The Witch War Cycle

Chapter six

Chapter six

Natyzha Famphreon sends a requestThe Piebald Zorca had been rebuilt since the earlier structure had been burned down in the Times of Troubles, but the upstairs room was furnished with a faded glory that reminded one of bygone days. There were even black and white decorations to the cornices. They could, of course, have been merely an artist’s fancy...

Nath snorted when he saw the decorations, and chucked his wide-brimmed hat down onto the table. Then he sprawled out in a chair and stuck his black boots out.

“Drinks all round, landlord, and sharpish!”

“At once, my lord.”

Seg and I stared at the person in the black cloak and wearing a black iron mask who rose at our entrance. He wore no weapons. We were fully armed.

“Would I know you, then, koter?” I made the inquiry in a flat voice.

“You might, majister. When the landlord has served us I will remove the mask.”

“Make it so.”

The room was illuminated by mineral oil lamps, and their slight tang rankled unpleasantly when compared with the sweet aroma of the samphron oil lamps those with more money could afford. When the landlord, a bulldog-faced Brukaj in an almost clean yellow and green striped apron had retired, we broached the bottles and settled about the table.

With a firm gesture the stranger unhooked the clasps and removed the iron mask.

Well, I knew him. But only slightly.

“Lahal, Strom Volgo.”

“Lahal, majister.”

He was apim, like me, with stern and austere features, bearing the marks of experience. His nose was full and his lips of the thin variety, yet he was not unhandsome. His eyebrows drew down.

“I serve the kovneva, and hold my lands at her hands. She commands, and I obey.”

A strom, which is something like the rank of count here on Earth, may hold estates direct from the emperor or king, and also from a kov, or duke. The dowager kovneva Natyzha Famphreon of Falkerdrin owned vast lands. There were many nobles beholden to her.

“Well, jen,” I said, which is the correct way to address a lord in Vallia, “you’d better spit it out.”

He was not discomposed. He’d heard of me, right enough, since the days when the Racters believed I was merely a propaganda prince, a puffed-up bladder of nothing.

“I have to inform you that the kovneva believes she will soon die—”

“Ha!” exclaimed Nath. “Then you do bring good news!”

Strom Volgo took no notice outwardly; but I noticed his forehead crinkled just a trifle. This man served old Natyzha, and was well aware of the upheavals that would follow the death of a noble.

“She is aware of the enmity shown you by the Racters. She calls to your remembrance her enclosed garden, and the chavonths that escaped and would have killed her and her friends. She grieved, then, that you and she stood in enmity, one against the other.”

I said, “I did what was necessary. But I, also, remind her that her son, Nath Famphreon, stood shoulder to shoulder with me. And he was armed only with a rapier.”

That had been a blood-stirring little scene, the escaped chavonths, ferocious hunting cats, leaping out ravenous to kill and eat us. Yes, I’d always felt that Natyzha’s son, Nath, was not the ninny everyone thought him. His mother was so powerful, so overriding, so intemperate in her demands, that young Kov Nath vanished in her shadows.

As Strom Volgo went on speaking I realized we were handling high politics, secret understandings, the stuff of which empires are made.

He unhooked the black cloak and tossed it over the back of a chair. He wore Vallian buff, and his long black riding boots were still splashed with mud. He’d come a goodly way southward from Falkerdrin, which lies north of the Black Mountains and north of Vennar, over the River of Rippling Catspaws. My blade comrade Inch was still fighting to regain control of his Black Mountains, and my comrade — never a blade comrade! — Turko was struggling to hold onto his new kovnate of Falinur and to hook left into Vennar whose borders marched westward of him. And, of course, Vennar was the kovnate of Layco Jhansi, the old emperor’s chief pallan, traitor, forsworn murderer.

“You still fight Layco Jhansi, then, Strom Volgo.”

“Of course, to all outward seeming.”

I didn’t like the sound of this. Neither did Seg. He sat up.

“Oh?”

Volgo spread his hands. He wore the colored favors and symbol — known as a schturval — of Falkerdrin. Black and gold the colors, a chavonth the symbol. The schturval glittered in the oil lamps’ glow.

“I have been commanded by the kovneva to tell you whatever you wish to know, majister. She feels she is near death—”

“And is this sooth? Is Natyzha really dying?”

“Yes.”

“From all accounts,” put in Nath na Kochwold, “her son Nath Famphreon is no man to be a kov. He’ll have his head off before he leaves the graveside.”

“Yes,” said Strom Volgo.

Seg fidgeted away at what had been said earlier.

“What d’you mean, strom, about to all outward seeming you still fight that bastard Layco Jhansi?”

“I have been commanded to tell the emperor all. The Racters have come to an understanding with Layco Jhansi—”

“The devil they have!”

“Aye. The Racters will turn their main efforts against this maniacal King of North Vallia, and Jhansi will in likewise smash this new Kov Turko of Falinur.”

“By the Black Chunkrah!” I flamed out. “This is ill news!”

“And it explains why Turko has been having such a bad time recently.” Seg gripped his square brown fist onto the smooth shaft of his bowstave. “I’ll have to go up there, my old dom, and—”

“Too right! And I’ll be with you, and with reinforcements for Turko. The whole front could collapse and then — by Krun! It doesn’t bear thinking of!”

Strom Volgo rubbed salt into our wounds.

“Now that Layco Jhansi has access to the sea through Racter territory he has been hiring many mercenaries.”

“That does it,” declared Seg. He stood up, big, handsome, his dark hair wild, and prowled about the room like a veritable leem.

“My thanks to you, Strom Volgo, and to Natyzha. She has done us a good service with this intelligence. Although—” and here I confess I stroked my chin, “I am at a loss as to why she should so inform us.”

“That is why I am here. When the kovneva dies she is confident that the lords of the Racter lands will descend like warvols upon her kovnate. Her son Nath, whom she loves in her own hard fashion, will be swept aside. He will likely be slain. Certainly, she believes, Kov Nath will never inherit Falkerdrin.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Nath na Kochwold.

But, having had a glimpse of the purpose and steely determination in Natyzha Famphreon, I thought I could see what she wanted. And I stood aghast. I had to let Volgo spell it out, for it was a request I did not wish to hear.

“The Kovneva Natyzha Famphreon of Falkerdrin begs and demands of you, Dray Prescot, Emperor of Vallia, that you guarantee the legal and actual inheritance of her son, the Kov Nath Famphreon of Falkerdrin.”

“Do what?” Seg’s voice as he stopped pacing and swung about, head jutting, was a snarl. “Is the woman insane?”

“She has, Kov Seg, taken the measure of the emperor. This request cannot be dealt with by anyone else.”

Quite mildly, I said: “If I accede to this astonishing request, and I send — or, rather, ask — Kov Seg Segutorio, to go up to Falkerdrin and sort it all out, then, believe you me, Volgo, Kov Seg will sort it all out — and in a most handsome way, by Vox!”

Volgo blinked his eyes twice, rapidly.

“I’ll go like a shot, of course, Dray. But I own I’m a damned sight more worried over Turko.”

“So am I. Turko’s problems with this Imp of Sicce Jhansi are far more pressing than Natyzha’s presentiments of death.”

“Your pardon, majister — but the kovneva really is dying. The needlemen and puncture ladies are helpless.”

“Well, Volgo, I’ll think about it. You have to admire the old biddy, though. She was always the toughest nut of all the Racters. When—”

“Majister!” He interrupted with full knowledge of what often used to happen to folk who interrupted emperors when they were talking. “I crave your pardon. But the kovneva is dying, and she must have your positive answer to comfort her on her deathbed. I am sure you can see that — majister.”

“I see you are devoted to her, Volgo, and that I admire. Very well. Take back this word. I have a good memory of Kov Nath — no, by Krun! — I have an affection for that young man. I shall do all I can do to see he is not defrauded of his estates, and that he is not slain. But if all this happens when I am not there, or my armies have not broken through, why, then...”

“You will contrive it, majister. That is why my mistress sent this request.”

Knowing Seg of old I tried not to catch his eye. Some hope! His gaze appeared to hook and hold me, to hypnotize me. He laughed that Seg Segutorio laugh.

“There, my old dom! I’ve told you before.” He used Kregish words. But what he was saying was: “You’re too much the perfect knight for your own good.”

I had to react.

“Perfect knight! By Zim-Zair! After all the strokes we’ve pulled!”

Nath na Kochwold, good comrade though he was, could only look at us two, lost.

Strom Volgo was most punctilious.

“I shall be happy to carry back your word to my mistress. The dowager kovneva has not had a happy life since the Times of Troubles—”

“Well, by Vox!” exploded Nath. “Who has?”

The ugly meanings of the words hung on the air. The curtains to the tall windows had been drawn, and they were, I recall, of a thick weave from the eastern provinces of Vallia, in a pale gray with silver curlicues. As Nath’s intemperate and valid words still echoed in the chamber, a shrill and heartbreakingly terrified scream shrieked outside the windows.

Seg and I were shoulder to shoulder at the window. He ripped the drapes aside. We stared out into the moons-drenched night.

The small courtyard lay directly beneath us. Men of the guard were running out, drawing their swords. The wall confining the courtyard from the street hid their view. But we could see — we could see over the wall and into the narrow alleyway where between overhanging balconies and frowning facades, the cobbles glistened in a narrow streak where the moonslight reached down.

“There!” shouted Seg.

Nath stood at our shoulders, peering out. He yelled, angrily, incensed, violently: “The damned ganchark!”

A lean loping form of shaggy gray fur leaped along the street and in the evil thing’s mouth the limp form of a girl showed horridly that he had found and killed his prey.

Now the werewolf was carrying his victim off to devour her at his leisure.