The Spikatur Cycle, page 62
Handur shook his head in admiration. “The prince is a marvel! This disastrous news, and he checks the maps — which we are not allowed to see — writes, and gives his orders. With his worries about his daughter, he knows exactly the right plan to smash these damned Vallian invaders.”
I said, “He is indeed a marvel. All the same, this is not the great plan that will save Hamal altogether.”
“Oh, no. But that exists. Everyone knows that.”
If I couldn’t get into that map room soon I fancied I’d burst!
Six tall windows each side of the double doors let in light. I strolled across — seething! — and looked out. A landing platform here had been built high against the wall, with the sky above and a nasty drop below. On the platform were ranked a number of courier vollers. To one side and neatly segregated stood perching towers for mirvols and scratching bars for fluttcleppers and volcleppers. The vollers were all just about the same, small two-place jobs with a van-like rear. They were all-over green in color and along their sides and sterns painted in yellow-gold was the word courier.
I rubbed my chin. Now one of those vollers would serve Lobur and Thefi a treat. Also, one would get me through to Seg or Drak later in the game. A landing platform to be borne in mind, then...
The guards out there were mostly apims; but there were Chuliks and Khibils and a couple of Rapas. There were no Pachaks I could see. Inside this anteroom the guards stood woodenly at their doors, opening them when necessary, and by the time I’d dealt with them all, reinforcements would come pelting in in overwhelming numbers.
The door in the fourth wall opened and a crowd of aides to other members of the high command jostled through. They’d been eating heavily and drinking well, for we with Nedfar were late arrivals. The uproar of laughter and conversation filled the anteroom. No doubt some of the high command would be members of the Nine Faceless Ones of Hamal who directed many affairs and particularly appointed nobles to the production of vollers. The news of the disastrous Battle of Hallandlad sobered the boisterous aides. For my part, I knew that the colors of my regiments in the battle would bear the honor embroidered in gold thread. Sink me else!
Shortly thereafter a deal of coming and going ensued as fresh orders were written and sent off. Ruathytu would be like a beehive tonight. This was to the good. If men were drawn off to the north they could not reinforce the armies facing the invasions from east and south.
When an aide was required from the group waiting a man would come out of that small door and bellow his name. This man presented a singular appearance, for he was blind. He wore a silly over-ornate uniform and a velvet cap with a feather; but his legs were chained so that he could just walk and not run. He carried a yellow stick with a bronze head, with which he felt along the walls and floor, although long custom in this occupation had given him a sure sense of direction.
“Trylon Handur!” he shouted in a parade-ground bellow. He must have been an old warrior, blinded in action, and now peculiarly suited for this work. Handur started up and ran through the door.
No doubt because of the seriousness of the news and the tenseness of the atmosphere in the anteroom, so far not one of the aides had strolled over to inspect the new aide. Among a certain type of noble — no less in Vallia than Hamal — the desire to bully and humiliate inferiors and new acquaintances is an old and nauseating phenomenon. I was in no mood to be temperate; but I did keep myself to myself, over by the windows.
When Handur reappeared he carried the oilskin packet that was the hallmark of the messengers’ trade. I had to take it to the Chuktar of the artillery park over in the soldiers’ quarter, north of the river. “Take a messenger voller,” said Handur. “And be quick. The packet cannot be entrusted to anyone else.”
I nodded and taking the packet went out through the double doors. The Jiktar on duty pointed out a voller and pilot I might use. The green-painted craft with the yellow-gold lettering looked flimsy; but she was fast with rakish lines. Her pilot settled at the controls and we were off.
He was a cheerful sort who invariably began any sentence with a little laugh. His fair hair blew about. He said his one desire was for the war to finish, as he had no enmity for Vallia, having been there and liking the place. He told me he was called Bonzo, although that was not his name. One day, I surmised, when he scraped up enough courage to disdain the job in which he found himself, he would make his mark upon the world. In this I was right.
The packet was duly delivered to the Chuktar, who brooded over his stores of varters and catapults and nasty darts and stones, and we flew back. The wind blustered and the Courier craft sped between the clouds. Ruathytu presented the spectacle of huge areas of darkness, and avenues and streets of light in other quarters. The Sacred Quarter spouted to the night sky.
I said a cheerful Remberee to Bonzo the Courier and went into the anteroom. Handur had gone off, I was told, and so I hitched up my sword and marched up to the small door. The Chuliks made no offer to open it.
“Open the door,” I said, in that cutting way. “Message for Prince Nedfar.”
I waited for what seemed a damned long time; then the left-hand Chulik, who wore a golden thread braided into his dangling pigtail, opened the door. He did not speak. I looked inside, along a corridor, and marched in as to the manner born.
The corridor was short, no more than half a dozen paces, carpeted in dark blue, with paler blue walls and ceiling. The only two pieces of furniture were a chair and a table. On the table stood a jug and a glass of water, a loaf of bread and a heel of cheese, together with a pottery dish of palines. Painted outlines on the table circumscribed the areas to be occupied by these refreshments. I noticed there was no butter. Some of the provinces of Hamal supply troops who will have nothing of butter or preserves or relishes. They furnish good quality fighting men, though. In the chair sat the blind man. As I entered he began to rise, for his hearing was sharp. As I closed the door after me he stood up very quickly, and called: “Do not shut the door, notor. Give me your message.” And he held out his free hand.
I looked at him, seeing the seamed weather-beaten features of an old kampeon, and I sighed. I walked on, very softly, and his stick switched up. The stick barred the passage. “Notor?”
Some things a man does in life he will not dwell on. I was as gentle as I could be, and arranged the old warrior in his chair comfortably, his stick propped at his side. What a world it was, when the Emperor of Vallia was reduced to dealing with old blind men!
His name was Nath the Bullet, for he had been a zan-Deldar of slingers.
The door beyond his slouched shoulder pushed open on oiled hinges. A small square room, carpeted and walled in green and blue checks, revealed three more doors. The one on my left was open to show a spartan bedroom. That on my right opened as I entered and a portly snuffly man emerged blowing his nose. That was the lavatory. He wore fussy robes, girded with golden links, and his jowly snuffly face had no time to express astonishment before he went to sleep. I was not as gentle with him as with Nath the Bullet.
The door ahead opened with a bang and a voice called: “Come on, Larghos! The fate of Hamal is being decided and you sit—”
The speaker was sumptuously dressed in blue and yellow and gold and he was a hard case, blue-jowled, heavy of eyebrow, scornful of lip.
“By Krun!” he exclaimed, seeing me.
I crossed that little square room like a leem. He collapsed. But other voices lifted beyond the open door. I looked in. Impressions jostled. People standing around a huge table, many lights, tall curtained windows, a square black opening in the far wall, the blackness as of a night of Notor Zan. I saw Nedfar look up from the table which, in the single glance I gave it, I saw was a superbly crafted model of Hamal, sculptured and painted in miniature perfection. Clumps and columns of color on this map table represented the armies marching and countermarching. The maps on the walls paled by comparison.
Two men rushed me. They drew their swords and they did not wait for Nedfar’s abrupt cry. “Hold! He is my aide—”
“Then he is a dead man!” shouted one of these fellows, and he lunged. Like many of the newer nobility he carried the rapier and main gauche, having discarded the traditional weapon of Havilfar, the thraxter. His face showed the clear determination to skewer me. I drew, put the point through his shoulder, and then whipped my own left-hand dagger before the eyes of his comrade.
“A message!” I bellowed.
Nedfar started for the door. Other men and women crowded up. The man I had pinked fell down, screaming, gripping the hole in his shoulder. Then the other one slashed at me, and I ducked, and I had to stick him in the thigh. He staggered back, yelping.
“Jak! Jak — what are you about?”
In a rush a twinkle of swords broke like a massive comber breaking into foam on a pebbly beach. I skipped and jumped and I bellowed out as though mortally afraid.
“I meant no harm! I have a message— Stop fighting, notors!”
But whatever Nedfar might have thought, the others were in no doubt. They did not bother to call for the guards. The doors between muffled all sounds. And no guards, no aides, no one was allowed into the map room. They tried to get past me to the door and run out to raise the alarm. I had to stop them and began to use the hilt, thunking them into peaceful sleep. Even the women fought like she cats, and with the fate of empires at stake, women had to be treated as equals with men, which is what they would have asked for. Nedfar stood back, shaking his head. He drew his rapier; but he held it point down.
When he and I stood alone, he said: “I knew you were a swordsman, Jak, a Bladesman. Now I wonder what you are.”
“I am your friend and admirer, prince. That is the truth, as Havil — as Djan — is my witness.”
He smiled. Yes, he was a gentleman. “Not Havil? You are not Hamalese, as you pretended?”
“No, prince. But I am not your enemy.”
“Spikatur Hunting Sword?”
“No. I am not sure I approve of their methods.”
“And you are here to...?”
“Is it not obvious?” I gestured to the map table.
“I see. Then it is my duty to stop you.”
“I know it is. And it is my duty to look. What can we do about it, prince?”
“You call yourself Jak the Shot. Will you add to that?”
“No.”
“Then we must fight.”
“I think not. I have promised — first myself, and then Tyfar, although he does not know of my promise or the need for it — that I would never raise hand against you.” Deliberately, I lowered the point of my rapier. All the time I moved closer to the table. “You are, I think, one of the Faceless Nine, one of the Nine Faceless Ones?”
He started. “You should not even know of their existence!”
“That I do proves a point. Also, Nedfar, I would willingly see Thyllis cast down to the Ice Floes of Sicce and you as the Emperor of Hamal. This, I think, is what I am about at the moment.”
“You talk—”
“Best you should understand the implications. We are friends, and I intend us to remain so. For the sake of Tyfar as much as anything else.”
“You talk wildly, about things you should not know, about treason. Thyllis is my cousin—”
“Second cousin.”
“Second cousin. I will not be a traitor.”
“I would not expect you to be. After we have defeated her you will be the choice. There is no other with your—”
“The king, the emperor—”
“You, Nedfar, and you alone, will be the Emperor of Hamal. Now, to business. I intend to look at that map table. I will not fight you. So—”
“And I will prevent you, and will fight you.”
Close enough now to the table, I fancied... Close enough to act...
As I leaped, I said — and it was pure bravura, stupid — “I will not fight. But I will do — this!”
The single clean blow stretched Nedfar upon the floor. I looked down on him, and then bent and picked up my main gauche. The knuckles of my left hand did not even tingle, so nicely judged was the blow.
Then I turned to the map table and the secrets of the high command of Hamal.
Chapter eighteen
I am peremptory with Princess Thefi
The high command of Hamal had no secret master plan to defeat the invasions. The story was a cleverly concocted propaganda exercise. I gripped the edge of the map table and stared wolfishly at the sculptured contours, the greenery denoting vegetation, the winding of rivers and the clumping of mountains that formed a miniature model of Hamal. Scattered across the land lay markers of various colors. These were representative of the armies and air fleets that marched and flew. These were the secrets.
The Hamalese had disposed their forces according to sound military doctrines, operating on interior lines, dispersing to march, concentrating to fight, keeping on the move so as not to exhaust the country.
It was all laid out. Broad arrows made from wood blocks and positioned before each army indicated its line of march. In front of the invasion columns more than one set of arrows indicated by their different sizes the probable direction. The tallest wood block arrows showed the route the Hamalese planners calculated the columns would move, the smallest the least likely. A few moments of study convinced me the Hamalese had covered just about all eventualities. Their response moves were all worked out. I looked and committed the plans to memory.
A hoarse snuffle from the floor where the high command sprawled brought my attention to one of the men, a rotund, big-bodied man with a simple taste in clothes. He snuffled again and rolled over. His face was doughy, multi-chinned, yet unmistakably the face of a man who gave orders. I bent to him to put him to sleep again. At his throat he wore a small version of the pakzhan, indicating he was a hyr-paktun. No doubt that was where he’d picked up his expertise. As I straightened up my eye was caught by the favor he had pinned to the shoulder of his tunic. It was of black and green feathers, and was pinned by the golden representation of a grascent. The grascent is one of the more interesting varieties of Kregan dinosaur. I stared. Feathers of black and green and a golden grascent — I had seen this badge before.
The arch wizard, Phu-Si-Yantong employed men as his tools, and some had worn a badge like this.
Studying the table, walking around the room checking on elaborations of details on the wall maps, I had to face the simple fact that Phu-si-Yantong’s insane ambition to rule all of Paz — all of Kregen for all I knew, he was mad enough even for that — must cause him to keep a watch on the most powerful of the rulers whom he must bend to his will. This doughy-faced fellow took orders from Yantong and betrayed Thyllis.
That Yantong kept up a corps of spies seemed a common sense enough conjecture. He was able to go into that weird trance state of lupu and spy out incidents at vast distances; but that kharrna could be interfered with. Thyllis had once kept her own secret personal Wizard of Loh. I rather fancied from what little I knew of Yantong’s character that he would never tolerate another Wizard of Loh in his own affairs.
The wall maps took my attention then for the last one showed in neatly inked outline and color what the Hamalese high command planned as their defenses of Ruathytu — always assuming any of the invasion columns managed to reach the place.
The plan was elegant and simple as good plans usually are. The ground forces would be dealt with according to their strengths, so that over the last miles of the advance they would be resisted where weak, allowed a relatively easy progress where strong. The Hamalian Air Service would keep most of its strength disengaged and away from the capital. The Hamalese had no fear of other aerial forces. When the last attack went in, with aerial support or not, the Hamalian Air Service would pounce. They would catch the attack columns in that vulnerable moment when they advanced to the assault. The picture formed in my head — clear skies with Vallian and Hyrklanian and Dawn Lands various aerial forces pressing on above the troops below, everything going well, shouting and uproar, and on, on — and then the enormous Hamalian skyships dropping down and the swift vollers and the clouds of fluttrells and mirvols — yes, that picture formed, and it was a picture of darkness and death for all our hopes.
High morale, determination, and knowing the moment to strike — these were the Hamalese secret weapons.
Prince Nedfar stirred. I had struck with as little force as possible, less than I should have done to do the job properly. A line from a poem by Covell of the Golden Tongue, one of the preeminent poets of Vondium, crossed my mind. He was a lively, intelligent and sensitive man who abhorred violence. Useless to attempt to render the poetry into terrestrial tongues, the Kregish is unique and beautiful. He sings: “To see no hope in romance and love in human relationships is death; loneliness is the true unhappiness.”
Zair knew, I’d been lonely in my time. Among all the splendid friends fortune had favored me with on Kregen, this man, this noble of an enemy country, this Nedfar, numbered; it was time for me to leave crazy Empress Thyllis’s map room and be about my proper business.
I gave a last swift look around, then crossed to dough-face and ripped away the black and green feathered golden grascent. I stuffed it into my pocket. Nedfar groaned. I gave him a polite salute and left the moorn vew, closing the door on the square room after me and closing also the door from that room onto the corridor. Nath the Bullet slumbered. I made sure he was still comfortable as I went by, and propped his stick to give him extra support.
Then, bracing back my shoulders, head up, face wearing a scornful aide’s rendition of a man with an important mission, I marched out into the anteroom.
As far as I was concerned I might not have bothered. The place looked exactly the same, if a little noisier. Across at the double doors the Chulik guards had no compunction about letting me out. The terrace presented a blotched look from scattered lanterns and lamps, orange lozenges, yellow ovals, white rectangles of light. The landing platform held a number of courier vollers and messenger flyers; but protocol must be observed. I felt the old itch up my back. That roomful of sleeping beauties would be found soon — must be found. They knew who I was. I was dwa-Jiktar Jak the Shot, of the Hamalian Air Service, captain of Mathdi. I heaved up a sigh as the Jiktar approached, already signaling for the next voller inline.
