brought men with him down the rope ladder. So, taking my chance, I slipped the rapier point and dealt each of the wights holding my arms a most gruesome mischief with my knees, then ran fleetly into the darkness of the Cavern of Abominations. In the maze of tumbled stonework and fallen rock, the pillared chapels and the half-ruined warren of rooms beyond, there was little chance Naghan Vanki and his men or the masichieri would find me. But, equally and frustratingly, I had as little chance of finding Himet the Mak or one of the other priests of the Black Feathers.
A sensible idea would be to get out of the place and rouse a strong body of loyal soldiers, from Natyzha, from the emperor, from my own Valkans, and return here with fire and sword. That would be the sensible course.
In matters of this nature I am woefully lacking in sense. I no longer had the faithful old bamboo sword-stick. The rasts had not taken my sailor knife, and I drew this now and held it ready as I padded through the semidarkness. The shafting light from above probably came from a higher cavern whose floor was fitted with fireglass crystal. How far above that lay the surface I did not know, for we had descended that slimy spiral stairway to a considerable depth. However, far into the bowels of Kregen we were, I had no mind to return to the surface without a priest of the Great Chyyan to prod along before me.
The grotesquely carved pillar around which I edged screened off what lay beyond. Tumbled walls and toppled arcades, all built within the cavern, surrounded me. I rounded the corner. . The masichieri were surprised and sprang out under the flaring torches. There was only one thing I could do: I charged headlong for them. I bellowed “Hai!” and raced in with the knife held point up and thrusting for them.
I saw the slinger. I saw him unwind. I skidded on a fallen rock and tried to duck and then. . The stone must have struck me fair and square between the eyes. I dropped headfirst into the deep dark cloak of Notor Zan.
Twenty
Someone was saying from a great distance: “The yetch is the Prince Majister of Vallia? It is difficult to believe.” The words boomed and went up and down as though echoing in a gigantic sea shell. “What did he want creeping about down here?”
And the coarse answer: “By the Black Feathers! Whatever it was he will never find it now. Makfaril has ordained his death.”
I opened my eyes. Well, cells are cells. This one cut from the rock boasted a barred window through which torchlight streamed, so I crawled across with all Beng Kishi’s tinkers hammering out their bells in my skull, and listened as best I could.
“Come the Black Day and all the princes and Princesses will dangle-o!”
“Aye, dom. And then you’n me’ll be princes.”
They sounded apim. Masichieri. Hired killers. My head resonated and nausea clutched me. But escape must be attempted at once. Strike while the iron is hot. I tried to stand up and my legs buckled and I slumped back again. The guards talked on outside.
“Course, most of us will grab what loot we can and hightail it back home. Vallia is rich. By Havil! The plunder!”
So the cramph was from Havilfar somewhere, Hamal probably.
“Yes. You’re right. But I’m going to sit in the throne for once, aye, and if any princes or kovs is about I’ll use ’em for a footstool before we cut ’em up.”
A hawk and a spit and: “Once they get this meeting over the priests can go and spread the word. I’m tired of waiting. The quicker they learn the day and go home and tell their people the better. Then, dom, then our swords will drink blood and our pockets will be filled!”
“Aye, may Armipand rot ’em all!”
My legs wavered. I leaned against the wall and shoved upright. I panted. I did not touch my forehead. The blow from the stone must have left a ghastly mess up there and if the blood had dried I did not wish to disturb it. Only my thick old vosk-skull of a head and the dip in the Pool of Baptism in far Aphrasoe had saved me. I stilled the trembling in my limbs. Talk about David and Goliath. That flung stone had nearly done for me. But I felt my strength coming back. I dragged deep lungfuls of air. I forced myself to stand free of the wall and pace about, grunting, working my muscles back to life.
“. . Beautiful piece. A waste to sacrifice her first.”
I stopped and listened again.
“One of ’em got away. But the man’s safely mewed up.”
“Bitch women. Why can’t they attend to women’s affairs and leave men’s to men?”
Thank God, I said to myself, Delia and Dayra and Lela were safe dwaburs away from here. Although nothing had ever been said about where they were going or where they were adventuring, I had somehow assumed it was in the north midlands of Vallia.
Well, this was getting me nowhere. While there was no way of telling just how professional these two masichieri were, they were mercenaries, and therefore I must give them the benefit of hard professional competence. If I made a single mistake they’d not wait for Makfaril to implement his ordinance on my death, whatever gruesome affair that was to be.
A trampling of iron-shod sandals in the corridor was followed by jocular remarks from the two guards to others of their ilk who passed, giving me a little time.
“What a beauty! Treat her gently!”
“Ah! Makfaril’s girls will see to her!”
“What I wouldn’t give. .”
I waited until the guards passed. Apart from the old scarlet breechclout I was naked. Simplicity, that was the only way. Simpleness in plans can defeat the most cunning of experienced professionals. I leaned against the door and spoke through the iron bars. “Tell Makfaril I have vital information for him.
When Makfaril came I’d fling everything into one wild lunge and so finish the cramph. But these two were incompetent professionals. One looked through the bars, saying, “How do we know you speak sooth?”
“Fetch Makfaril and you will soon see.”
So, poor fools, they swung the door open to make sure of me. They were armed. I was naked. It made little difference.
I stood up and slid the thraxter from its scabbard. I took the other one’s short compound reflex bow and his quiver of arrows and slung them over my shoulder. A knife, too, would be useful. . The two masichieri slumbered on the floor. I shut the door on them and shot the bars and bolts. A short corridor lit by a single torch led onto a wider cellblock. Probably the sacrifices had been kept here in the old days. At the corner I halted as a screech of metal sounded. Cautiously, ready to fight or run — I was annoyed and did not wish to waste my strength on masichieri when Makfaril was here — I peered around the corner.
The scene was arresting in its action and before I could sort it all out in the tricky light it was all over. A guard screamed and spun away from a door. I saw a girl drive a long thick poniard into his neck, saw her as a fleeting black-clad sprite, her long limbs splendid as she sprang to the door. The sheening black leather stood out against her white skin. Her mass of brown hair obscured her face, but she was not Delia. She was not Delia. The door opened to her quick fingers and a man staggered out, looking ghastly, with blood dried upon his face and his dark hair draggling with caked blood and his left arm all broken and dangling awry. Quickly the girl dragged him along, taking no notice of his broken arm. She moved with feline grace, like a hunting cat — all the old images sprang into my mind. Like a tiger-girl she dragged the shambling man along and together they vanished around the corner. I loped along the corridor and looked after them. The next set of cells lay dusty and deserted and of the panther-girl and the man she had rescued remained only a double line of footprints in the dust. I wished her well. But I had my own zhantil to saddle.
Up. I must go up. Without doubt these cells for the sacrifices would be low down in this pestiferous place. So I hunted stairs and upward-sloping corridors, and only four guards died on the borrowed thraxter. The straight cut-
