Rebel of Antares (9 page)

“The devil of it is,” said Tyfar, “we do not know what the spy was bringing.” The man I had seen dead against the wall beyond the trap had been the Hamalese spy.

“And we do not know who killed him. Who it was who tried to trap us.” I spoke normally, but the answers to those questions, known to me, must not be revealed to my comrades. Be sure I felt the degradation of this shabby double-dealing. But unless Tyfar and Jaezila ran into danger so great there was nothing else for me to do, I must put the well-being of Vallia first. I felt the coldness. By Zair! But they’d so nearly been killed. Why they hadn’t been I had no idea. Certainly Valona had given Erndor sharp enough instructions, exact and explicit. Then why had those men simply chucked a brick at him and tied him up?

Presently I excused myself and said I must be going. If I was to play the spy in Huringa I wanted to settle the business with Unmok and Froshak. As for Vad Noran, I did not think he could have had a hand in the trap sprung in Malab’s Temple. And if he had, he’d have killed the lot of us, and giggled in the doing of it.

“When you have finished this business with Unmok,” said Jaezila, “then you will join us? Here, I mean.”

“Thank you. Yes. And a thought occurs to me. This Vad Noran. I heard that he is involved in a plot against the queen.”

They reacted to this very coolly.

“Of course,” I went on, “it could be that plots like this are two a penny. There are many who do not like the queen.”

“And many who will fight for her, in expectation of reward.” Tyfar saw I had been a trifle put out. “But we ought to investigate every story. Suppose my poor dead spy was going to tell us of Noran’s plot?”

“Entirely possible. But I hardly think it would be Noran’s plot. There are stronger men using him.”

“Gochert?” said Jaezila.

“Possibly. He struck me as a man capable of a great deal.”

“Well, then,” said Tyfar. He looked pleased, and lifted a handful of palines, holding them cupped on his palm so that the yellow berries rolled. “I have a plan of my own, that might serve. Also, it is time we had a plan of our own instead of others.”

“Go on, Ty.”

“I am here in Huringa to buy vollers. Everyone knows that. Vad Noran expects a visit from me at some time. I think I will pay him that visit and sound him out—”

“Oh — Ty!”

“Steady, steady,” I said. I looked at Jaezila and saw she shared my concern. “If you are incautious you might find yourself minus a head, or loosed into the Arena — or thrown to Fahia’s pet neemus.”

It was very necessary for me to be circumspect. I did not wish to reveal the extent of my knowledge of Huringa, acquired during my previous residence here when I was Drak the Sword, a hyr-kaidur. But if my impetuous comrade was going to thrust his head into a noose, I was bound to loosen the rope, by Krun, yes.

“He would not move against me, surely?”

“Not openly. But he employs assassins, we know that.”

“Then that settles it.” Tyfar’s air of pleasure increased. “If I convince him of our integrity, he will call off the stikitches he has set on you. So that is that.”

“I see why he would do that.” Jaezila put her head on one side. “But if what we suspect of him is true, he will prove a broken reed in times of trouble.”

“I’ll—” began Tyfar.

I stood up. “Promise me you will not sound out Noran until we have spoken again.”

Jaezila nodded vigorously. “I agree.”

Tyfar stared from Jaezila to me and back again. He flipped a paline into the air — and caught it in his other hand. Not for a prince of Hamal the indelicate business of paline popping in these serious circumstances. When he spoke he sounded somber.

“I take your meaning exactly. We are comrades, and we have been through much together. I think we value one another, and I do not intend to belabor the point. But I am a prince and if I see my duty plain I must do that. My duty tells me now that if I am able to get Noran to call his bloodhounds off you, Jak, then that is what I must do. And, betwixt you and me and Beng Dalty, I think he will listen to me.”

“Oh,
Ty
!” exclaimed Jaezila.

“You—” I said. I took a breath.

“There is no more to be said.” Tyfar placed a paline into his mouth and chewed. He chewed with great determination.

“All right. Then when you go to see him, I will accompany you—”

“And me!”

“And there is no more to be said on that subject.”

Prince Tyfar of Hamal laughed.

When I took my leave of them I sought out their three retainers, who, scrubbed and polished, were stuffing themselves in their quarters at the side of the principal room. I was short and to the point.

“Very well, Jak. It does make sense.” And: “Aye. Jak, we will.” And; “Good, Jak. We will keep an exceedingly sharp observation.”

So, satisfied that Kaldu and Nath and Barkindrar would not allow Tyfar to go wandering off by himself, I went out. If they knew where he was likely to go and he tried to give them the slip, they’d know where to find him. Or so I hoped.

The urvivel took me along to Tazll Kyro where the mercenaries temporarily without employment waited to see what turned up. Not for them the rigorous formality of employment bureaus; they would sit at the tables circling the square or stand at the bars, and they’d drink and ogle the girls and talk and quarrel and there’d be one or two fights per diem. People wishing to hire paktuns would look over these hard-swearing, ruffling, swashbuckling fellows, and take their pick, and haggle over the price. I looked but could see no sign of Unmok, and presently a one-eyed shaven-pated Gon with a kax fashioned from bronze, and two enormous swords, told me that, yes, a little five-limbed Och had been there and hired stupid Bargle the Drop and anxious Nath the Quick and cunning Kardol the Red who was a Khibil and would slit his grandmother’s throat for a silver sinver.

I forbore to inquire why Unmok, if he had picked up so unlikely a bunch, had failed to hire this one-eyed Gon. I thanked him civilly and mounted up and clip-clopped back out of Huringa toward our camp. I would have preferred to have caught Unmok before he’d hired his mercenaries, but they could be paid off and no harm done — if Unmok agreed with my scheme.

Now you will have gathered by this time that I regarded Unmok as a very shrewd businessman. When I got back to the camp and saw what these mercenaries Unmok had hired were up to, I began to come to the conclusion that perhaps the one-eyed Gon had been right. They were certainly a pack of idiots.

An enormous spitting splintered the air.

Beside the cage containing the churmod the mercenaries were laughing and catcalling and poking their swords and spears through the bars. They were stirring the slatey-blue animal into a vicious temper. Her crimson eyes were mere slits of smoldering hate.

Jeering and taunting, the mercenaries tickled up the churmod and she slashed spitefully with her front two paws. The talons glinted. She knocked a spear away, the Brokelsh laughed and jabbed it back. When he withdrew, the tip showed a spot of red. The churmod hissed and slashed and the spear shivered in two.

A fire burned nearby with a cauldron bubbling away. One or two slaves stood, agape, transfixed by the behavior of these swaggering bully-boys. I cocked my leg over Snowdrop’s back and jumped off.

Froshak the Shine appeared around the cage. He saw what the mercenaries were up to and he ran forward, shouting and waving his arms.

“Idiots!” he yelled. “Haven’t you any more sense?”

He pushed the big reddish Khibil, who pushed him back.

“Keep away from her!” shouted Froshak, incensed.

He shoved up before the man, his arms outstretched — both to show he had no weapons and to shepherd them away. They sneered at him, calling that he was a spoilsport.

“Stand back!” shouted Froshak.

I saw it.

“Froshak, jump clear!” I bellowed with all the force of my lungs. “
Froshak
!”

The churmod’s claws raked between the bars and fastened on Froshak’s neck. Her other paw slashed around. She held the Fristle’s body against the bars, and her two second front paws menaced us. It was clear that Froshak was dead. He hung with her claws through his neck, and the blood dripped from what had been his face. Then, holding him against the bars, the churmod thrust her muzzle as far as she could and began to chew on him.

The mercenaries stumbled back. They were screaming now.

Attracted by all the din, Unmok appeared. He saw. He did not fall down, but he shook.

“Froshak!” But he could only whisper.

The horrendous grunts and savage snarlings of the churmod sickened us. Froshak was being chewed up.

“We can’t leave him—”

“Rather him than me!” said the reddish Khibil. He was not so red now.

I walked forward. I said in a voice that made them jump, “You are all discharged, now, instantly, without pay. Get out of my sight. Get out now. Or I will surely slay you all.”

Then I took no more notice of them.

The fire crackled. I picked up the unburned end of a hefty branch and swung it about so that the other end flared brightly. Holding the brand before me, I advanced on the cage. The second pair of forepaws slashed the air between the bars. It was death to reach out for the dead Fristle.

Savagely, as filled with bestial anger as the churmod herself, I thrust the brand at her. I dug it in and jerked it back, and it flared and spat sparks into those lambent crimson slits she had for eyes. She snarled and hissed and slashed the air before me. I thrust the blazing brand and swung it and scattered sparks. I reached out with my left hand and a set of talons raked and I snatched my hand back. Again I thrust the burning branch. This time I drove it with intent to hit the churmod in the face and force her back, force her to relinquish her prey.

She flinched.

She snarled a bubble of hatred at me, and she released Froshak. The dead Fristle fell in a heap. The churmod backed off. She looked at me. Those twin slits of crimson spurted hellish reflections as though the flames of the torch were caught and hurled back at me.

I stared malevolently back.

I thrust the fire through the bars, trying to burn her, making her back off. Then, trembling, I controlled myself. It is often this way with churmods, and was why the mercenaries had taunted her when they would leave a chavonth or a strigicaw alone. She slunk back, belly low, a smoldering silver-blue ghost of malignant power.

Froshak was carried away, tenderly, and laid on the ground. He looked dreadful. Unmok stood beside the body of the cat-man he had employed, and who had remained so silent under Unmok’s proprietorial mewlings. I stood by Unmok. There was nothing of any use or sense we could say to each other.

I looked at the little five-limbed Och.

Tears coursed down Unmok’s face, and he dropped to his knees, sobbing.

Chapter seven

Of Letters and Remberees

Froshak the Shine was buried with all respect and reverence in the Forest of the Departed. Unmok lavished his hoarded gold to buy and furnish a tomb that, as he said, was not good enough for his friend. The gold should have been spent on Froshak when he was alive; now that it was too late for that, Unmok would embellish the Fristle’s tomb in sumptuous fashion and give his ib surcease in the long journey to his Fristle paradise.

Leaving Unmok for the next few days was quite out of the question. He had shrunk. He looked a small pale ghost of the shrewd, businesslike Unmok I had known.

We went to see Avec Parlin together and Unmok took no joy from the money he received for the safe return of Ungarvitch the Whip’s caravan. The animals were sold off in the usual way and, not surprisingly, the churmod was reserved for Queen Fahia. Unmok’s tame slaves were housed in a cheap lodging, for he would not avail himself of the services of the bagnio. During all this time the suns shone, Zim and Genodras, casting down their mingled ruby and jade, and the seven moons of Kregen rose and set, the stars glittered and the breezes blew and men and women went about their daily lives, and it might all have gone hang for Unmok the Nets.

Nothing would rouse him. Even when Avec Parlin announced that he had heard of a good-quality secondhand cage voller that was not required by Hamal for her Air Service, Unmok merely nodded absently. “That is nice,” he said, in his choked whisper.

“And when will you heed her?” Parlin, the lawyer, an apim, treated Unmok with great civility. Had he not done so, I verily think, he would have had the rough side of my tongue, if not worse.

“When? Oh, I do not — I do not know—”

I said, “As soon as the sale is made, Avec, we will need the cage voller. Can you see that she is properly surveyed and then provisioned? You know the gold is available.”

He nodded. Then he screwed up his eyes. “Unmok has told me of Vad Noran. You walk perilously, Horter Jak.”

“I thank you for your concern. Tell me, does the plot against the queen prosper? Or is it all a phantom, a Drig’s Lantern?”

We walked along the north boulevard and the streets were hot under the suns and few people were abroad. The beast roar from the Arena told where the citizens of Huringa were spending the day.

“The plot is real. I will have nothing of it. But as for Vad Noran — he is a man led by the nose.”

“And who does the leading? Gochert?”

“Gochert? No.” Parlin looked surprised. “My informant says that Gochert warned Noran most seriously. The one-eyed man refused to have anything to do with such a harebrained scheme.”

That did not square with the impression I had received, but I let it pass. Gochert struck me as an antagonist worth ten Norans.

“Who, then?”

Parlin hitched up his shoulders and lifted his hands, palms up. “You are abrupt, Horter Jak. Such knowledge could bring a man to the Arena.”

With the civility that was not altogether feigned, I said, “I crave your pardon, Horter Parlin, but the matter is of moment, as you understand.”

“Assuredly. The fact is, I do not know. I have heard rumors that a great noble presses to take over the throne from Queen Fahia—”

“Someone with a legitimate claim? That would narrow the field.”