Six
I, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, hitched up the ragged brown cloak over my left shoulder and took a firmer grip on the tatty cloth bundle that held my worldly possessions. Leaning over the bulwark of the flier, Delia handed me the bamboo stick.
“You look a mighty savage ruffian, my love. Try not to scowl so, and cast your eyes down. To act a poor wayfarer is not going to be easy for you.”
“Maybe not, my heart. But I’ve done it before and, by Vox, I’ll do it again.”
Parting with Delia is always so cruel an experience that I wondered, every time I parted from her voluntarily, why I was such a fool. To hell with Vallia! What did it matter if an evil creed overturned everything? What mattered beside life and love that meant everything with my Delia? But then I would return always to the harsh understanding that I was driven, a man doomed — perhaps by the Star Lords, perhaps by the Savanti, perhaps by Zena Iztar. For all of them I could feel anger, and yet, for Zena Iztar, who had materially helped me in ways beyond belief, I had to feel an affection that transcended my feelings for either Savanti or Star Lords. I might resist them; in fact I had worked cautiously on ways of circumventing their commands, and had succeeded and failed, yet would continue to struggle against them as I could.
But Kregen itself, the world of people, the beauty and grandeur and horror, this drove me. This made me both less and more of a man. So I could stand in the dust of a Delphondian lane with the green of orchards about and say goodbye to Delia and put a brave enough face on it.
“And do not be late for our rendezvous,” she said. So we called up the last Remberees and the flier lifted off. I waved as the voller rose and swung and swooped away into the bright morning air beneath the streaming mingled light of the Suns of Scorpio.
I was alone.
Well, that was what I wanted.
This was a decision I had made.
I tucked the bamboo stick into my belt over the old scarlet breechclout, draped a fold of the tattered brown cloak about it and with a final look around started the trudge to the Temple of Delia, about a dwabur off along the coast.
Very soon I found I could take an interest in all I saw, for the world of Kregen is always marvelous. My hand touched the bamboo stick. It was not real bamboo, of course, but it held the same deep orange glow and was ridged at intervals. Just such sticks are carried by the poor folk when they venture out from their own villages at least, just such a stick to outward appearances. My hair was uncombed and tousled up, and my face bore the marks of grime, although this was fresh dirt newly rubbed on. I was barefoot. Well, I am still more accustomed to going barefoot than to wearing shoes or boots. So I strode on out of the orchards and over the brow of a hill and across springy turf with seabirds wheeling and calling overhead, on along the edge of the cliffs with the wind in my face. Far out to sea a galleon of Vallia bore on, the spume breaking from her bows, her canvas all stiff and curved, a stately and gorgeous sight in the light of the suns.
And, as always, the smell of the sea wafted in to brace me up and bring the memories flooding in. By Zair! But all this wonderful display of nature — a naive but a feeling thought — deserved to be savored. Soon I passed a small group of cottages, set in the lee of a low hill. Gray smoke wafted. I did not stop and skirted around past the fences where the bosks nosed up, squealing. The people here would be like all Delphondi, easygoing and lazy, or so I then considered, but I felt disinclined for any company since I had voluntarily debarred myself from the only company for which I care. The Temple of Delia was set in a wide dell, a kind of lush ravine, through the center of which a narrow and rapid river helter-skeltered to the sea. No one lived hereabouts any longer. The grass and moss-covered outlines of ancient buildings, reduced to mere low mounds, told of the busy activity here when the Goddess Delia was worshiped in the land.
Now I proceeded cautiously. If this Makfaril called his freshly garnered congregations to worship here they must travel a fair way. There were towns within riding distance. Many of the richer sort might own an old airboat or two. The poor people would walk, or ride their draft animals. I kept into the side of a grassy bank and moved steadily forward until the first of the standing columns came into view. The green and emerald suns struck conflicting shadows from the flutings and ornamentation. Beyond the row of pillars a gray slate roof lifted, much worn and, as I judged, repaired within the memory of man. The quietness seemed very peaceful, with the droning of insects to deepen the hush, but I fancied that quietness to be deceptive. Slowly I inched forward, trying to peer into the blue shadows that lay in cool swathes beyond the pillars.
Nothing moved. The suns beat down and the mellow heat lifted from the warm earth and the insects droned and the air and sky breathed a sweet stillness.
I scouted the ancient temple thoroughly. Nothing human lived within those moldering walls. The place had been surprisingly large, the shattered walls and columns and fallen roofs lushly overgrown, giving clear indication of a rich and thriving community centered around the temple. When this place had hummed with life and worship and the continual processions, on Earth the men of Sumer were considering how best to fashion bricks into the form of ziggurats to reproduce the mountains they had deserted. Well, the ziggurats of Kregen are notorious, as you shall hear, and I was doing no good mooching about here. It occurred to me that the nine sigils of the signomant might not mean nine temples for the worship of the Great Chyyan.
The thought did not depress me. That had been a guess. There would be many wrong guesses before this business was over. Far more likely was our first assumption that the signs indicated places of rendezvous. This temple stood near the coast so it could be the place where ships landed, gliding into the pebbly cove where the small river tumbled headlong into the sea, disgorging money, weapons, priests, to further the cause of the Black Feathers in Vallia. That made sense. There had been no sign among the nine that we could make tally with the town of Autonne in Veliadrin. Ignoring the cluster of cottages I had passed, the nearest village lay two dwaburs off. I fancied I would walk there and quaffing good Delphondian ale and eating cheese and bread and pickles, I would ask cunning questions. The villagers would most likely know if torches had been seen in the ruins, if the weird sounds of chanting had been borne on the night air.
No thought that Delia had been wrong in her identification could be entertained. Of course, she could have been deceived by some fancied resemblance of the sign to the ancient symbol for the Mother Goddess aspect of Delia, but I did not think this. What I had been half-consciously looking for I found in the same instant that I heard voices drawing near, voices engaged in the age-old complaint of the soldier performing guard duties when he would rather be off in an ale-house. Even as I bent and from the broken angle of moldering masonry retrieved the scrap of black feather, I heard the voices.
I held the feather in my fingers, a tip of the rusty black plumage of a chyyan, the feather proved everything. If the mission on which I was engaged resembled some eerie detective story, then this was a clue of the first water.
The voices complained on and I shrank back into the shadows and listened. I put the feather down onto the moist green ferns struggling from the cracked masonry and blew it gently so that it drifted down out of sight. I marked the spot in my mind.
“That Shorten is a right bastard.” The voice rolled, rich and fruity, lubricated through the years by many a flagon of medium red. “As a hikdar he’d be a great zorcadrome attendant.”
The second voice, sharper, more intense, carried on the bitter complaints.
“We’ve been nobbled for picket duty three times in a row. By the Black feathers! I’ve a mind to appeal to Himet the Mak himself.”
“Do that, old son, and he’ll just refer you back to Shorten. That’s how they run things.”
I waited silently until the group came into sight. Four lumbering quoffa carts, bundled high and with canvas lashings protecting and concealing all, followed eight masichieri marching two abreast. Right in front and about to enter the ruins, the complaining two marched well ahead. They were unmistakable. Fruity-voice, glowing of nose, broken-veined of cheeks, with bright protuberant eyes, marched with a rolling swagger that churned his swag belly inside his leather armor. They wore plain black tunics, with the well-oiled leather and the parrying-sticks and the thraxters. The second masichier, smaller, weasel-like, kept in step with his bulkier comrade; and both of them grumped and groused to amuse Vikatu, the Old Sweat, Vikatu the Dodger, that archetypal old soldier, that paragon
