Prince of Scorpio (21 page)

“Valka is a rich island. Richer, I venture to suggest, than Rahartdrin.”

She flared up at this. But then she nodded, and bit her lip.

“Since my husband, the Kov, died, things have gone to wrack and ruin.”

“You need a man, Katrin.”

Of course, I shouldn’t have said that.

And, indeed, it wasn’t necessarily true. I make no claims for the superiority of men in managing estates, and I know my Delia could manage Delphond like a dream. The Blue Mountains tended to be left in the capable hands of her elders in High Zorcady. But this Katrin Rashumin, Kovneva of Rahartdrin, took my words and read into them what my ugly face and foul manners had kindled in her, and thus confirmed that belief in her mind. She did, in sober truth, need a man.

She drank more wine. Then she unclasped her silvery robe and let it fall to the floor. She moved toward me, and threw her round arms about my neck. “Drak, Drak — you would be a Kov!” as though that must clinch the argument.

As gently as I could I detached her fingers from me. Her silvery robe lay strewn about the deck. Her jeweled hair had fallen into a great loose mass, and a fortune rolled about on the priceless carpets of Walfarg weave.

“I am a man, Katrin; not Strom or Kov or Prince have any meaning for me.” I did not say that being a Krozair of Zy held meaning. She would not have understood. “You must find a man more complaisant to your desires.”

She rested a while then, drinking wine, the slanting mingled rays of Zim and Genodras playing over her body. She would resume the fight shortly, I knew. No wonder she had locked the door. But I was learning all the time. I would be a Kov if I married her. I had become a Strom in all legality because I had won the position, and none could say me nay. How these nobles of Vallia had schemed and bribed and fought their way to power! And how they must be ever ready to fend off the plunderers forever following them! What a man could make of himself, what he could hold, that he was, in Vallia.

Of course, like any system of its kind, once you were in power, in the saddle, wielding the whip, you tended to build up reserves to keep you in power.

“No,” I said. “No, Katrin. I will be your friend, if you wish that, and perhaps take a lash and an accounting book into the island of Rahart. More than that I cannot be.”

“I have never met a man like you! In a few short burs I knew. Time has no meaning in affairs of the heart. The moment you spoke to me, so rudely, so intemperately, I knew you were the man! I felt myself turn to jelly—”

I didn’t laugh, but it deserved it. Poor soul! But for her, it was all deadly serious.

“I will strike a bargain with you, Katrin. I will be your good friend. I will ride into Rahartdrin and see what is going wrong. And you, in your turn, wipe your face, put on your robe, and tidy your hair — and then help and support me with the Emperor.”

If she rebelled at that, put on her icy hauteur and allowed her hatred to spew forth — well and good. I just wanted to know where we stood. But she was prepared to accept that heavy-handed patronizing attitude — for all that I meant sincerely what I said, it was still insufferably obnoxious — and she did as she was bid, and once more turned from a passionate sobbing submissive woman into a regal and distant Kovneva.

A call came down the tube. The border of Vindelka had long been passed and now we were heading in for a landing at Delka Ob. This was the capital of Vindelka, where Tharu and now Vomanus lorded it over fat realms. At Delka Dwa, right over on the northwestern border, lay a frontier town against the poor lands stretching away up there, lands over which I had trudged hauling the Emperor’s barge.

There were few lakes in that area, the ground was thin and sorry, and the wind scoured the landscape into wild and fantastic shapes. Only a few leem-hunters and madmen looking for gold and jewels found much in these badlands over which to feel satisfaction. The River of Shining Spears which ran from the Blue Mountains into the Great River skirted south of these badlands. They were called the Ocher Limits.

Beyond them and sharing them as a common frontier, seldom visited, lay the Kovnate of Falinur.

Katrin and I went out on deck as the airboat slanted down for a landing. Away across to the west where the twin suns sank in a jumbled blaze of emerald and orange the sky was a mass of glorious color. Fierce black twisted, violent spirals of cloud coiled up, with the beams of the suns striking through and the glow extending far across the horizon.

“We made our landing just in time, my lady Kovneva,” said the airboat captain. He looked ill at ease.

Katrin didn’t bother to reply. We all stood there, watching that violence and glory in the sky to the west.

Delka Ob was a pleasant enough place, situated at the crossing of two canals, with much greenery, shade trees, and the soothing sounds of water tinkling from fountains and waterfalls created in the gardens of the houses. There was the usual labor section; but here, too, the houses looked neat and clean and the people moved with that alertness and firmness of tread I always welcome, for it means the taint of slavery is not embedded in their bones.

Without question, the Kovneva ordered her palanquin out from the flier’s hold and gave instructions to be taken directly to the palace. This was the palace of Vomanus of Vindelka. Now it hosted the Emperor and the Princess Majestrix. Pela was carried in her sedan chair; I walked with the guards.

The suns were declining now, the air growing cooler. Our way from the landing field took us across one of the many bridges over a canal and here I heard the familiar hateful trilling of an Emperor’s stentor, and looking over the bridge parapet down onto the towpath I saw the sorry procession of dun gray barges. The haulers were being flogged into a shambling run, for the guards were impatient. I guessed these barges were carrying supplies, furniture, clothes, all the habitual magnificences of the Emperor, to the palace of Delka Ob, and had been dispatched some time ago, when this visit had been arranged, timed to reach the city for the Emperor’s arrival. This was so.

They had been held up — a canal had burst its banks and the work of reconstruction had chopped all the leeway out of the schedule. The chamberlain in charge of those barges was no doubt trembling in his boots. I saw the savage way the whips rose and fell, the way the knouts smashed down on the heads and backs of the haulers. The red and black arms rose and fell remorselessly. A girl collapsed and was immediately cut out from her leash and pushed aside. She would be dealt with later.

“Hurry, Strom Drak!” called Katrin, putting her head out between the curtains of her palanquin. “Just a moment, Kovneva,” I said. I turned to go. I had seen enough. I turned to go and saw at the head of the struggling knot of figures of the next barge in line a tall man leaning into the rope and hauling and hauling. I stopped turning to go. I swung back, very sharply.

I knew that I grew perilously close to callousness over the Emperor’s slaves. A single man, Strom or not, could not affect that issue at a blow; abolition would take time and immense effort over many years. But, that being so, I must do what appeared to me the right thing to do. Nepotism, if correctly used, can be a worthwhile tool, as witness Nelson and Collingwood, among others. So, feeling shame that I could do nothing for those other poor struggling devils, I ran quickly down off the bridge and onto the towpath.

A guard brought his lash down again and again onto the thin naked back of the tall man, striking with a passion of ferocity unwholesome to witness.

“Get on, you stinking cramph! Get on, you kleesh.”

The next act of mine was all over before I had fairly realized it had begun. I struck the guard full on the jaw. He dropped, senseless. Other guards had seen. They came running, up. I looked at the tall man. Seven feet tall, he was, extraordinarily thin of arm and leg, but with a bunching of muscles there that showed the lean sinewy strength of him. From his head a long silky mass of yellow hair fell to his waist. Now that hair was filthy and befouled. And he’d been uncovered when the Maiden of the Many Smiles floated alone in the sky!

“What in the name of Opaz do you think you’re doing, rast?”

The guards hesitated for a moment, as I did not draw but faced them. I glared at them and I know they saw the hatred in my face.

“If you do not instantly release this man, your barges will foul and choke the cut. The Emperor will not like that.”

“Who in the name of Opaz are you to—” I drew the rapier. I drew slowly. “I am Drak, the Strom of Valka.” All the time the haulers had been blindly hauling on, and I had backed to pace them. “I can kill you all, and will do so with pleasure. Release that man. I am seeing the Emperor now; I have been summoned to talk with him.” They stared at me, their faces lumps in that eerie streaming light.

I jumped back and with a single blow sliced through the tow rope. The leading man, that incredibly tall and thin man with the silky mane of yellow hair, lurched forward. Relieved of the horrendous weight of the barge he hauled forward at nothing and collapsed into the bloody froth of the towpath.

A guard — he was a Deldar — yelled his anger and charged full on me, his rapier held correctly for an instant thrust.

I met him, twisted, and sank my blade in his belly. I withdrew. “If any more of you want the same, come on!”

The thin man rolled over. He lay on his back, looking up, and I saw his face go through a whole spectrum of expressions, from dumb animal wonder to a glorious sunrise of hope.

“I am Drak, Strom of Valka!” I shouted.

Katrin’s voice lifted from the bridge. “What is going on, Strom Drak? The Emperor is waiting to speak with you!”

The guards checked at this. They looked at their comrade, coughing his guts out. They looked at my rapier. They looked — and longest — at my face.

“I will pay the necessary fees, indemnities, but this man is manumitted as of this moment,” I said. I turned and looked down. “I am Drak,” I said again, hammering it home. “I shall find you a long-hafted ax, for I think that will please you. Now, by Ngrangi the all-powerful, get up and let us go to the Emperor.”

“With all my heart!” said Inch.

“And don’t think of working off your taboos until I can find you a suitable place in which to do so.”

“I don’t believe, Dray — Drak. But I must. Now all praise to Ngrangi!” Inch of Ng’groga leaped up, his long arms and legs pinwheels against the sunset’s glow. He looked wonderful in that moment. Inch — old Inch, of Ng’groga, my good comrade in many a fight, many a carouse.

Inch flies to High Zorcady

The Emperor and Delia, with their courtiers, nobles, retainers, and guards, had not stayed at Delka Ob but had flown immediately to Delka Dwa. I fumed at this news in a way I believe you will understand. Prepared instantly to take to the air again I was met by the captain of Katrin’s airboat. His air of uneasiness persisted. This, I quickly discovered, was caused by the sunset and the storm out there to the west.

Even as we spoke, myself intemperately, the captain apologetically and half dead with fright, and Katrin soothingly, the outriders of the wind swooped howling over the rooftops of the city. The palace shook under the hammer-blows of the elements. Much damage was caused in the city that night; it was clear we could not fly in this weather. The rain sluiced down and the gutters ran red. The town lay smothered in the ocher and brick-red dust swept up from the Ocher Limits and blown hurtling across the land, leaving a trail of blood.

I cursed.

“The storm will blow itself out in a day, two at most,” Katrin said. “No zorca will get you there quicker if you start now — and travel in this is well-nigh impossible. My flier will span the distance rapidly as soon as the storm drops.”

With that, perforce, I had to be content.

How the fates and the elements conspired to cheat me of what I most desired in two worlds!

In an inner chamber I set about putting Inch back together again. With all the solemnity which the occasion required he set about purging himself of all his broken taboos. The process took time. He stood on his head for burs at a time. He sat on his haunches and howled like a ponsho-trag. A fire was laid and he solemnly jumped in and out of it. He performed some amazing acts which left me either stupefied with wonder or helpless with laughter — me, Dray Prescot. By the time he had finished the night had passed, I had slept, and Inch could be kitted out and tell me all his news.

My first words were: “What of Tilda and Pando?”

Inch sat and ate crisp fluffy Kregan bread and honey, and wondered aloud if he should take another dish of lig eggs. The lig egg comes in various shapes and sizes, of which the one with the points at each end and the fat round body between is perhaps the most popular. A few of those and a layer of grilled vosk rashers provided a breakfast fit for an emperor.

“Pando needs your horny hand on his rear,” said Inch. “Tilda is more beautiful than ever, a true Kovneva. Tomboram thrives, but Pando will have to take over as king before he grows much older. He needs responsibility to hold him down. He’s like a nit in a ponsho skin.”

I nodded. These were problems I had not forgotten. “And you?”

He made a face and drank wine, a whole glass, down in one swallow.

“That Ngrangi-forsaken canalwater! All the haulers who were not canalfolk were scared to death of it.”

“So they should be. What of yourself?”

“The argenter was taken by a swordship. The swordship was taken by a Vallian. I was simply packed off along with the rest of the prisoners; they laughed at my suggestion of a ransom.”

“The Vallians would. They are an exceedingly proud and rich people. They covet slaves, for they do not have the numbers that other countries possess.”

“However that may be, I hauled barges for this rast of an Emperor.”

“To whose presence we go as soon as the storm drops.”

Inch, of course, was staggered to find me here. He wanted to know how I had left the inner room of the palace of King Nemo in Pomdermam. I could not tell him that in that triumphant moment of victory, with the renders shouting “Jikai! Dray Prescot! Jikai,” I had seen the scorpion scuttle, and had looked up and seen that greater scorpion blue and dazzling, and so had been hurled back across four hundred light-years to the planet of my birth. So I made up a story that explained it, and he, knowing of my desire to go to Vallia, understood what he chose to understand. He was loyal, was Inch of Ng’groga, a good comrade.