Allies of Antares (12 page)
“I joined Spikatur, for I was angry and wanted my revenge. By Sasco! I wanted to split the throats of as many nobles as I could! But it went wrong—”
We did not sit down as Nath the Dwa talked on. He did not explain why it went wrong or why he had been expelled. But he told us details in return for gold, details that will become apparent as my narrative continues. “And they’re flooding into Hamal, now. You must watch out for a fellow thin as a stick, ferret-faced, with one eye, and the other covered with a patch of emeralds and diamonds, crusted thick together.”
“Gochert,” I said.
He looked surprised. “You know him?”
“No. I have seen him.”
“He is a master swordsman. He spitted Henorlo the Blade clean as a whistle. As a Bladesman he has few equals.”
“Well,” spluttered Hamdi, “I’m not going to cross swords with him!”
I said, “Are there really no leaders of the Spikatur Hunting Sword conspiracy?”
Nath the Dwa swilled ale and swallowed. “Not in the way you or I would understand leaders. But there are those who tell others their thoughts and desires, and these others do them with a gusto.” No names had passed from us to Nath and we both wanted it that way, so there was no bandying about of polite forms of address. “Gochert is one such.”
“The adherents of Spikatur believed in fighting Hamal and they assassinated Hamalese nobles. They gave their lives willingly. Why should they continue now that Hamal is defeated?”
Nath the Dwa wiped his lips. “And King Telmont?”
“His army will disappear—” began Seg.
“His army,” pointed out Nath the Dwa, “is a fresh army containing many mercenaries. They are out for loot. They will fight you. Anyway—” he made a dismissive gesture “—the rasts from the Dawn Lands return home. Soon there will be only the detachments from Vallia, Hyrklana and Djanduin to stop Telmont. His strength will grow as yours shrinks. He will sweep you away.”
“We’re not here to discuss high strategy. Is there anything else you can tell us for the gold you have been paid?”
“Yes. A great lady has lately arrived in Ruathytu. She travels in secrecy. She is veiled—”
“From Loh?” said Seg.
“Who knows?” Nath the Dwa reached for a refill from the wooden ale bottle. “She keeps her own counsel on that.” He poured with a gurgle. He did not offer us refreshment. “She is come, it is said, in Spikatur’s name to wreak vengeance on her foes. She is seen by few.”
“Her name?”
The jug paused on its way to his lips.
“Name? I have heard her called Helvia the Proud.”
“But that is not her name?”
He drank and laughed. “Probably not.”
“And where may we find this Helvia the Proud?”
The jug described a circle in the air.
“As to that, a man from the high council of Hamal who asked questions was fished out of the River Mak. At least, some of him was.”
“We heard. So that is what befell him.”
“He was not a very good spy.”
A knock sounded on the door, a very timid knock. Nath the Dwa slapped down his jug and looked pleased. “That will be Filli with the so-lunch. And I am sharp set.” He raised his voice. “Come in Filli.”
A silver-gray-furred Fristle fifi entered, nervous, head bent, bearing a cloth-covered tray. She wore a blue bow tastefully adorning her tail, and her Hamalese clothes were of the short and skimpy kind. She placed the tray on the table and without looking at us went out. Nath the Dwa whisked the cloth away and delicious aromas lifted into the room. He wrinkled up his nose, closing his eyes.
“There is nothing more here,” said Seg.
“No. You are right.”
The tray contained thin slices of vosk and golden-yellow momolams, all in a rich gravy. At the side a green salad fairly sparkled with dewy freshness. For sweet an earthenware dish supported a pie, a glorious, crusty, honey-gold pie. A mixture of scents rose, fruits of many kinds blending into a heady mouth-watering delectation.
“Celene pie,” said Nath. “How I dote on it. But first, the vosk and momolams. I shall spend your gold well, horters, very well, and grow myself a belly to astound the world.”
Seg laughed and we went out, closing the door on Nath, who was already hard at work. “He sounds like Inch and his squish pie,” said Seg. “Although celene pie is too rich for me.” Celene, a common name for rainbow, describes in this case a pie or flan made from a mixture of fruits and honey. I led the way down the stairs and back into the Souk of Opportunity, mulling over what we had learned. One thing was sure, we had not heard the last of Spikatur Hunting Sword.
The noise and heat and dust smote us as we left The Crushed Toad. A train of Quoffas, enormous patient hearth-rug animals, shambled along drawing carts loaded with freight that would demand a dozen lesser animals to draw. A caravan was forming up, and the guards curveted about astride a typical Kregan collection of riding animals, brandishing their weapons and screeching and kicking dust. The scene might be barbaric and intimidating to a sober citizen from a civilized terrestrial town, but these guards were only having fun and kicking up a shindig before departure to impress their employers. In times of trouble the bandits swarm up out of their rat holes, and caravans must be guarded.
Even in Hamal, strict as to laws...
We walked across to where we had left our animals.
“The more I hear about this Spikatur thing,” said Seg, “the more I am puzzled. I thought they sought to bring Hamal down to her knees. Well, haven’t we done that?”
“Except for what mischief Telmont may get up to. I wish Nedfar would make up his mind. Once he decides to be emperor I’m sure people who want a peaceful life will rally to him.”
“They’ll have to fight before they get their peace.”
“Aye.”
“And if the Spikatur people turn against him?”
“That is something I wish we did not have to consider. But we do. They have already tried to kill him, and I can only hope that now that the situation is changed, their attitude will change as well.” We passed an awning-shaded stall where brass pots glittered, spilling out into the suns light. One of those on a journey was useful. “I think that both Tyfar and Nedfar feel that in accepting our help they are in some way disgraced. It may be that the Spikatur conspiracy to destroy Hamalese nobles weighs on their minds.”
“Not on Tyfar’s! He is a right gallant young prince.”
“Oh, he is. A good comrade. And that reminds me, Seg. The island of Pandahem. We have to settle that yet. How would you like to be a king in Pandahem?”
He gaped at me. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“I was Kov of Falinur and look at the mess I made of that—”
“No! That I won’t have. You did the right things—”
“And they failed. Turko will handle them more harshly, and that is probably what they want. As for me — a king? Anyway, the kingdoms in Pandahem are all spoken for.”
“Precisely. We shall descend on the island and clear out all the slavers and mercenaries and the rulers will breathe easier again. It is in my mind that they could do with having an emperor to guide them, keep them from each other’s throats. Somebody who is above their feuding. How does Seg Segutorio, Emperor of Pandahem, ring in your ears?”
He did not hesitate. “Like a passing bell on the way to the Ice Floes of Sicce.” He stopped and stared at me. “Dray! What are you thinking of?”
“It’s all right, Seg. I’m not crazy and I haven’t allowed megalomania to overtake me. Just that I think it would be useful all around. Anyway, it would give you something to do.”
“I’m busily rebuilding the Kroveres of Iztar.”
“That is more important than being an emperor, I grant you. But think about it, for my sake.”
We walked on through the crowds and found our riding animals and mounted up, giving a silver sinver to the slave who had held them for us. They were hirvels, for we did not wish to attract attention. The silver might have done that, all things considered. Then we trotted slowly off back to the palace.
The scorpion and The Scorpion
In the following period as the Peace Conference fell apart and the delegations from the Dawn Lands returned home and King Telmont gathered his strength and advanced and reports came in of a buildup in the adherents of Spikatur Hunting Sword, Prince Nedfar deliberated.
“For the sweet sake of Opaz, prince! And for the equally sweet sake of the poorest family trying to scrape a living in the fish stews! Make up your mind!”
Nedfar looked steadily back at me. “You are the Emperor of Vallia, Jak, and I have not recovered from the shock of that yet. I called you traitor. No wonder you studied in the map room. But—”
“Look, Nedfar. We’re talking about your country. So I fooled you. I have had to do many things in my life... You have never — I do not guess but am certain — never been slave.”
“Of course not.”
“I have. It is not nice. If this is your sticking point, I well understand that manumission will not come overnight.”
“Slaves like to be slaves.”
We talked and walked about, gesturing irritably, in a splendid room of the palace, the Hammabi el Lamma, on its artificial island in the River Havilthytus. Strong bodies of Djangs and Vallians guarded the palace. Nedfar had to be brought to the point, he had to accept the needle, and, as I said, “It’s not as though you have to come to the fluttrell’s vane, either.” Which is to say that this was not just making the best of a bad business. “Hamal needs you. By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno!
I
need you!”
“Ah! It is for Vallia—”
“Spare me,” I said, and stalked off to the side table where the flagons and bottles were ranked like a phalanx.
“The Emperor of Vallia,” he said, and shook his head. “And you were slave down the Moder.”
“And other foul places. Look, Nedfar. You know how it is between your son Tyfar and my daughter Jaezila—”
“You mean, do you not, majister, Lela, the Princess Majestrix of Vallia?”
“I so do. But Jaezila has a sound to it that pleases us. And you do understand that Jaezila outweighs in my mind all this fancy talk of empires?”
He pursed up his lips. “I wonder—”
I did not roar out about whether he doubted my word and similar hot-tempered and rational retorts. I looked at him.
Now he was a great Prince of Hamal, well used to power and unthinkingly accepting instant obedience. He lowered his eyelids and turned his head away, and a stain flooded into his cheeks.
“By Havil! You are the devil men say you are.”
Often, to that remark, I had replied in the cheap way: “Believe it!” Now I took up a goblet, a thing of gold and rubies, and filled it with a fine Jholaix and carried it across.
“Drink, Nedfar. You will have to run Hamal with your own wits and resources, your own skills and statecraft. Do not misjudge the situation. We of Vallia will not be looking over your shoulder all the time, there will be no taint and no disgrace in this.” I finished that up most bitterly. “We in Vallia have our hands full repairing the mischief you lot from Hamal have caused us.”
He took that splendid goblet and held it, his fingers lapped around the gems. The red of the rubies glowed. He lifted his head and stared at me, a hard, calculating, shrewd assessment. Then: “I would not be beholden to an enemy for a throne.”
“Agreed. Am I your enemy? Have I ever been — truly?”
It was a nice point.
We talked on, this way and that, and he did agree that I had never borne him any ill will — even when I’d been slave. Then he said, “I have heard the stories of how you became Emperor of Vallia. You did this entirely on your own, for all your friends and cronies, for some unexplained reason, deserted you.”
“Wrong on two counts, prince. My friends did not desert me. And no man or woman becomes emperor or empress without help.”
“But you were a lone man — a strange figure — the stories are legion concerning Dray Prescot.”
“And how many are true?”
“You know.”
“I know that if Hamal and Vallia do not stand together and show this example to the rest of Paz, the damned thieving, raping, burning Shanks will ruin us all.”
On that point, after hours of discussion, the decision pivoted. Nedfar was an honest man whose honor had got out of hand when he was faced with the realities of the situation. I convinced him at last that there was no dishonor in accepting the throne, and the bargain was struck. As we shook hands the bell hung by the door tinkled, and so I shouted and the doors opened and they all crowded in.
Well! The hullabaloo was expected and soothing for what it portended. Tyfar solemnly shook his father’s hand. Jaezila kissed him. Kytun boomed and Ortyg squeaked. All of us were overjoyed — and I own my pleasure came from relief that the thing was done and seen to be done. I was even cynical enough to wonder if being an emperor would change Nedfar for the worse. And then I relented and allowed the pleasure to creep in. After all, emperors are not made every day — even on Kregen.
With all the experience of his short time as King of Hyrklana lighting up his face, Jaidur said, “Now we must get the whole of Hamal to support you, Nedfar. I would say that a treaty of friendship now exists between your country and mine.”
“My hand on it!” exclaimed Nedfar.
Jaezila held Tyfar’s arm. Kytun’s hands were nowhere near his sword hilts. Ortyg brushed his whiskers. As I say, we were all very pleased with ourselves...
Every one of our loyal friends wanted to come up and congratulate Nedfar, and a sort of mini-reception was held. I heard Tyfar say to Jaezila, “I look forward to meeting your sister Dayra, Zila. You must miss her.”
“I do.” Jaezila put a hand to her hair. “Yes, to be honest, I do. She was always a little minx. And she’s done some things that are too terrible even to think about, let alone tell a prince of Hamal.” Jaezila laughed, and turned and saw me looking at her. The smile faltered through the laugh.
“I dearly wish to see Dayra again,” I said. “I love her, as you know, and if you should happen to see her, Jaezila, be sure you tell her that. I do not think she understands.” I looked over across the heads of the happily chattering throng. “Jaidur took long enough, Zair knows.”