Slowly, Ros pulled from her waist pouch a thing of shining steel, an artifact shaped like an articulated metal glove, clawed with razor steel, sharp and cruel. She pulled it onto her left hand. The talons glinted. Metal splines extended up her wrist. She turned the tiger-talons this way and that. To call them tiger-talons is correct, for they shared much of the cruel curved beauty of a killer bird’s claws.
The massed crowd fell silent.
The girls faced each other, Karina the Quick flicking her rapier and dagger about expertly; Ros the Claw poised with rapier ready and left hand glittering with clawed steel.
So, I, Dray Prescot, sentimental onker, turned away and pushed through the crowd. I had no wish to witness what might follow. But, if I had to lay down any bets, my money would be on Ros, every last copper ob.
I had gone barely a dozen paces when a bubbling scream burst up into the bright air. I continued walking. I did not look back.
A vast sigh oozed from the crowd.
That was woman’s business. They were welcome to it.
“You May Choose the Manner of Your Death.”
“You are sure, Nalgre? Certain sure?” The seething anger and violence in me had to be held down. I could not show too much interest in the politics of Vallia here.
“Certain, Jak. I spoke to a flier pilot who returned with the trylon. The Lord Farris has been arrested and charged with treason. And others of like kidney, too.”
“It will make our task easier,” put in Dolan, idly swinging his sling around his legs. “Farris was loyal to the emperor.”
“Yes,” I said. “He was.”
“And as Udo is back in camp we will go and enlist today.”
“Very well,” I said, to keep up my cover.
This news was bad. It indicated quite clearly that scheming people were burrowing from within. The Lord Farris was devoted to Delia and the emperor. How could he possibly be accused of so outrageous a crime? Accused, yes; that would be all too easy. But the accusation must be false. I was convinced of that.
Before we went to enlist the three of us ambled across to an ale tent, for the suns progressed across the sky, to spend some of Nalgre’s winnings. Dolan had bet on Karina the Quick. And, as Nalgre said, with a guffaw: “That cat-girl cut her up a real treat.”
I was not interested. The day passed too slowly for me. On the morrow Dayra would arrive and I knew I would have to be quick to fetch her out of it before Zankov moved. I’d summed up that villain, as I thought, and how I kept moving and speaking and acting normally I do not know.
The problem of this acting as a paktun and hiring out to Trylon Udo also worried me. If I gave my sworn oath to serve, as any mercenary would do, I would not wish lightly to break my word. That the whole thing was a sham, a facade, would not count. My word would have been given, and here, in the camp of Hockwafernes, I
was
Jak the Kaktu, paktun.
Well, it is the same with problems as with plans. Men sow for Zair to sickle.
Coming out of the ale tent after a goodly interval — a goodly interval — Nalgre wiped his lips and belched.
“By Beng Dikkane,” he said, comfortably. “I am in the mood now.”
A pang for old days and for Nath and Zolta swept me. We turned along the line of booths and tents where the trafficking went on all the live-long day. A party of warrior women marched along, all in step, all spears ranked, their helmets gleaming.
Dolan nodded.
“I warrant they’d not be so regimented when the moons are in the sky, eh?”
“They wouldn’t give you a calsany’s offering,” quoth Nalgre, and he laughed.
The Jikai Vuvushis marched with a swing. There were equal numbers of those in green leathers under their armor as those in russets. On duty animosities were forgotten. At the head marched Zillah and Jodi, and Ros the Claw was there, with Firn. They approached and we three together with other swods casually sauntering nearby moved out of the way.
Leona nal Larravur pointed at me.
“There he is!” she shouted. Her voice rose, cracking with strain and excitement. “There he is! The Prince Majister! Seize him!”
It was damned quick.
I was ringed by spear points. My comrades fell back, gaping. Many of the irregulars ran off in terror. Zillah, tall, buxom, high of color, fronted me. Her rapier glittered at my throat.
“You are the Prince Majister of Vallia?”
I stared about the hostile ring. Damned quick, by Krun!
To go drinking in camp we had merely donned rapier and dagger. My fighting equipment lay buckled up in its leather coverings along with the gear of the others, guarded by the camp slave. Even then I could have broken free, skewered a few of the guards, slashed a few more, and so broken to liberty.
But I hesitated.
These were women. Mind you, they were women dressed up as warriors, carrying arms, armored. All the same, they remained girls. At that time I couldn’t bring myself to stick a length of sharp steel into any one of those delightful forms. It was a weakness.
“No!” I bellowed, for everyone to hear. “You are mistaken! For the sweet sake of Opaz — take that rapier out of my Adam’s apple.”
“You are the Prince—”
“No! No — do I look like a prince! I am Jak the Kaktu. A paktun, ready to fight for you — you make a mistake—”
Some of the girls believed me. But this Zillah and this Jodi, and this Ros the Claw and Firn did not. And, with her fine frank face glowing with passion, this tricky Leona nal Larravur knew absolutely I lied.
“Take him to the trylon!” she brayed, swirling her rapier. “I shall soon convince him. Oh, what a prize we have here.”
“Yes,” spat Ros. “A contemptible rast of a man! A cramph ready to be unmanned and chopped and flung down unmourned to the Ice Floes of Sicce.”
I shook my head. “You are mistaken—”
“March him off!” shouted Zillah. Her nostrils widened. “How the sight of him offends me.”
Amid a scathing torrent of abuse they led me off. I went. A few sharp spear points up my stern convinced me they hadn’t heard Phu-si-Yantong’s orders not to kill me. Anyway, maybe that schemer had changed his mind. I’d soon find out.
Trylon Udo na Gelkwa turned out to be a square-set man with a sharp brown beard and thin harsh lips, with eyes that were darker than the normal Vallian brown. This is common in the Northeast of Vallia. He did not rise as I was prodded into his room in the town hall. The place was bare and sparsely furnished, with furs hanging on the walls and a large table smothered with maps and lists. He looked up narrowly.
“So you are the Prince Majister.”
“No—”
The girls at my back all took their chances of giving me a crafty prod or two with their spears. I jumped. They’d taken my rapier and dagger away. I had let them. Every time I tried to speak I was poked by a spear.
“Larravur says you are. She frequents the court of the imperial buffoon and decadent drunkard in Vondium. She is our eyes. You are the Prince Majister. You will receive scant courtesy from anyone here in the Northeast. But, one boon I will grant.” Here Udo leaned back in his chair and pulled his beard. He smiled. “You may choose the manner of your death.”
I opened my mouth and Udo lifted a ringed hand.
“Let him speak, Zillah.”
The girls glowered at me. Even Karina the Quick had come in to see the fun. Not a one of them showed a single spark of mercy; now all believed I was that miserable rast I was accused of being. Karina sported a large bandage over the right side of her face. But she had not lost an eye. She did not stand near Ros. Jodi and Firn separated them. The animosity I felt from these girls puzzled me. It seemed to me overdone, abnormal, almost unreal and certainly damned unhealthy.
Leona pointed a rigid forefinger at me.
“He does not speak. He admits his guilt. His terror contaminates us all. Thrust a sword through him and have done.”
Ros whipped out her steel claw. “Let me take him apart!”
The others voiced their own highly unpleasant ideas on the way I should go.
The whole episode smacked of a dream sequence. It was not even a nightmare. It just seemed unreal. Had I been hemmed in by foul-mouthed guardsmen then a flick of a leem’s tail would have seen a few of them down, spitting blood, and a sword in my fist, and a corpse-strewn trail of blood to the door, if one of them did not try to shaft me as I went. But these were girls. As I say, I was weak in these matters in those days.
By Makki-Grodno’s disgusting diseased dripping left eyeball, I can tell you! I felt the hugest of huge idiots, a nurdling onker, a get onker — a ripe charley, the complete fool. And yet — and yet, at that stage in my development on Kregen, what else could I have done?
A stir at the back of the room and a swaying aside of the Jikai Vuvushis heralded the intemperate arrival of Zankov. He stood twitching before Udo, shaking, controlling himself with an effort of will I found amusing. He wore a fancy uniform which included a gilt cuirass all carved and engraved into the likeness of a writhing devil face, fangs and staring eyeballs and wild hair — I think it was intended to be one of the devils of Cottmer’s Caverns — and he kept running a finger around the collar and hitching himself about. I judged he was not much used to wearing armor.
“This man is not to be harmed, trylon,” he said without as much as a Lahal.
“Oh?” shouted Udo. “And who says so?”
At this Zankov checked. He managed to get his finger from the cuirass to spread his arms and shrug. “It would be unwise. He is a bargaining counter, a hostage—”
“I run things here, Zankov — or whatever your name is. Remember that. But—” And here Udo pulled his beard again. “It is so simple as to be moronic. But it might be useful.”
Ros pushed forward. “He deserves to die, here and now.” The claw glittered ominously.
“Oh, aye, he deserves to die.”
“Well, let me scratch him a little.’”
During all this I stood silently, watching the byplay, wondering just how much of his gloating feelings of superiority Zankov could not stop from showing through. He was making a good job of appearing the zealous subordinate to the trylon. They argy-bargyed, discussing my life like a rotten sack of moldy gregarines. Finally Udo waved his hands and gave his judgment.
“Take him away and bind him and set a watch over him. If he dies or if he lives is my decision. I will take it myself. You will be told when necessary.”
A couple of girls grabbed my arms to drag me off.
I remained where I was, with the girls tugging away. I stared hard at Leona. She tossed her head back, her eyes bright.
“If I was this confounded prince, girl — why would you hate me so?”
“You are, and you know.”
“Take the rast away!” bellowed Trylon Udo.
The two girls were joined by two more who tugged at me. I remained firm. “Hold on a mur,” I said. “I want to know what this fellow, this Prince Majister, has done to you to arouse such heated emotions.”
“Get him out of here!” The words slashed from Zankov.
Ros pushed forward. She was breathing heavily, and patches of color mantled her cheeks. The claw looked highly unpleasant, for she had donned it over her left hand and wrist. “I should rip your eyes out, here and now! You betrayer! You deceiver! You lecher! You heartless wretch! You — you—”
“Now easy on,” I said, for she broke down from the violence of her emotions. Firn took a swipe at me with her rapier and I had to sway aside. This was getting out of hand. Leona kept on shrieking at me. Zillah and Jodi, who were clearly in command of the Jikai Vuvushis, added their yells and orders. I shook the girls free and took a step toward Trylon Udo. Instantly a shortsword flicked up into his hand.
“All right, all right, trylon,” I told him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Get him out! Drag him by the heels!” foamed Zankov.
One, two, three strides took me to Zankov. He tried to rip his rapier out and I took him by the throat and lifted him up off his heels. He dangled in the air, choking, his face turning that old interesting purply-green rotten gregarine color.
“Hear me!” I bellowed.
The walls of the room did not shake to that foretop-hailing voice; but a silence dropped.
I shook Zankov, who was bubbling like a punctured boiler.
“Just suppose I were this Prince Majister—” Here I swung my left arm across and swept away a flung spear. Another was caught and reversed in a twinkling. I looked at the girl who had hurled, and smiled, and shook my head. Her face went as white as the underside of a chank.
“Can’t you hulus tell me what is going on?”
Strangely, no one wished to speak. I glanced up at Zankov and, regretfully, plunked him down on his feet. I let him go. He fell to pitch forward into Karina’s arms. She glared at me venomously; but a flicker in her eyes, a swift betraying gleam of sympathy? I was not sure.
But she said: “Zankov may overrate himself. But he is one of us. You are a southerner — a clansman — prince.”
“If I were. And is that all? That the Prince Majister is a stranger?”
“Aye!” said Firn, looking at me with scathing contempt. Her red hair looked marvelous. She breathed deeply and unsteadily. “A stranger. A stranger to Vallia for all of the time. A no-good calsany, a rast who betrays those who love him.”
The bewilderment would not leave me. I looked around them, at those lovely faces, all flushed and bright-eyed, all staring accusingly at me. Contempt, hatred, disgust — all were written clear on those fair faces ringing me.
I shook my head.
Zankov held his throat, croaking, trying to speak and unable to force out a sound. The marks of my fingers glowed in livid weals.
“I’ll go,” I said. “And I will go peacefully. By Vox! But if I really were this Prince Majister then I truly think I’d begin to feel a little sorry for myself.”
I did not. But I wanted to test still further the way the wind blew. But no one responded.
Trylon Udo had summoned male guards. He did not know it; but that was a mistake. Had he done so before, I might be away from here now, cleaning up a blood-splattered sword. As it was, I had said I would go peacefully, and so I went. Spear points ringed me as I started off. It was left to Udo to have the last word.