A Life for Kregen (4 page)

“Bedroom?” I said. Then, already stripping off the bloodstained clothing: “The empress is not ill?”

“Oh, no, majis,” they chorused, and laughed.

Only in the most deeply felt personal relations could the diminutive majis be substituted for majister. Nath Nazabhan would not allow himself the usage, although the offer had been made.

“Well, then, you pretty shishis — out with it!”

Emder, smiling, gathering the clothing, slinging my crusted clanxer harness over his shoulder, said, “The empress has never been better, praise Opaz. The bath is drawn—”

One of my own rules is that because so many times I have presented myself to Delia in a shocking state, hairy, filthy, bleeding, almost done-for, whenever it is possible for me to bathe and change and look at least halfway respectable I will do so. I took the bath first before discovering what the laughter and the little mystery was all about.

Feeling refreshed and still toweling my hair I went through to the bedroom. A pang struck me as no familiar and horrific form arose to check on everyone daring to enter the room where Delia, the Empress of Vallia, took her ease. Melow the Supple, that horrendous and sweet-natured Manhound, had been sorcerously sent back to her native Faol and my eldest son Drak was off there now, trying to find her, and with her her son Kardo. By Krun! A few Manhounds in our ranks would do wonders for the discomfiture of those who opposed us.

Inside the doorway with my bare feet sinking into Walfarg weave rugs, the towel dangled over into my face. I could see nothing and gave the towel a swipe out of the way as I walked on. When the yellow toweling whisked away I stood gaping more than a trifle foolishly at Delia.

She looked like a twisted bundle tied up ready for the laundry.

Instinctively, for this was Kregen, I leaped forward and even half-naked straight from the bath a dagger dangled at my side. This I drew.

Delia laughed.

“You silly old fossil. Just stand still and let me get out of this slowly and properly.”

“By Zair—”

“Wait.”

I waited.

She sat on the rug with her right leg bent over her left, the left foot tucked in and pointed and her left arm stretched down her right foot from knee to ankle. Her upper body twisted right around from the waist, although she sat firmly on the floor, until I thought she could look back over her own shoulders. Her right arm was bent behind her back. And that rounded right knee was jammed tightly up under her left armpit. She looked — well, she looked marvelous, of course, all tied up like that of her own volition — but the power and serenity flowing from her took my breath away.

Carefully, moving with a grace that caught at my throat, she unwound herself.

At last she lay back, her arms at her side, and for all anyone would know she might be laid out ready for her last journey to the Kregen equivalent of the Valley of the Kings.

Then, with a smile, a small, cheeky smile, she sat up and said, “I’m ravenous!”

“There is tea in the Sapphire Reception Room. Shouldn’t you wear a leotard for that kind of thing?”

“In my own bedroom? With only a grizzly old graint of a husband to blunder in?”

“Well, you run perilous risks—”

“Not now — I don’t. I am for tea and miscils and palines—”

“What was that?”

She told me the Kregish for the Spinal Twist, the equivalent to the Sanskrit Ardha-matsyendrasana.

“That’s all a part of the Disciplines of the Sisters of the Rose? We have similar although far less seductive exercises in the Krozairs.”

“Hardly exercises, Dray. A way of tuning in with Opaz, I think; a way of getting through material worlds to what really matters beyond them.”

“I know.”

Shaking my head at the marvel of Delia I saw about getting dressed. A simple tunic sufficed me, and Delia wore a soft laypom-colored tunic girded with a narrow belt fashioned from interlinked silver flowers. We both swung daggers from the belts. She looked gorgeous. The dress in its magical way set off the glory of her face and those brown eyes that could be so melting or so imperious, and added a special luster to the chestnut tints in her brown hair. Fit, she looked, radiant. As they say on Kregen, she had the yrium for an empress.

We went together through the hastily refurbished corridors and past blackened and windowless openings in the walls to the Sapphire Reception Room. My people were already there, changed and foaming for the meal. They waited for us, as was decent; but we were not late. We might have been, had Delia not been of so determined a nature.

In the absence of any properly organized palace retinue and court dignitaries, the rump made do as best they could. A major-domo — old Garfon the Staff — hobbled up to me, for he had taken an arrow in his heel and it was slow to heal, and banged the balass, golden-banded staff down on the flags by the door. I stopped his yell at once. If the people in there didn’t yet know me, then, by Vox, I was in the wrong business. And, yet, they could know only the outward me, the Dray Prescot who banged and barged about and thumped skulls and got things done. They could know nothing of the Dray Prescot who for long hours agonized over what to do for the best, and hoped he could do it, and trembled in doubt.

“A strange happenstance, majister,” old Garfon the Staff boomed. He was a mite put out, as all major-domos are, that he hadn’t got around to bellowing out titles. “Two embassies await audience and crave your indulgence.”

“Spit it out, Garfon, for my mouth is like the Ochre Limits.”

“They await audience in the Second Enrobing Chamber — that was spared except for the northeast corner of the roof — and, well, majister, it is indeed passing strange.”

Delia put her hand on my arm. So I just said, “Well?”

“One embassy is from the Racters.”

“Those cramphs. Well, they deal legally, or, at least, most of the time. Go on.”

“The other is from Layco Jhansi.”

A gasp broke from my people who listened.

My brows drew down.

“A deputation from the most powerful political party in Vallia — or, at least, the party that was the most powerful. And a deputation from the old emperor’s chief pallan, who betrayed him and tried to assassinate him. This is, good Garfon, exceedingly interesting.”

“It does not take a wizard to divine what they want,” said Delia.

Barty Vessler bubbled over, half-laughing, half-enraged at what he saw as the effrontery of it.

“Each is prepared to offer you an alliance, majister. That is the gist of it. One against the other, I’ll warrant.”

“Aye,” I said. “Each offers alliance, for they are at each other’s throats up there in the northwest.”

Delia laughed, a pure tinkle of sound.

I nodded.

“And, seeing they are like savage leems, one with the other, you have put both deputations, Garfon the Staff, both of them together in the same chamber.”

Chapter Three

Two Deputations Amuse Us

The aftermath of that damned vision of the Wizard of Loh, Phu-Si-Yantong, clung unpleasantly. I would not forget what he had attempted against me during the Battle of Voxyri when he had sent me a personal and hideous vision of Delia betrayed by the arch-seducer, Quergey the Murgey. That plot had failed and in nerving me to take a fateful decision had brought Vondium into our hands. That was the battle in which the Phalanx had finally decided it could go up against any kind of army and win, without doubt, against my stern admonishments.

So my anger was still fizzing and undirected, for Yantong could be anywhere in Paz, manipulating his puppets at a distance. I could, for the moment, do nothing against him.

So it behooved me to contain and control anger against the masters of these two deputations. They deserved anger — and the people of Vallia opposed to them would call it righteous anger — but I tried to look into the future. Alliances must be formed, in order to bring to a rapid close the agony that ripped Vallia apart.

Garfon the Staff went scurrying off to separate the two deputations. He went with Barty’s raucous comment that he might find the Second Enrobing Chamber a sea of blood if he did not hurry.

One or two voices raised at that, commenting that the event might be a Good Thing, that it would rid the world of a few more rasts.

“Palines,” said Delia, with firm practicality, offering me the dish heaped with the succulent yellow berries.

Scooping a handful I cocked an eye at Nath Nazabhan, as, cup in hand, he sauntered across. “Neither of them, majister, for my money.”

I chewed. “If we do not have to fight one or t’other, that will free half of our hands.”

Korero laughed.

“Mayhap. But an alliance with a traitor or a bunch of political chauvinists is not to my liking.” Nath was serious.

“Nor mine, by Vox!” said Barty.

“If you were drowning and an unpleasant villain saw fit to stretch out a hand to save you, would you refuse?”

“That’s different!” And: “That’s not fair!”

“Nevertheless, we are like to drown under the weight of the military and aerial force the Hamalese and the insurrectionists can bring against us. We hold Vondium, parts of the midlands, and the northeast. The northwest, at the least, is held by Vallians. All the rest—”

“Quite! All the rest is enslaved by this bastard Wizard of Loh, or his minions, or by damned revolutionaries!” Barty was most wroth. His face shone like that famous polished red apple set out at the forefront of the grocer’s stall. His brown Vallian eyes popped. He would have gone on, but Delia said, “Barty.” He shut his mouth as a trout shuts on a fly.

“I repeat. At the least, these are Vallians.”

Now, I said this with some malice. I had sojourned long in Hamal, and knew its ways and people passing well. I had good friends there — admittedly, friends who did not know I was at the time Prince Majister of Vallia. Hamal as the hated enemy had wronged Vallia, that was generally acknowledged. But the Empress Thyllis must answer for much of those crimes. Once this mess was sorted out we must march in friendship with Hamal. Common sanity indicated that. So by stressing the very Vallianness of the compact offered, I sought to open their eyes. Once they agreed, then I could spring the snapper...

Old Archolax the Bones, spare, wiry, dressed somberly in dark gray with a golden and scarron chain about him, spoke up. His face bore deep lines from nose to mouth, and his air of gravitas was heightened by the emphasis of his diction. He had been newly appointed Pallan of the Treasury — for Lykon Crimahan was still away fighting for his estates of Forli and the money situation needed immediate attention — and he took his position seriously.

“If they offer an alliance through their embassies, majister, they are in need of assistance, one against the other. It would be well to seek to know to what degree and amount they are willing to pay for such an alliance. Opaz knows, the treasury is bone dry.”

“A shrewd thought, Archolax.”

“Anyway,” said Barty, a little mollified and once again able to meet Delia’s eye. “Let them wait a while.” He handed me a plate heaped with sandwiches and with a cup perched on the side. We habitually stood to talk and eat during these sessions, although comfortable seats, brought from all over the ruins of the palace, were available.

I started to eat, and, wolfing down a bamber sandwich, said, “I’ll keep ’em waiting just as long as protocol demands.”

In the event I gulped down the rest of the meal and wiped my hands on a yellow cloth and went away to the Second Enrobing Chamber, determined to let chance arrange which embassy I saw first. Garfon the Staff had left that from the Racters there, and had shown that from Layco Jhansi to the Samphron Hall’s anteroom. The Samphron Hall no longer existed, being a mere maze of foundations, and the anteroom still persisted in smelling of smoke.

The party from the Racters numbered four, and they were led by a man I knew, Strom Luthien.

His thin shrewd face with the bright sharp eyes and the permanently hungry expression did not betray his thoughts as I entered. Guards stood at the door. I wore a rapier, picked up from Emder on the way. We regarded each other for a space.

Finally, with an ironical bow, he said: “Majister.” With a sweep of his hand he indicated his companions and named them. Each one wore the black and white favors of the Racters, flaunting those colors here in Vondium from whence all the known Racters had fled.

Luthien was a Strom — that is roughly equivalent to an Earthly count — by title alone, for he no longer owned lands. He was the perfect agent for the Racters, and knew it and acted the part well. His insolence was veiled just enough so that no offense might be taken — at least, not by me, who was not an emperor in the mold of emperors of the past.

The offer was as we had expected. Alliance between our two forces, first against Layco Jhansi, and then against the Hamalese and the mercenaries and all the other vermin who had flooded into Vallia to pillage. He made no mention of the embassy from Jhansi. I forbore to bring up what was clearly a prickly subject. I kept a graven and serious look on my face — not a difficult task, by Krun! — and heard him out.

The clothes these four Racters wore were the usual decent Vallian buff coats and breeches. Their wide Vallian hats with the black and white feathers lay on a side table. They bore no arms. My guards would have seen to that, and relieved them of their rapiers and main gauches long before they were conducted here. I studied the clothes and discreet insignia. Nothing out of the way there.

Memory of the golden image of the grascent, that leaping scaled risslaca with the powerful hind legs and wedge-shaped head of destruction, worn by the Chulik who had attempted to slay us under the Gate of Voxyri, made me wonder if Phu-Si-Yantong had infiltrated the ranks of the Racters. It was most unlikely that he had not. But he would scarcely parade that kind of hidden exercise of power openly.

When that particular Wizard of Loh struck, he struck from the shadows.

Well, of course, they all do. But Yantong’s menace held a special brand of cunning and absolute conviction of superiority. I still fancied I could find something in him of admiration to ordinary folk; but I had to acknowledge that it would be damned hard to unearth.