Talons of Scorpio (17 page)

But, then, he was a kov. Dafni was a vadni, and her vadvarate of Tenpanam marched border for border with Pando’s lands. It was a coil. Maybe I’d have to wring the answers from each of them in turn. As to why it concerned me, that was obvious. One, Pando was a friend. Two, I was the Emperor of Vallia. And, if you cared to admit it, Three, we hadn’t much liked Murgon Marsilus, even though he had put himself in jeopardy to rescue us from a scrape.

He’d done that because he thought Pompino and I were adherents of Lem the Silver Leem.

Three burs exactly saw Naghan Raerdu trot gently up in the shadows of the west wall. He rode a freymul and he led another on a headrope. Both animals were fine examples of their breed. He saw me and halted and dismounted. His face, in the shadows, short still in mid afternoon, looked a mere splodge. I guessed he was laughing. He tied the second freymul to a hitching ring stapled into the wall. Plenty of people were about, going about their business, with the gray slink of slaves gliding unnoticed through the throngs. Then Naghan mounted up and trotted off. I ambled over.

The freymul had a scrap of paper tucked into his harness. One word — FRUPP.

“Hai, Frupp,” I said, knuckling in behind his ears.

He bowed his head and twisted it around. Freymuls do not have the single spiral horn of the zorca, and they are, although willing in their fashion, limited in performance. This Frupp had curly amber streaks below and a chocolate-colored coat. His eyes were bright. I liked him instantly.

Along the wall beside the gate sat a line of beggars, cripples, folk in buckets, folk on crutches, folk hideously disfigured, women exposing themselves to show deformities and scars and the tied ends of amputations. By this time in my life upon Kregen, that wonderful if horrific world four hundred light years from Earth, I had become, if not inured to sights like these, at least understanding of them. This was one unpleasant facet of life. Some of these people were in the begging profession. As small children they would have been mutilated by their parents, all in the name of earning a living. As usual, I distributed a few coins; but too great generosity, harsh as this may sound, was a mistake.

Among those pitiable morsels of near-humanity, I wouldn’t mind taking a wager, squatted one of Naghan’s people.

The noise burst all about me, chaffering people, the beggars whining, saddle animals jingling, the discordant music from the juggling troupe. Outside the gate lay the main Wayfarer’s Drinnik, the wide space where caravans formed up or disbanded. Although this scene was wildly familiar in many aspects, and even although the Star Lords — as I thought — had for their own purposes imposed some uniformity upon peoples and customs, there was no doubt I was in a foreign land. This scene before me was not one that would be enacted in Vallia, or even in Havilfar. The elements might appear to be the same; the underlying structures might appear to share the same rules; but the effects were totally different. Kregen is a world of violent contrasts, and of uniformity, and of a never-ending wonder.

An armored man astride a hersany clip-clopped in through the gate, followed by a string of calsanys, all laden with straw baskets, two each side, lolling along held by the guide ropes. Guards prowled. This was a caravan destined for some specific destination and pleased to be within the walls before sundown. The juggling troupe carried on, and now they were rivaled by a group performing some kind of primitive play, full of bladders and false tails. A musician with all his instruments lashed about him jigged up and down and, I found with pleased surprise, producing a not unattractive melody — punctuated, of course, by many bangings of the drums and the cymbals between his knees.

I mounted up on Frupp and gently guided him out through the gate when space permitted. I wished to attract no attention. Outside, and past Wayfarer’s Drinnik, the land opened out. Here all the trees had long since been cut down. Any lord with any sense does not allow cover for hostile archers within bowshot of his walls. The track stretched away, rounding the curve of the Spine of Lhorcas. I ambled along astride Frupp. Presently the forests began, closing up to the road. This made me fret over Pompino and that rascally Ift, Twayne Gullik, and the fate of the Kovneva Tilda. What I was doing riding out like this had seemed to me to be a sensible idea. I’d catch sight of Strom Murgon early on.

That wouldn’t help. Not really. I was riding to still the quiver in my nerves. So, incontinently, I turned Frupp’s head and rode back. He did not complain.

I needed to find my turkey; that would be more fruitful.

Riding easily about the streets might not prove to be the best plan. But it was no use leaving it too late.

I needed somebody not too unlike me. The obvious problem would be that the fellow would be well-known. How to legislate against that concerned me; apart from asking him, there was no way I’d find out. Eventually, I found a likely recruit to my nefarious plans just leaving a tavern, the Boiwink and Clooke, reeling just enough to betray him to my grasping fists...

This happened down the side alley into which he’d reeled to relieve himself. He made not a sound. I didn’t particularly want his clothes, which were not greatly different from my own — or, rather, Pando’s — or his money or weapons. I took his waist-length cloak, which, gray on the outside, was brown on the inside, edged with silver lace. His badge — that I had. The silver leem was finely chased, the tuft of brown feathers rampant. I trusted this fellow was not too high up. His pouch yielded what was perhaps the most important necessity of all — his silver leem mask. I’d worn these things before. It fitted up on leather straps, a snarling vicious countenance all whiskers and fangs. Once a Leem Lover wore his or her silver leem mask, all restraints vanished.

The mask went back into the velvet-lined pouch and was hooked onto my belt. His purse was one of those vainglorious items you could buy in the flash zouks, a thing of stringed netting so that the gold within could glint through and proclaim your wealth. It fastened with a jeweled clasp. Vainglorious, yes, and foolish, too...

As I straightened up from the fellow’s unconscious body the first shafting ray of ruby radiance of Zim shone down the alley as the great red sun of Antares dropped beyond the corner building. A party of tumps trudged past the end of the side alley. No doubt they’d come into the city to spend their gold for new tools to dig more, and for ale and provisions. They lived in their mines and caves in the countryside, and quarreled with the Ifts and anyone else. They saw the bright wink of gold, they saw me crouched over the body on the ground. Instantly, on their stumpy legs, their heavy-headed hammers raised and their beards flying, they charged.

Without any self-consciousness I jumped up and ran.

Bashing a posse of pint-sized tumps over the head was not on the agenda this evening...

Also, and this I freely concede, short and stout though they are, and massively bearded, if a tump hits you over the head with his hammer you’re likely never to hear the famous old Bells of Beng Kishi. Those hammers are reputed to stove in vosk skulls, although this I doubt.

Mounting up on Frupp I nudged him and obediently he trotted off and out onto the main street. I turned toward the west gate. There could not be much time left now...

You had to say this for Strom Murgon Marsilus. He knew how to put on a show.

First of all trotted a posse of trumpeters mounted on gray zorcas. They tootled away, the golden notes blasting into the warm evening air and proclaiming the imminent arrival of a great lord. A strom is not ordinarily a great lord, just a lord of the upper middle rankings. But Murgon had great plans.

There followed a troupe of dancing girls, scantily clad, who scattered flower petals. Unquestionably they had been brought along in wagons from Pomdermam, and would have alighted and begun their flower-strewing dance just before they entered the west gate. Onlookers crowded up, forming a lane along which the procession wended its colorful way.

A half-pastang of hersany lancers rode next, and then the first of the infantry, kreutzin in light equipment and little decoration. A yell broke from the crowd at the next sight to lumber through the gate. Murgon had brought a pair of thumping great dermiflons, lurching, idiot-headed, ten-legged, their blue skin glistening like olive oil under the Suns. They were often a favorite with the ordinary folk; some nations could not abide them. There was no doubt the people of Port Marsilus considered them a rare treat.

More cavalry and infantry followed, the sword and shield men, the churgurs, and — which interested me more than a trifle — a whole regiment of swarthmen. These cavalrymen rode their two-legged reptilian mounts with almost, almost, the confidence of well-trained jutmen. I fancied the swarths were new to their riders. Certain sure it was, the riders were new to swarths.

Music of a tin-banging, rattling kind was provided by splendidly attired bands which marched along at ear-splitting distance. Murgon would have positioned his baggage wagons at the tail of the procession, with a rough-rider band to look after them. Folk might still hang about admiring the number of wagons in a rich lord’s entourage. If Murgon was as rich as this show attested, he would have a sizable train. If he was as rich as Pando had implied, he could never in a thousand seasons afford all this.

The strom himself rode a black zorca, whose spiral horn, adorned with silver, nodded up and down in a fretful way, for Murgon held him on too tight a rein. The animal was superb. Murgon, too, clad sumptuously, looked superb.

His black beard, cut short, his sharp and haughty features, the level arrogant unseeing stare in his dark eyes, all stamped him as a notor of Tomboram. I did think that there was about him more than a hint, a definable impression, of defiance. Pinned to the front of his tunic, partially concealed by the massed gilt-lacing to the edge of his cape, he wore a device. From this distance what it might be was problematical to all save those who would know.

He wore the imago of the silver leem, with its brown and silver ribbons. Openly, the strom wore the badge of Lem the Silver Leem. Many a man and many a woman in the crowd wore their own silver leem badge, with the tuft of brown feathers or the brown and silver ribbons. They would know, and, knowing approve...

The cheers that greeted Strom Murgon bellowed to the evening sky. They depressed me, by Vox, they depressed me.

I remembered how, in the cabin of
Tuscurs Maiden
, I’d discussed with Pompino the chances of Murgon or of Pando reaching Bormark first. It seemed that Murgon had won. He clearly had the people with him. He did not harm his chances or his popularity by the lavish handfuls of silver men dressed in fantastic costumes scattered from wicker baskets. Murgon was displaying his wealth, his largesse, and thereby his power. Again, I pondered — where was all this hard cash coming from?

Pando, in the nature of a kov, would be rich. The king was displeased with him, his cousin was buying his people — Pando was getting the cold shoulder, the Big E.

This, I believed, must tie in with the enterprise against southwest Vallia. I’d be hitting two birds with one shaft this night, I fancied.

Discreetly, after the great man had passed, I guided Frupp through the throngs, following on. Jollity broke out, Murgon’s silver being immediately put to useful purposes.

Now I knew just how many Stromnates and eltenates and other of the lesser nobilities existed in Pando’s Bormark, for I had made it my business to know. I knew, also, who did and who did not keep up villas in the kovnate’s capital city. Murgon maintained a modest villa along the Avenue of Miscils... The procession did not make for the villa of Ribenor. Oh, no, they headed for a certain tumbledown old theater.

Gradually, the bands ceased playing, the soldiers parceled themselves off to seek billets, the dancing girls disappeared, the men had emptied their baskets of silver.

With only a small escort and retinue, Murgon reined up before the old theater. People still followed him, and I was not at all conspicuous.

The twin Suns were almost gone. In the flaring light of torches his face showed, dark and brooding. I caught the fierce impression that he dearly loved to order his men: “Clear me this rabble away!” Instead, he called a courteous remberee and then headed into the side street. One of his aides, a Gon whose bald head shone butter-bright in the torchlight, shouted: “The strom bids you all a restful night and he wishes you well and your wonderful families and now he wishes to be alone and will quarter in the Speckled Gyp and remberee one and all.” All on a breath.

The high-class tavern and hotel called The Speckled Gyp did lie in the next avenue across. I did not think Murgon would reach there. He’d be in that side door like a leem after a ponsho, going through the dusty corridors, making his way to the chambers reserved for him. He’d be attending the rites of Lem after he’d eaten and freshened up.

Now that I knew his location I could see about my own inward hollowness. As Kregans are fond of telling you, there is nothing like six or eight square meals a day.

Trotting gently back to The Awkward Swod, I attempted to put the pieces of this puzzle together.

On the face of it, a kovnate like Bormark, or even a kingdom like Tomboram, would stand little chance of invading a still-powerful empire like Vallia. Oh, yes, Vallia was still rent by factions. The empire remained partitioned. There was a king in Evir in the far north, there was a king of Womox Island to the west, and now there was this King Vodun Alloran in what he called Thothclef Vallia. Also, there were dissidents still resisting unification in the northwest of the island of Vallia. But with our capital at Vondium, and our armies and air cavalry and vollers, we were no pushover.

If Alloran made an alliance of convenience with this King of Womox, for instance... He’d taken Katrin’s kovnate of Rahartdrin. He was attempting to march to the northeast, which would bring him into immediate conflict with loyal provinces. My lad Drak resisted; but that blob-nosed Deldar, Tom the Nose, had merely confirmed what I suspected, that Drak did not have the best regiments with him. We’d all have to rally around: Delia could get regiments from Valka, Seg could send men up from Hamal — although, confound it! Seg was off somewhere lost in the jungles of Pandahem south of the central mountains. I’d call on Inch in the Black Mountains, and Korf Aighos and Filbarrka, and anyone else. We could not afford to allow a fresh collapse of our hard-won hegemony.