The Balintol Cycle II

Chapter five

Chapter fiveJust as I expected, Veda’s nose went up in the air as she said: “Huh! It would all have gone very differently if I’d been with you.”

We were at the first breakfast. The ambassador ate his clus-fruit and cereal in silence. He did give me a sly little look which meant, or so I imagined, “I wonder!” Of course, the look could have meant, “I don’t doubt it.” I ate my palines studiously.

Of course, by Vox, that dry little look could mean: “Yes. And if I’d been there, it would all have gone swimmingly.”

“Well?” demanded Veda.

“You can’t win ’em all the time.”

Now whilst this is undeniably true, I had a flash of memory of what my kregoinya comrade Mevancy would have said to that. “Oh, you!” she’d have burst out.

As for my kregoinye comrade, the Kildoi Fweygo, he would have— I halted these rambling thoughts. Truth to tell, Fweygo would have been very handy to have had along last night.

“This serving shishi, Renata.” Veda selected a paline with care. “I don’t know her name, of course, and probably don’t know her to look at. I always felt a trifle sorry for the servant girls. They are not treated properly.” She bit hard down on the fruit. “Men!” As she finished this outburst she winced, and then a look of pain flashed across her face.

“Veda?”

“I’m perfectly all right — thank you!”

In the next instant she contradicted that by putting a quick hand to her side. Her white face drained still further of blood so that, for a frightening moment, she looked like a corpse.

After that events moved in ways over which Veda had no control. Well, by Vox, neither had I nor the ambassador. Suzy the Surcease tut-tutted crossly, shook her head, told Veda to go back to bed and said she’d return as soon as possible.

When Suzy did return she had with her a woman of commanding presence. The woman was not apim, although having only two arms and no tail. Her frame was corpulent. Her face possessed heavy ridges over the forehead and around the eyes, which were of that piercing kind which seem to drill right through you. She wore a long gown, simple, of pale yellow girdled with silver. Her hands were large and elegant, supple and unadorned. She was a venahim, of a race of diffs renowned for their mysterious healing powers. She was introduced as Mistress E’Eolana.

When she went to work I felt it a privilege to be allowed to watch. Veda crawled out of bed, looking decidedly shaky, and stood up as straight as she could with her pale blue nightgown falling to her thighs. Mistress E’Eolana stood at the far end of the room. She closed her eyes and quite clearly went into a deep meditation. Throughout the whole treatment the venahim lady did not touch Veda.

Her hands moved gracefully in the air before her, tracing the ghostly outline of Veda’s superb body. She seemed, as it were, to caress Veda from the distance separating them.

“This is a technique called schonibium,” Naghan whispered. “It is very ancient. Very.” He did not pull his goatee. He went on to explain that E’Eolana was calling Veda’s ibma — as distinct from her ib — to exert its proper function. Veda had been badly hurt, far worse than I’d realized, and our chasing through the city had exacerbated her condition, as, of course, I had feared. Now her ibma, through remote control as it were, was being drawn forth to put her body and ib back into harmony.

By Krun! Of course! I saw at once how this benign use of these mysterious forces of the spirit world was decadently paralleled in the ibmanzy project. Arcane forces, of the mind and the spirit, fuelled by devout faith, not sorcerous, were being conjured up for two quite opposite purposes.

Could there be, I wondered, some connection, some way we could use this information to combat the ibmanzy scourge?

There were definite stages in this art of healing. Mistress E’Eolana opened those drilling eyes. She had established Veda’s body form and now as her supple hands wove patterns in the air she massaged Veda’s spiritual shape. The aftershock of Veda’s experiences had hit her and I did not doubt that the realization of what the ibmanzy project would have done to her had been the worst shock by a long way. A very long way, by Krun.

The process wended its way, at every stage remaining fascinating. In due time Veda lost the shakes, her features whilst not flushing with blood at least ceased to resemble a corpse’s. When at last the two women between them pronounced they were satisfied with her, they put Veda back to bed, stuck a sleep-by needle in her and shooed us out of the bedroom. Meekly, we went.

The more I learned about this subcontinent of Balintol the more, not less, mysterious the place became, and you could say that again, by Vox!

A servant brought in glasses of strawberry colored sazz as Naghan and I sat down in his snug. He shook his head, no doubt about to utter some banal and diplomatic remark about my lack of success. I told him, briskly, that I had another plan.

He already knew most, although not all, of my dealings with the lady Quensella. The fight between her guards and those of the regent C’Chermina outside the prefecture had naturally attracted enormous interest, gossip and scandalous rumor throughout Prebaya. The Vallian ambassador had said, with a little sigh, that it was a pity that our new customs prevented our hiring on mercenaries, except in the most desperate circumstances. “That juruk you created,” he sipped his sazz regretfully, “was a most splendid body of men, a really first class guard.” As to where they were now, he could not say, apart from one.

I guessed at once. “You took on Erwin the Waggler!”

“Aye.”

Well, by Vox, Erwin was a fine lad. I was pleased that he’d found employment so quickly. I was even more pleased that he was here, in the embassy, and on hand to help further my schemes. As a Valkan, he knew I was the strom of Valka and the ex-emperor of Vallia.

The cunning way — that of sneaking in to steal the Prism of Power — had failed. Now it would have to be the blunt instrument.

I told Naghan that despite the new customs of Vallia, which I had introduced and enforced, my scheme would require the use of mercenaries. The paktuns must not be traced back to the Vallian embassy. C’Chermina was maniacal enough to send off her growing army of ibmanzies to Vallia. My Val! The destruction they would wreak before they were put down or blew up beggared the imagination.

Naghan quickly agreed to have Erwin make efforts to trace the members of the guard I had created for the lady Quensella. Everything must be handled with the utmost discretion. A convenient meeting place must be chosen which would afford total security. As these arrangements were concluded I began to feel a fresh and completely unexpected sense of unease.

So I had failed in my sneaky attempt to penetrate the temple. Yes, that was true. But what had caused the failure? I knew well enough that if a similar situation arose, with a poor naked girl like Renata being dragged off, I’d act again in exactly the same way.

I remained the same simple sailorman called Dray Prescot who had first been pitched down onto Kregen. Sure, I was emperor of this and that, and king of somewhere else, but I remained me. But — and this thought stung, believe you me! — I was a Krozair of Zy. Just because this first attempt had failed did not mean that I could not try again. Oh, no, by Djan! Not by a long shot.

Very briefly, curtly almost, I said: “Naghan. I’m going to have another bite at the cherry.” And I took myself off.

The advantage of night time when fewer people might be expected to be about was negated by my past experience of temples where the very numbers of people busy about their business made a new face inconspicuous among the throngs. Now. Right now, I’d go back to that damned Temple of Dokerty.

Off I sallied wearing my ordinary clothes — the russet, I thought, very brave in the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio. If it became necessary to knock someone over the head — a guard, say — and take his uniform, then that is what I would have to do.

If I bumped into sub-priest Hyslop Nath ti Vernaloin, I’d greet him as an old drinking companion. I’d be comradeship itself. If, regretfully, I could not shake him off in a civilized way, then he’d have to be thumped and dumped.

The best way in would be via the tradesmen’s entrance from which Renata and I had fled. There was no difficulty. I walked in abaft a trundling old Quoffa cart with creaking, wobbling wheels, and so melted into the shadows through the courtyards and into the main structure of the temple.

Here the stifling closeness of the atmosphere and the varied smells as I traversed the corridors provided a vivid reminder of my previous unhappy experiences here. I was fully aware that I was pitching myself headlong into a sinister underworld of religious magic, agonizing pain and murder.

The new face on which I’d decided changed my features at the last moment before entering. I now looked harsh and contemptuous. That some people might say this look was quite normal for Dray Prescot was, I devoutly believed, a foul calumny. All the same, by Vox, I must admit it did not sting as much as some other faces I’ve adopted in my time. Boldly, I pressed on.

As expected, the passages were crowded with various folk about their daily tasks. Priests stalked, mumbling to themselves. There were guards posted at doors and stairways; but these were of the flamboyant, ornamental kind, all lace and feathers and fancy polearms, with monumental helmets polished to a blinding brilliance. None was a Kataki. They’d be guarding the inner sanctums, I guessed, even if the priests of Dokerty would not trust them to guard the most sacred shrines.

This time, for which I thanked Opaz, I did not encounter a naked girl, abused and struggling.

From the directions of Veda’s map carried in my head the way remained relatively clear until I reached that portion which the Unruly had marked merely with a blank square. The corridor down which I marched with an assured swing ended in a chamber furnished with benches around the walls. Men and women waited in various degrees of patience, obviously to be called past the balass door at the far end.

A single glance around convinced me this was of no use to me.

Reversing my course I headed off down a side passage towards the next section of blankness on Veda’s map.

So far I had seen not a single solitary sign of a secret entrance to the passageways that, I presumed, must run between the walls. Mind you, from my experiences in the palace here in Prebaya, there was every chance that these secret runnels were heavily guarded.

Beginning to feel the mounting frustration as a weight dragging my shoulders down, I came into a sizeable space crammed with all manner of folk. This side of the blank square I sought to enter faced the front doors of the temple. These people looked like ordinary townsfolk. There was a deal of chaffering going on, and over the hubbub the tinkle of coins changing hands indicated that here sacrifices were bought, bribes given and bribes taken, in short, all the usual underhand practices of this kind of religious establishment, debased, avaricious and contemptuous of human values, were carried on.

This, then, was the Autmoil Hall. Moving quietly along, I pushed my way through the crowds, avoiding offers of dangling chickens, strings of beads, mirrors, painted clay images of people with unfortunate diseases or disfigurations. If the priests of Dokerty promised to cure some of the afflictions, they were either miracle workers or charlatans of the most despicable kind.

Leaving the Hall of Strangers by one of the arcades leading around the angle of walls, I followed the line of Veda’s blank square.

All the hubbub and commercial confusion fell away abaft and I walked with a measured tread into a long, impressive chamber with tiles brilliantly adorning both walls. Light fell from many lamps. Ornamental guards stood, half asleep, at their posts at the ornate doors piercing the wall. That was the wall that did not abut the blank square. Frustration had to be contained. By Krun! Who said this was going to be easy?

At the end, before a tall double-doors of balass wood, stood a guard of an altogether different stripe. He was a Rapa, and his kit was workmanlike. His fist rested on his sword hilt.

“What is your business here?” he demanded brusquely.

Ready for this question, I had the answer ready. I told him I was a friend of priest Hyslop Nath ti Vernaloin and sought him on a private matter. The harsh contours of my face softened as I spoke.

“I know him. You should know that sub-priests are not allowed through here.” The Rapa raised his voice. “Guards!”

Oh, well, this was another attempt that had been thwarted. I kept my face impassive as a detail of guards like the Rapa doubled out of the side door and surrounded me. Their Deldar looked me over, rapped out typical Deldar bellowing orders, and we all marched back down that imposing tiled corridor.

Too frustrated and annoyed, I couldn’t even bring myself to hurl a few mental Makki Grodno insults into the indifferent void.

There remained the fourth side of the inscrutable square.

This time, by Djan, would have to be the time!

The Deldar rapped his audo to a stamping halt at the end of the corridor and told me to be about my business. Meekly, I nodded, and walked slowly off towards the commercial hubbub of the Autmoil Hall.

Further towards the front of the rambling structure must be a way around. No doubt there would be guards. Poor old Hyslop had proved worthless in the end. So—!

Indeed, there was an arched opening onto the right direction. Boldly, I marched through. This corridor appeared to be plated in gold. That the surface would almost certainly be gold leaf did not detract from the effect. Some folk would describe the dazzlement as sumptuous. There was more than a hint of Vulgar Ostentation about it for my taste. I walked on towards the flight of marble stairs going up. Elaborate statues of nymphs and satyrs alternately simpered and leered up the walls. The air tasted of rose petals.

The roof came down low enough to conceal the top of the flight of stairs. An odd sensation hit me, as though my insides had been taken out, inspected, and thrust back. A floating sensation in my head came and went like a summer zephyr. Up I climbed. The roof lofted away into a blinding shimmer of gold. The stairs went on up.

Doggedly, on I went. All this flummery of gold had to mean something or someone of great importance resided at the top, surely?

At last, the top came into view — a damned great golden door.

This must be very high up in the temple. I pushed the door open and a blast of scented air racketed past. I blinked.

Everything ahead was a sheer dazzlement of gold.

A keen, penetrating voice said: “Come in, Dray Prescot, Emperor of All Paz. There are matters to discuss.”

So I knew.