not shared whatever macabre fate was reserved for Nath the Goader only because it was proved by subsequent inspection that his bars had not been loosed, that the very size and ferocity of the churmod had splintered them through.

Lon swallowed and lifted the last of the herb-fragrant Kensha in his glass.

“Shall I — that is, Lyss — do you wish to see me again?”

The true answer was that Lon had failed her. She had hoped to pursue the lead afforded by that mysterious hand loosening the bars of the cages. With that as a dead end — why, there was no reason to see Lon again, was there?

He drank the last of the wine down, looking at her. She wetted her lips and realized she could not destroy his happiness so callously.

“Of course, Lon!”

His smile in that florid face would have warmed up the Ice Floes of Sicce. He reached down to his wallet on his belt, and Silda saw his face go stiff.

The smile dwindled. The color fled from his cheeks, and his nose lost its purple sheen, and shriveled.

“Lyss! My money — it is gone!”

Chapter six

Tavern brawling — Silda style

No doubt whatsoever entered Silda’s mind that Lon was lying, was trying to trick her into paying. She had summed up the animal handler, and she trusted her own judgment.

Lon had gone to a tremendous amount of trouble for tonight. He had obtained his wonderful costume from somewhere. He had silver enough in his wallet to pay for what they had consumed. She was convinced of that.

So — some thieving bastard had stolen Lon’s money.

Instantly, she said: “Don’t fret over paying, Lon. That presents no problem.”

“But! My lady! I cannot—”

“I’ll have a word with the landlord. Thieves will do the reputation of his establishment no good at all.”

“I’d like to—”

“Quite.”

Something light touched Silda’s side, a feather-like glancing touch she barely appreciated. She opened her mouth to chide Lon and to tell him to brace up, when a shrill agonized shriek burst up from the seat at her side.

She looked down, shocked.

A round furry bundle rolled onto the seat.

She knew what the little animal was, at once. The spinlikl, with a body of multi-colored fur, and eight long prehensile limbs each equipped with a powerful clutching hand, was one of the favorite methods by which the Thieves of Kregen secured their loot. A spinlikl could move about with amazing speed and deftness, quiet as Death, and open locks and bolts, steal treasure, and return to its master or mistress worth a fortune.

She turned sharply as the spinlikl, screaming, gathered itself on seven of its eight limbs.

The eighth limb glistened brightly with blood.

The animal sprang past Silda. Swiveling her head she saw it clambering up to the shoulder and neck of the man who sat at the next table along. His face was that of a hairy Brokelsh, uncouth yet powerful, and now that lowering visage was black with anger.

“What have you done to my lovely Lord Hofchin?” the Brokelsh bellowed. He grabbed the flailing arm and blood spurted. “You have fairly cut his hand off!” And, indeed, the poor creature’s hand dangled limply with the blood pouring out.

Silda knew what the poor creature had done. After he had stolen Lon’s money, he’d opened her brown canvas sack and groped inside with that hand that was now half lopped off. Served him right, of course, yet he was not to blame. His master, who trained him in all the arts of thievery, was the true culprit.

Two other hairy Brokelsh sat with the thief. Now they stood up, hands going to their belts where weapons dangled. They were all decently dressed in finery that chimed well with the festivities, bright colors, and sashes, feathers and the wink of imitation gems.

Lon stumbled up onto his feet, passionate with rage.

“You rasts! You stole my money! I’ll have you—”

He started around the table and Silda snapped, sharply and impatiently: “Lon! Sit down!”

“But—”

The thief snarled his words, quite as angry as Lon. “Have me, hey? I’ll have your hide!”

One of his companions stared down the dining room. “By Diproo the Nimble-fingered, Branka! Keep it down. Here comes the landlord...”

This Branka, white-faced and savage at the damage to his spinlikl Lord Hofchin, would have none of it. He ripped out his clanxer and started for the table where Silda and Lon still sat.

Silda stood up.

“Landlord!” she called in a voice accustomed to ordering regiments about. “This rast has stolen our money. I intend to have it back off him. You may send for the Watch if you wish.”

With that, Silda Segutoria, the daughter of Seg Segutorio, started for the thieves. She drew her rapier.

“Lyss!” Alarmed, Lon dragged himself up, lugging out the main gauche.

This thief, hight Branka, sneered at the rapier.

“That pinprick, missy? I’ll show you what real tavern brawling is all about!”

“Like this?” said Silda, and snatched up in her left hand the chair and hurled it full in the fellow’s face. Her left arm, hard and muscled from long hours with the Jikvar, powered the chair so that it smashed the fellow’s nose, knocked out an eye, and sent him tumbling backwards into his companions.

She didn’t stop there.

The screams from the staggering men meant nothing. She snicked the blade through the arm of one of them, withdrew, slashed it across the guts of the next so that his fancy clothes all fell down, and then she was on Branka.

He was shrieking and gobbling on blood. Half his teeth were knocked down his gullet. His eye dangled. His nose spouted blood everywhere.

Silda ignored all that, carefully making sure she did not touch the mess. The spinlikl crouched on the floor, whimpering, sucking his damaged limb.

Silda dived her own fist into Branka’s wallet and dragged out a handful of coins.

“Lon!”

He was just standing there, goggle-eyed.

“Yes, Lyss—”

“How much?”

He swallowed. “Uh — seven sinvers. Oh, and four obs.”

Again Silda did not doubt Lon’s honesty. If he said seven silver sinvers and four copper obs, that was what had been stolen. She sorted the money out and started to put the rest back, then she paused.

“The rest of this is stolen, too, I suppose. Landlord!”

He was standing there with his hands wrapped in his yellow apron and his eyeballs out on stalks.

“Yes, my lady. I am here. The blood—”

“You’ve seen plenty of that before. Keep the money and let the Watch sort it out. You have a nice place here, but I wouldn’t let your clientele know that you allow this kind of thief free access.”

“But, my lady—”

“We are leaving now. Tell the Watch. Oh, and what is the reckoning?”

“No, no, my lady,” he babbled. “Please, say no more. You have been troubled in The Silver Lotus. I am desolated, please, my lady, with my compliments...”

“That is considerate, under the circumstances. Here, your money, Lon.”

Lon wasn’t sure if the money could ever make up for the glory of the moment. What a girl this Lyss was!

As they went out, Silda noticed the black couple staring after them eager and alive and thoroughly enjoying the free entertainment.

The lady stroked the furry likl-likl crouched on her shoulder, and the creature’s bright eyes regarded with great wisdom the fracas upon the floor and the maimed form of the spinlikl. They were not related much as species, although, obviously, they shared much physiology in common. Also, Silda was reminded there were other reasons for carrying a likl-likl upon the shoulder.

Yes, they were lovely little furry bundles, to be stroked and cuddled and petted, splendid companions. They were friendly little creatures, only resorting to violence if aroused by some extraordinary cruelty. The spinlikl had made no attempt to steal from the black lady in the emerald green dress. Her likl-likl would have known at once and set up an outcry.

The other fact that had not passed unnoticed by Silda was Lon’s possession of silver in the form of sinvers, the currency of Hyrklana, among that of other nations. The stiver was the usual Vallian silver coin. This meant, clearly, that the new recruits from Pandahem had already been parted from some of their cash. There’d be dhems as well, silver coins of Pandahem, circulating. Well, as they said on Kregen, gold and onkers are like oil and water.

The ugly side of this was that nations over the seas were sending men and money to assist this rast Alloran in his dreams of conquest.

Outside, as they walked along the street heading for the Urnhart Boulevard, the illuminations were just beginning, brightening the sky. She of the Veils rode behind a wisp of clouds, gilding them with her light.

Lon wasn’t concerned with the illuminations. Oh, no, not when he could walk along with this superb girl at his side and be, as he was confident they were, the cynosure of all eyes.

“Well, Lon,” said Silda in her fine free way, striding out, lithe and limber, “a free night’s dinner can’t be bad, can it?”

“By Beng Debrant, no!”

They strolled on, savoring the air, seeing the sky erratic with the illuminations. People hurried past.

“Fish hooks, was it?” said Lon.

“Fish hooks? Ah — er, yes, that’s it.”

“Just because I borrowed the belt and wallet from one-eyed Garndaf, I didn’t have my own, which is nicely defended with fish hooks. The spinlikl is known to defeat the hooks, though. Well-trained animals can.”

“So I have heard.”

“Yet, yet — Lyss — the thing’s hand was nearly off!”

“It looked worse than it was.”

“Yes, but—”

“The Watch must have marched up to The Silver Lotus from the other direction, for we have not passed them. I trust they were in time.”

“Clumsy, those Brokelsh. Nature has not cut them out to be thieves. Not like Crafty Kando.”

“Crafty Kando?” A zephyr of impending delight passed across Silda’s mind.

“Why, yes, Lyss. He’s the most cunning disciple of Diproo the Nimble-fingered I know. And I’ve known some in my time, I can tell you. Why, back when I was in the army there was—”

“Yes, yes, Lon. But this Crafty Kando. You know him well? He is trustworthy in a thief? Can I meet him?”

“Why, Lyss!” Lon was shocked.

“Don’t be so po-faced, Lon! Can I meet your friend, Crafty Kando? I may have business with him.”

“You won’t give him to the Watch? That’s not—”

“No, no, that’s not it. There is something I must do, and I have been racking my brains to find a way to do it. Now, by Vox, you may have found the way!”

Chapter seven

Secrets around the campfire

This time the battle was more prolonged, swaying to and fro, and finally ending in stalemate. Drak could feel the ache in his bones, the tiredness dragging him down. He could always remember in those long ago days when he was a child his father saying: “Tiredness is a sin, my lad. Brassud! Brace up! If you use your willpower and your spirit you can always find the extra strength to go on.”

It was damned hard. But it was true. As a Krozair of Zy Drak had learned the Mystic Way. He could control himself. He was well aware of the way people regarded him.

The upright one, they’d say, dedicated, solemn, filled with niceties and integrities, never willing to admit to defeat. He supposed this was true. As for himself, all he ever wanted was a happy life with his father and mother, at home in Valka. Oh, yes, he loved Delphond, and Desalia, his mother’s estates along with the Blue Mountains. He’d not had a lavish private province of his own, only Vellendur, of which he was Amak; but it was a tiny island, for when he was emperor he would come into all the imperial provinces.

He could envision life there doing all the things he liked to do. And here he was, acting as the Captain of a Host, running a war, and not doing very well at it, either.

This fight, which no doubt the scribes would call the Battle of Cowdenholm, ending in a draw, saw both armies haul off and make camp. The fires painted the clouds in lurid oranges and reds. There were no billets or barracks, and it was bivouacs for those lucky enough to find something with which to build them. Drak, Prince Majister of Vallia, sat hunched in his cold cloak before the fire, and felt sick.

The First and Second Kerchuris of the First Phalanx, and the Fifth Kerchuri of the Third Phalanx had done splendidly, as ever. Their massed array of pikes had broken the wild leem-like charges of the foe and hurled them back. The heavy infantry, known as churgurs, had fought like leems themselves. The cavalry had foamed across the field like tidal waves. Yes, all in all everyone had done splendidly; but it had not been enough.

Reinforcements had come in from Vondium, notably those madmen of his father’s bodyguards. Everyone had fought to the limits of their strength. And they had not broken the enemy forces commanded, as he now knew, by this evil cramph, Strom Rosil Yasi of Morcray. He was a damned Kataki, one of that low-browed and violent race of diffs who were slavemasters under any circumstances. The Kataki Strom’s twin brother, Stromich Ranjal Yasi, was not here. No doubt he was somewhere else stirring up trouble and enslaving innocent people.

He stirred himself as Jiktar Endru Vintang walked up to the fire, shivering and holding his hands out to the blaze.

“The prisoners, jis,” began Endru.

“Yes, yes. We took that traitor Chuktar Unstabi, I believe. His damned archers caused us some grief before you charged them.”

Endru was far too politic to remind the Prince Majister that when Vodun Alloran was being sent down to the southwest to regain his province, it had been Drak himself who hired on the Undurker archers. And this had been against the wishes of the emperor.

“There are also some Katakis taken—”

“Hang ’em all.”

“Oh, yes, never fear, jis.”

“If there’s one thing the country folk like to see it’s a damned Kataki swinging in the breeze by his neck.”

“And Chuktar Unstabi?”