Murder on Kregen

Chapter one

Chapter oneA wild dark streak haunted the reputation of the Vorner family down through the generations and many times in their turbulent history dishonor stained their family name. Young Tralgan, son of Lord Nalgre Vorner, radiated a sunny disposition that charmed all who came into contact with him, so that folk said perhaps the black blood had at last all been drained away.

Here, under the battlements of the gate leading up to the castle, Tralgan stared sickly upon the dozen crossbows aimed for his heart.

“Do not move, Tralgan! The Judge will have no compunction in ordering the crossbowmen to loose.”

The saturnine features of the Judge confirmed with chilling authority what Ornol Lodermair said was true. He and the Judge stood side by side under the shadows of the arched gateway. The glee and raw triumph in Lodermair’s voice struck through Tralgan like a hurled javelin.

His full lips trembled with a despair he tried to mask with rage. This fellow, this Ornol Lodermair, a cousin detested all Tralgan’s life, now arrogantly laid claim to the castle and lands of Culvensax. Lord Nalgre Vorner, Elten of Culvensax, had died as all men die in Opaz’s good time. His son, grieving at the news, hurried home to be met by this debacle.

“I am the true Lord of Culvensax!” Tralgan spoke stoutly; but he could hear the quaver in his voice. “You usurp my rights at your peril, Ornol!”

Lodermair sneered at this, dismissing Tralgan’s words out of hand. The Judge said sharply: “The papers are all in order. The late Elten Nalgre’s will is testified and witnessed. Kyr Ornol Lodermair is now legally the Elten of Culvensax.”

The twin Suns of Scorpio struck ruby and emerald fires from the steel heads of the crossbow bolts. The suns shine glinted off the silver pakmort at Tralgan’s throat. Until the death of his father had brought him home to claim his inheritance his sole ambition in life was to take the next step up the mercenary hierarchy and to wear the golden pakzhan at his throat, to be a zhanpaktun.

The tableau at the gate appeared to him to be divorced from reality. Many of the citizens of the town gazed with wide eyes upon the scene, held back by the spears of the town’s militia. A dry smell of dust hung on the air; the crowd made little noise. The dark color mounted in Tralgan’s cheeks. His heavy face with the full lips and curled nostrils of the Vorner family gave a sudden shocking reminder that Elten Nalgre was indeed Tralgan’s father, the stain of the black blood unmistakable.

His right hand curled into a fist around the hilt of the sword hanging on his right side. Those who understood these things noticed this, and that Tralgan did not grasp the rapier scabbarded to his left. He wore light armor, suitable for travel. His groom with the animals, detained by spearmen a little way off, looked on with an expression compounded of horror, alarm and pity.

Tralgan stared up past the arched gate, up and up to where the castle of Vornerhold soared against the sky. He knew every one of those pinnacles and towers, every embrasure, every room, every hiding place. Here he had spent his childhood. His arguments with his father usually ended in raucous laughter as they embraced and made up — what son had not quarreled with his father? His mother he did not remember. Now this blood-sucking leech Ornol Lodermair intended to steal all away from him. His fist tightened.

“Draw your sword, Tralgan, and you are a dead man.” The thick passion in Lodermair’s words disgusted Tralgan. But he relaxed his grip. He was bold and reckless, yes; he was not stupid.

When he spoke he surprised himself at the steadiness and calmness in his words. “That will is forged. My father left—”

“Your father left all to me, his favorite nephew!”

Tralgan turned to stare at the Judge. That subservient person blinked, although he did not flinch back. “I claim my right to be heard by the nazabni. She rules Urn Vennar for Princess Didi under the hand of the Emperor. I am a loyal subject and will be heard. You cannot stop—”

“I can do what—” began Lodermair with ferocious passion.

The Judge halted him, hand on arm. “What Kyr Tralgan says is sooth. The case can be taken to the nazabni.”

Watching them with hatred suffusing every particle of his body, Tralgan saw the Judge whisper swiftly. Lodermair nodded.

“Very well.” Lodermair raised his voice. “All can see I am a just lord. All must be done legally. The case will be taken to Nazabni Ulana Farlan at the capital.”

Yes, there he stood, this Ornol Lodermair, plump, full-fleshed, hands on hips, jaw jutting, triumphant. He wore the buff clothes of Vallia as though, Tralgan considered through the rage and contempt, as though he were a respectable Vallian. His curly-brimmed hat sported a bunch of feathers in ochre and silver, the old colors of Vennar before the province was split. He lifted his left hand and gestured impatiently to the guard captain. Three rings glinted on the fingers of that fat hand. As the guard captain gave orders to the Deldar, Tralgan wondered with a sudden and devastating switch of mood to gloom and despair, how many of those rings belonged to his father.

The Deldar, like most Deldars, creaked in his armor as he bellowed, as all Deldars bellow, commands that brought a detail of spearmen up to surround Tralgan. He saw the chain. They actually had a chain with which to imprison him. That dark blood rose again, chokingly, and once more his mood switched.

Sparks of red and green fire bounced from the chain as the twin suns, Zim and Genodras, streamed down their mingled radiance.

The chain with dangling manacles lifted in the Deldar’s fists.

Tralgan struck the fellow once, a clean blow to the jaw.

The unfortunate officer staggered back, collided with a couple of his spearmen and they all fell down in a tangle. Tralgan bellowed louder than the Deldar: “No man chains me! That affront to my dignity will not be tolerated. By Vox, Ornol, you’re a cramph among cramphs!”

Turmoil ensued. Lodermair yelled something about rasts and cramphs, tapos and squirms, waving his arms. The Judge stepped back smartly. The spearmen waited for orders. The cadade, as a competent captain of the guard, crisply told the fallen Deldar to stand up. He eyed Tralgan. “Very well, Kyr Tralgan. No chains. Just walk with us to the castle — if you please.”

Now Tralgan didn’t recognize any of these jurukkers of the guard. They were all new employees, for he’d been away adventuring for longer than, perhaps, he should. He did recognize the quality of this cadade, though, this Jiktar Claydoin Ma-Le, who was a Pachak with two left arms and a very brisk manner with him, after the way of Pachak diffs. So he merely nodded and started off through the gateway on the ascent to the castle — to his castle, as soon as Princess Didi’s nazabni, ruling in her name, saw the truth of the matter.

There was no doubt the Vorner family had committed many dark and bloody deeds over the seasons. His father, Nalgre, had — well, decided Tralgan, better to push all that aside. He intended to bring lightness and joy to Culvensax. Some of the mercenary guards his father employed proved unworthy of trust. Perhaps this new lot were cast in a different and better mold. The Jiktar, Claydoin Ma-Le, had given his Pachak nikobi and would serve faithfully. Tralgan was fully aware of the quality of Pachaks; his father had never employed them. As a youngster, why that was so had never occurred to Tralgan. He hoped his father had changed in his later years.

The castle fortress of Vornerhold contained extensive dungeons, a testament to the bad old days. They didn’t put Tralgan in a cell; he was ushered into a small suite of rooms in the Thoth Tower. The cadade, a hint stiffly, said: “I am instructed to allow you to keep your rapier and main gauche. The rest of your weapons must be surrendered.” He gestured with his upper left. “A matter of form.”

There did not seem much else for it; so Tralgan stripped off the fighting sword, the short-hafted axe, the terchicks strapped over his right shoulder. The long Vallian dagger was taken. The Pachak told him that he had not served two months of the Maiden with the Many Smiles. He hesitated, and Tralgan obtained the clear impression that Jiktar Ma-Le was not altogether happy serving in his new post.

“Elten Ornol Lodermair—” he started.

He was chopped off abruptly. “I am the Elten!”

“That is not my province, Kyr. I serve my nikobi.”

After that a meal was served up and Tralgan ate as any paktun will eat when the opportunity affords. He prowled around the chamber restlessly. How long would the nazabni take to rectify this treachery?

A shaven-headed Gon arrived to say he was required in the Elten’s chambers. Controlling himself, Tralgan followed the Gon upstairs where he’d played as a child into the suite of rooms once occupied by his father. Sneeringly, with heavily-armed guards to hand, Lodermair informed him that word had been sent to the nazabni. “As you and all the world can see, I am a just lord.”

The Judge was not present and Tralgan hoped he’d fly as fast as he could. He was confident that Princess Didi would never allow injustice in her province of Urn Vennar. The nazabni was the daughter of old Nazab Erinor Farlan, who’d been appointed to run Princess Didi’s province by the emperor. There was a new Emperor of Vallia now, Drak, and his wife Silda was the new empress. Tralgan reposed every confidence in the swift course of justice in Vallia.

The Gon, very obsequious in his servitor’s uniform, took him back down the stairs. He did not speak. He pushed the door open and Tralgan walked into the chamber.

He stopped stock still. At once, he saw it all. He’d been duped like any green coy. The Judge and the cadade lay sprawled in the center of the room. A great deal of their blood had been spilt to sink into the carpet of Walfarg weave. The coarse smell of blood stank in the room. Tralgan’s fighting sword stuck up from the chest of the Judge. His axe was embedded in the cadade’s skull. The murder scene could not have been more explicit.

Making a stupendous effort to keep control of himself, Tralgan swung around. The Gon and his bald buttered head were gone. The heavy beat of metal-studded boots thudded along the corridor and a group of soldiers marched into view.

At their head a ferociously-feathered Rapa urged them on.

“Stand still!” The Rapa’s voice held a crisp note of authority. He wore the rank badges of a Hikdar, so he was probably the second in command, the shal-cadade, to the poor devil of a Pachak with his head cleft in by Tralgan’s axe. “What is the cause of the commotion?”

“You should know!” spat out Tralgan. He felt physically sick. He’d been gulled, trapped, and he was only too well aware that nothing he could say or do would get him out of this mess.

Events brisked along after that. The charade was played out to the last full stop. Lodermair arraigned him, judged him, condemned him. He would be sent to wait in prison until the nazabni pronounced on his fate.

Even then, even at this low stage in his fortunes, Tralgan still had the greatest hope of Vallian justice. He would explain everything. The will could be proved a forgery. There was not a drop of blood on his clothes. How explain that when those two poor devils had spouted blood everywhere? Tralgan began to breathe more easily. He’d get out of this imbroglio and take up his inheritance. By Vox, he would! There was justice in Vallia.

After all, a nazab, the governor of an imperial province, was equal to a Kov, the highest rank of the nobility. A nazabni was equal to a Kovneva. These folk held dread powers in their hands.

Thus confident of his own future, Tralgan was not so far gone in blind hatred as not to feel compassion for the cadade, Jiktar Claydoin Ma-Le. Everyone knew Pachaks served with loyalty. He most certainly had not deserved this hideous fate. As for the Judge — his name, Tralgan gathered, had been Nath the Righteous — well, perhaps he did deserve his fate. Righteous he certainly was not.

They took him off in a well-guarded narrow boat along the canals to the new capital. Since the Times of Troubles a new sense of freedom and enterprise flourished in Vallia. Gafarden bustled with business and commerce. The city, named by Princess Didi in remembrance, might be new, expanding around a small town situated on a promising site, it was prosperous and the Gafarden folk fully intended to be more prosperous still in the future. Tralgan was flung into the dungeons below the ancient fortress that dominated the old town. In the rooms above lay the quarters of the town dignitaries. Here Nazabni Ulana Farlan lived and ruled the province of Urn Vennar.

A small-boned woman, who habitually wore her hair tied into a bun, she had only recently taken over the reins of government when her father, the nazab, died. She was still in mourning. There was no automatic transfer of power for the nazabs and justicars who administered the imperial provinces. Ulana Farlan must be confirmed in her post by Princess Didi and receive the blessing of Didi’s uncle, the Emperor Drak of Vallia.

She relied completely on her chief pallan, Nath Swantram. He, as the chief minister of the province, knew everything there was to know worth knowing. A one-time soldier who now had many irons in a multitude of businesses and was, thereby, wealthy, he harbored the desires obvious to a person of his rank, wealth and ruthlessness.

His nose and left side of his mouth were disfigured by a sword s***h in a long-ago battle. The scar remained, both physical and mental. Sometimes he was called Nath the Clis. He did not care for this, and, anyway, there were many men called Nath the Clis on Kregen. His robes were sumptuous, much bedecked with gold, although he had toned down the gorgeousness of his attire during this time of mourning.

Coming into the nazab’s office on the bright, breezy morning following Kyr Tralgan’s incarceration in the dungeons below, he felt in a particularly good mood. The drinking session last night in his private quarters had left him with a purse heavy with gold. His thoughts centered on the prim little woman seated at the desk, her dark hair tied just so. No, this was no longer the nazab’s office. This was now the nazabni’s office. Well, if his plans bore fruit, as, by Klass the Reiver, they would! he’d be the nazab and this would be his own office.

The two discussed the business of the day in matter of fact tones until Nath the Clis said: “There is a matter of a murder — two murders — at Culvensax.” He related the grim details of the story and added: “There is no doubt of Kyr Tralgan’s guilt. The decision of his execution is a mere matter of form. It would not be wise to trouble Princess Didi. Anyway,” he waved a beringed hand: “She is away visiting King Zeg in the Eye of the World.”

“Ah, yes.” Ulana Farlan relied on this man, yet she was well aware she must rule herself, and be seen to rule. She must make decisions. All the same, Nath Swantram understood affairs of state. His advice was sound. If she went running to the princess at every little problem her credibility would soon be in doubt.

“There is no doubt of Kyr Tralgan’s guilt?”

“None whatsoever.”

Nath the Clis placed the death warrant on the desk.

“This is a part of my work I can never grow accustomed to. I remember how my father hated signing death warrants.”

Very smoothly, the chief pallan said: “Yes, justice and duty are hard taskmasters.”

Nazabni Ulana Farlan, governor of Princess Didi’s imperial province of Urn Vennar, signed Kyr Tralgan Vorner’s death warrant with a firm hand.