Storm over Vallia (16 page)

In the capital, the Lord Farris and the Presidio ran the country in the absence of the emperor and the Prince Majister, and loyal and competent they were, too, thank Opaz! They were in the business of raising fresh troops. But soldiers, saddle animals and flyers, artillery, weaponry, did not grow on trees or sprout from the ground.

Pacing restlessly up and down inside his tent, jurukkers on guard outside, abstaining from wine until the hour grew on, Drak pulled at his lower lip and struggled with the decisions he must make. As for Queen Lushfymi — the woman was a treasure and a jewel, no doubt of that. She had behaved herself during the battles, and had come to no harm. Her conversation, easy, educated, witty, turned on topics increasingly concerned with the desirability of Drak, as the putative emperor, finding a wife and thus ensuring the succession. No doubt was left in anyone’s mind, least of all in Drak’s, that he was expected to choose Queen Lushfymi of Lome. After all, she outshone all other women, did she not?

Well, pondered Drak, cut by guilt and memories, well...

He heard the sentries bellow the ritual challenge: “Llanitch!” Anyone ordered to “Halt!” quite like that halted at once, otherwise they’d be shafted. Then the tent flap was thrown back. Drak half-turned, expecting to see a sentry barging in to announce whoever the visitor was, and he saw a lithe and limber young lady, clad in russet leathers, a rapier and main gauche at her hips, a long evil-looking whip curled up over her shoulder, a plain bag with red stitching slung so that she could dive her left hand into it without thought. Her face glowed at him, mischievous, beautiful with that familiar heartbreaking beauty he knew so well, yet fierce, dominating, and haunted by some inner conflict not yet resolved.

“Drak, you old shaggy sea-leem, you!”

“Dayra! You little monkey! What in a Herrelldrin Hell are you doing here?”

Brother and sister clasped each other, old sores forgotten, joying in seeing each other again. Life in the turbulent world of Kregen drives folk apart and makes reunions all the more joyful.

Presently Drak said, “Now you are here it is appropriately enough the time for wine.”

“Assuredly, brother. But a mouthful only for me. I must fly on sharpish.”

“Oh?”

They sat side by side on the sprawl of cushions on the floor and Dayra took the goblet of wine.

“Yes. I’m flying to Hamal. It’s about time I saw Lela again and I want to size up this bright new prince of hers.”

“I hear Prince Tyfar of Hamal is a splendid fellow.”

“So I hear. I want to see for myself. And you know he calls her Zila. That’s because father and he knew her as Jaezila. Father calls her that nearly all the time instead of Lela. Mother sometimes despairs of him, I tell you.”

They talked on, exchanging news, happy that now they could talk thus without the black memories of the past intruding. Dayra just said, almost in passing: “Zankov is dead, or I think he must be, seeing that Cap’n Murkizon broke his backbone across.”

Drak took up his wine, drinking to cover the pause for consideration. Whatever the troubles with that bastard Zankov may have been, Dayra possessed a bright spirit that reacted emotionally and which might not be altogether rational still. He was just about to make some noncommittal remark when Dayra went on speaking as though the subject had not been brought up.

“Oh, and Drak, you great fambly, when are you and Silda to be married? I cannot understand why you are leaving it so late.”

Because he was so genuinely glad to see this wayward sister who had caused such concern to the family and heartache for his mother, he refused to become stupidly pompous and indignant. He swallowed the wine.

“It is not arranged in any way that I shall marry Silda.”

“There, you see!” flamed Dayra, known as Ros the Claw. “Why is it that you shall marry her? Why is it not that Silda hasn’t decided to marry you? Because you are a man?”

“No, you fambly — I apologize. I have to remember to think like the Prince Majister who may someday be emperor. Surely you recognize that? As for Silda — I think she would marry me if—”

“Would! If! Why, you insufferable onker! She loves you!”

“Yes.”

“Well, then—?”

When Drak did not answer, Dayra burst out: “It’s this fat Queen Lush! That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Well, Dayra, look—”

“Since I’ve been back with the family — or at least those who’ve been around — I’ve learned a few surprising things. Anyway, what about Uncle Seg? What about mother and father? Oh, I know you can’t marry someone because your folks think you should, but, Drak, dear — Queen Lush!”

“She is a remarkable woman—”

“Of course.”

They both sat silently after that, the air as it were, exhausted between them.

Then Dayra, very much Ros the Claw, snapped out: “Anyway, where is Silda now?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“You’ve no idea! By Vox! What a brother I have.”

Studying this stern, sober, upright brother of hers, Dayra saw that perhaps, just perhaps, he might be overawed by this Queen Lush and her magnificence and undoubted beauty and worldly-wise ways. She wasn’t really fat, of course not, just a trifle on the plump side. She might, in Drak’s eyes who must think of himself as an emperor one day, far outdo Silda Segutoria in those qualities deemed necessary in an empress. Also, and this thought bore a great deal of truth, Drak might be more than a little offput by what he knew of the Sisters of the Rose. Their father might go off on mysterious jaunts; but so did their mother the Empress Delia. Any woman who was a sister of the SoR could expect to work for the Order, and be absent from the hearth and home.

Equality in Vallia, as was not true in some countries of Paz, cut both ways.

Slowly, unhappy at what he felt he must say, Drak wet his lips and said, “Look, Dayra. I must say that really this is my business—”

“You mean you think it is no concern of mine!” She flared it out, scornful, brilliant of color, her eyes marvels in the soft samphron oil lamps’ glow. “I tell you, brother, it is of great consequence to me. Not just because Silda is a dear friend. Not just because you will be emperor one day and must have the very best empress possible. Not just because Queen Lush for all her magnificence is pathetic. No, by Vox, Drak! Because I’m choosy about who is to be my sister-in-law, that’s why!”

“I think—”

“Yes! You are right, by Chozputz!” She stood up like a flame in the light, stamped her tall black boots on the carpet, looped her evil whip about her shoulder. “I’m going!”

“Dayra — please — it shouldn’t—”

“By Chusto, Drak! D’you take me for a ninny! I can’t stay lollygagging about here. I’ll be back. I want to see Jilian, among others. Give my remembrances to those here who knew me. Remberee!”

She was gone like a tornado before Drak collected his wits. “Remberee,” he called after her, feeling a fool.

Outside the tent checking on the guard, Jiktar Endru Vintang slammed himself up to rigid attention. The swirl of russet leathers, a swift: “Thank you, Jik. Remberee,” and the princess was away astride her flutduin. He sighed. He wouldn’t relish being wed to that one — and yet, and yet...!

He saw Hikdar Carlotta walking across from the queen’s guard detail and decided to hang around for a time. Carlotta was a jolly, red-cheeked girl with a good humor for everyone except a sloppy soldier. He smiled as she approached in the torch’s streaming light.

The prince whom Endru guarded snatched up a goblet of wine, drained it, and hurled the thing at the floor. Women! Sisters! Queens! They were enough to drive a man into the claws of Mak Chohguelm the Ib-Cracker!

Anyone observing Prince Drak act like this would have been astounded.

He had to sort out his private life, yet there was never enough time to handle all the affairs pressing him. He was somberly aware that each time he made a mistake men and women died. A carpenter might make a table with one leg shorter than the other and the table wobbled. What a pity. The Prince Majister made the wrong decision and regiments could be cut down. That, to Drak, seemed too monstrous even to be encompassed by pity.

Troubled as all hell he saw a girl with a white shawl wrapped about slender shoulders and hair unbound sidle into the tent. She put a finger to her lips. Endru must have let her pass. He did not know her.

“Majister. The queen craves an immediate and private meeting. You must come at once—”

“Is the queen ill? Has evil befallen her?”

“No, majister. Hurry!”

Alarmed, Drak snatched up his belts where his rapier and dagger swung scabbarded and followed the girl out of the tent.

What jumped demonically into his mind was monstrous and totally unthinkable. Wasn’t it?

Chapter fourteen

Deviltry under the Moons

They were a right rapscallion bunch. They met in the damp and tumbledown house of Yolande the Gregarian because Silda was tired of trying to meet where fights kept erupting. She had provided silver to buy wine and food and she wanted to complete her orders before they all fell down paralytic. When the time came, she promised herself, there’d be damn little if any wine, by the broken teeth and oozing eyes of Sister Melga the Harpy Herself!

“Well, I dunno,” said Crafty Kando, sounding most cool.

“It’s against reason,” said Rundle the Flatch, a low-browed, tangle-haired fellow with half an ear missing.

“Since when, Rundle,” said Lon the Knees, taking a handful of palines from the red pottery dish, “have you and reason been on speaking terms?”

As Rundle started to bristle up, Long Nath said: “But against the king? It’d be like washing away the Rahart Mountains with one cup of water.”

“By Dipsha the Nimble-fingered!” exclaimed Yolande the Gregarian. “What do you know about washing, Long Nath? When was the last time you washed?”

“I’ll have you know—”

“There’s gold in it,” cut in Lon. He continued to wonder what the hell he’d got himself into with this glorious girl; but he was in and wasn’t going to back out now. “Lots of gold.”

“Well, gold, now...” And: “There’s ways and ways...” And: “He’s for the chop, that one, anyway, by Black Chunguj!” They argued, as it were, to clear their minds and to gain sustenance one from the other.

Looking at this unlikely gang of cutthroats, Silda understood that a Sister of the Rose used whatever tools came to hand suitable for her purpose.

Lop-eared Tobi could still hear the shuddersome thud of that knife as it struck the wood instead of embedding itself in his back. Or Crafty Kando’s back. He owed this girl his life, at the least.

“You call him king,” spoke out Lop-eared Tobi. “But he’s no more than a thief like us.”

“I never stole from Kovneva Rashumin,” said Ob-eye Mantig, with a shake of his head and such droll seriousness that the others laughed at him.

“We would be,” said Lon carefully, “taking back what rightfully belongs to Rahartdrin.”

No one there dreamed that, if they succeeded, they’d return the gold to the kovneva. There were limits, by Diproo the Nimble-fingered!

Useless to try to browbeat these people. They knew what they knew and understood their trade. Silda took a paline from the dish and before speaking held the little yellow berry between her fingers.

“I understood that you were masters of your art. But, of course, if you do not have the skills required—”

They broke out into uproar at this, their professional thieves’ competence questioned. Crafty Kando quieted them. He looked at Silda meaningfully.

“You have not told us, my lady, why you wish to burgle the king’s gold.”

“Why not? It is not his, as we have said. And he is bad for the country. We all know that.”

“That is sooth. The kovneva was different. Times were good in those days.”

Silda knew enough from what her father had told her about Katrin Rashumin to know that having lost her husband the kov, Katrin had allowed her island to fall into a disreputable state through bad management and incompetent and mercenary managers. The emperor had helped her sort out her problems. Rahartdrin had prospered until the Times of Troubles.

The people of Rahartdrin, the Rahartese, would dearly love to throw King Vodun Alloran off their island, back to his own province of Kaldi. They might do more, given the opportunity. But no one was unaware of the drably clad men and women with their crossbows who seemed to be everywhere. Spies, too, had to be looked out for, and Silda felt thankful that everyone in this gathering had been vouched for.

No one it appeared to Silda was as yet fully convinced. Crafty Kando raised a point of great importance.

“My lady, are there Pachaks among the guards?”

“No.”

So that cleared away one obstacle, for Pachaks are notorious for the honor and zealousness with which they discharge their duties when hired on as guards. Pachaks, with their straw yellow hair and two left arms, one right arm and powerful tail hand, give their nikobi and will not desist from the honorable course until they are discharged by their employer or by death.

Silda did not mention that there would almost certainly be Katakis. A way around that problem had to be found.

Yolande the Gregarian stood up. A strong woman plump with muscle, she had buried four husbands and was on the lookout for a fifth. Her face showed signs of her struggles with life. Very deft with a loop of rope, this Yolande. At first she had vehemently if privately detested this new supple stripling of a girl; but when she realized that Lyss the Lone had no designs on the men in Yolande’s life, she welcomed Lyss as a female companion among the men.

“My loyalty remains with Kovneva Katrin. I will go up against this new despicable king. Also, I need the gold, for I shall marry again soon.”

This latter remark caused more concern among the men present than Yolande’s other decision. Silda seized her chance, spoke briefly and eloquently, cast a look at Lon and lapsed into silence.

Now the decision rested with Five-handed Eos-Bakchi.

* * * *

Drak followed the girl in the white shawl out of his tent. The sentries saluted. He saw Endru talking to one of the queen’s guards and called across: “Endru. I am to see the queen. You need not turn out the men.”