these same warrior women I had watched marching so smartly in.
The wooden buildings surrounding the opulent temple revealed the types to be expected and I aimed for the largest, which must be the Kregan equivalent to the Town Hall. I will pass quickly over that episode, for although I wormed my way in and looked about I learned absolutely nothing. The trylon was away. Guards lounged about, and nothing was afoot. So I withdrew and waited in the shadows under the wooden eaves.
A great deal of noise spilled out with the yellow lamplight from a tavern across the dusty street; but I did not venture in. The troops in the city would be the trylon’s own men, Hawkwas and well-trusted paktuns like the Chuliks who would be known. I would face instant exposure as an interloper. Over there they were singing “King Harulf’s Red Zorca” and then they started on “Sogandar the Upright and the Sylvie.” A group of Chuliks staggered out, half drunk and disgusted with all this decadent singing. The swods were bellowing out the refrain and killing themselves laughing as they warbled: “No idea at all, at all, no idea at all,” when a fresh group of men emerged, their cloaks about their faces, and their swords drawn. Instantly I merged with the shadows and followed them.
There was little chance that the Star Lords or the Savanti sent the chance my way, even though Maspero, my tutor in Aphrasoe the Swinging City, had personally aided me recently. The credit was most probably due to Opaz, although I would not exclude Zair or Djan from the reckoning. Whoever it was guided me to those men, and I heard one of them whisper in a cutting voice: “If we are late because of your drinking and singing, Naghan the Neemu, Zankov is like to have your tripes out. You know what kind of maniac he is if crossed.”
“Aye, Nundi, I know! You should have hauled me away before.”
“Let us hurry, famblys,” growled another. Wrapped in their cloaks, their swords bright in the rising moon, they bustled swiftly along the rutted street between the overhanging houses. I followed. Zankov!
At last. At last I could feel myself closing with the heart of this mystery. They led me to a shuttered house in darkness. The door opened and shafted yellow lamplight and then closed tightly again. I eyed the roof. To climb up was simple enough for an old sailorman and I gained the ridge and prised open a skylight. No matter how many times I stealthily clamber into a house to spy nefariously, it always sets the old blood a-thumping. Softly I padded down the blackwood stairs and so came to a tall curtain from which spilled the lamplight in a long beckoning finger from the central parting. Cautiously I applied my eye, saw what I needed, and then set my ear to the narrow opening. The curtains covered a high window, a kind of mezzanine floor above the main hall. Below, a group of men and women sat around a table on which stood flagons of wine and dishes of fruit. To describe them all now would weary; suffice to say I recognized none of them. I could not see those directly below me. Had I done so — well, that is for later.
The man called Naghan the Neemu was being properly contrite and being cut to pieces by a slender, dapper, sharp-faced fellow clad all in black leather. I looked at this one. There was about his taut nervous manner, the sharp gestures of his narrow hands, the quick stutter of his voice, a sense of burning frustration, the smell of hidden fires, the idea of resentment spilling over and barely contained. He flayed Naghan the Neemu. And, as he spoke vicious, cutting words, I saw his eyes, and saw the Vallian brown change and darken and so remembered Nath ti Javvansmot’s words at The Speckled Gyp. For Zankov laughed as he verbally flayed Naghan the Neemu. He reveled in inflicting his own power on others, that was plain. He laughed hurtfully, and told Naghan what his punishment was to be, and his eyes darkened in that narrow feline face.
“Lucky it is for you, Naghan, our guest is delayed. Had he been constrained to wait for the likes of you-”
“I serve loyally!” spoke up Naghan. “I believe in the Cause. I care for the zorcas-”
“And you will personally sweep out the stalls! Personally! With bucket and broom. Our guest brooks no delays from your kind. Remember and do not forget. You are a mere tool and I shall use you as a tool
— so keep to your zorcas and do not be late in future.”
And Naghan the Neemu — and a man does not obtain that sobriquet upon Kregen lightly — meekly bowed his head.
The women gathered here looked as ruthless as the men. Probably they were far more vicious, I thought then. I had the macabre idea I would recognize Dayra. I had not recognized Velia. But I thought — then
— that I must know my own daughter after the harrowing experiences through which I had gone with Velia, my Lady of the Stars.
She must be sitting directly below me, if she were here.
Gently I drew forth the longsword.
The longbow remained cased, for I had deemed it prudent to conceal that weapon in the camp. There was general talk among the swods about facing the Crimson Bowmen of the emperor, and tales that the bodyguard had been bought, which eased many an uneasy thought for the future in the army. I would leap down among this unsavory little lot and hoick Dayra out of it and if anyone of them tried to prevent me he would feel what good Krozair steel might do.
These, of course, were the maundering and chauvinistic thoughts of a fond parent who failed to comprehend the working of his daughter’s mind. But I would learn — bitterly. Easing up ready to get a good purchase and so leap down with a skirling yell to throw a startlement into them, I heard Zankov saying: “He is here now. You will all stand.”
Amid a scraping of sturmwood chairs they all stood up. A door opened and a bulky figure appeared below me, going toward the table where Zankov stood, smiling, holding out his hand. I saw the dark cloak of the newcomer, saw the low round helmet without feather or ornamentation. I saw a furtive flicker of steel and a whiplike tail bladed with a glittering, dagger slice up in the long slit in the center of the cloak’s back.
A Kataki.
And Zankov was saying: “You are heartily welcome. I bid you Lahal and Lahal, Ranjal Yasi, Stromich of Morcray.”
Silently I resheathed the longsword and sank back into the shadows. Twelve
Concerning the Throne of Vallia
They were all laughing and cheerful down there now, chattering away, handing out wine, quaffing, exchanging toasts, all very merry as nits in a ponsho fleece. I sat back in the shadows and glowered, my fists white on the hilts of my swords, my thoughts black as the cloak of Notor Zan.
“Your pass brought me safely through the gates, Zankov. But only, I think, because my men were on duty. There was a Deldar there also, a Khibil, most insulting. I would like him flogged tomorrow, flogged jikaider.”
“It shall be done, Stromich.”
“Are we all here?”
“All save for the Princess Dayra. She is expected the day after tomorrow.”
At this I roused myself. My savage thoughts refused to come to order. So Dayra
Low-browed, the squat face of a Kataki, fringed with thick black hair, oiled and curled. Flaring nostrils and gape-jawed mouth with snaggly teeth has a Kataki. Wide set his eyes, brilliant and yet narrow and cold. Slavemasters, Katakis, aragorn, evil men to all they enslave. Their bladed whiptails curve arrogantly above their heads. Yes, Katakis are diffs who give to Kregen much of the evil in its brilliant reputation. Many thoughts rushed through my head. Strom Rosil Yasi and I had clashed before. I had heard of his twin brother, this Stromich Ranjal who strutted below me now. The pair of them were prime candidates for the Ice Floes of Sicce. Down south in Hamal, the enemy of Vallia, these two Katakis held high office. They were here to injure Vallia. More — they were the tools of the Wizard of Loh, Phu-si-Yantong. That devil had been balked in his attempt to control Vallia through the false creed of the Black Chyyan, and now, here he was again making a fresh attempt through these Katakis. The man who had stood on the poop of the airboat upon which I had so incontinently landed, who had given his hoarse-voiced orders to throw my flier over and to spare me — that man was this same Stromich Ranjal na Morcray. There was no mistaking that voice, now I heard it again and had a face and form to put to it. I marked him. I marked him well.
Who had been giving Ranjal his orders in the flier?
Could that have been Yantong himself?
Could it?
I did not know; but somehow, even then, I doubted it. From what I knew of Phu-si-Yantong, and that was
