Rebel of Antares

Chapter one-2

This was an Adept of the Doxology of San Destinakon. His gown swathed his figure in a drab but bewildering array of brown and black lozenges. The hood peaked to his right, for a woflovol perched on his left shoulder, the little batlike animal’s membranous wings now extended and fluttering in echo of the rage suffusing his master. The woflovol was chained to the Adept’s waist by a slender bronze linkage. In the sorcerer’s right hand, a hand devoid of ornamentation, a wooden-hafted bronze flail, a scourge, was uplifted, for the followers of San Destinakon are not above the outrage of physical chastisement. Now the bronze flail hung limp, but it quivered with the passions of the Adept.

Two figures in marked contrast, yes. But they held and controlled power, undeniably. Between them, shimmering and sparkling, grew a dish-shaped circle of light. Constantly changing in color and texture, shooting forth rays of brilliance, the center of the conflict between the two sorcerers shifted back and forth and spat fire, crackling with the dissipation of energy.

Unmok gulped.

“An Almuensin and a Destinakon! This is no place for an honest man, Jak. Let us—”

“Loosen your sword and let us hit the damned assassins first—”

“Yes! As Ochenshum is my witness, let us die by an assassin’s hand as by the malignancy of a wizard!”

Just like Unmok the Nets. I knew him to be brave and loyal, but brave only when he had to be and loyal only to those he valued. If he could have paid some of his good red gold to a fine gang of cutthroats to insure his safety out of here, he would have done so, faster without another thought. Well, and wasn’t that the sensible course?

“Sink me!” I said. “We won’t get ourselves killed. Come on. Let us hit them fast and break through and then—”

“Run!”

“Aye!”

Then a noise broke about our heads like the last trump. The colossal smash of sound bore in on us and made our heads jump on our shoulders. I thought the sound more like a battery of thirty-pounder Parrotts all firing together right beside us than a battery of twelve-pounder Napoleons. The air in the Souk was thick and the noise bellowed along, amplified and channeled and directed personally, so it seemed, at every individual’s eardrums. But, on Kregen, they had not yet developed gunpowder or guns. This was no battery of cannon firing, this was sorcery venting in deafening discharges the overflowing plasma of thaumaturgy. I glanced up.

The crystal roof split.

In spinning sheets of crystal, in razor-edged plates of shimmering fireglass, the roof collapsed. It rippled as though shaken. The metal supports buckled. Over an area a full hundred paces long and the full width of the Souk, the roof fell in.

Unmok let out a screech and dived for the upended barrow that had contained the amphorae. I wasted no time in joining him. Together, heads down, we crouched in the hellish din.

Sharp slivers of crystal slashed into the paving. Chips flew like shrapnel. The uproar smashed at us so that we gasped for air. The barrow and the amphorae clattered with the scattering crystal chips. Amphorae exploded. Wine gushed forth, staining the basketwork and the straw and running gleaming red across the paving. The whole place quivered as though in the grip of an earthquake.

The avalanche of crystal thundered down for what seemed an eternity of Kregan nights and days. At last in a final clashing of shining slivers the noise ceased. Unmok lifted his head.

“If that is what the end of the world is going to be like, I do not believe I will wait around to see it.”

“Sensible,” I said, brushing dust from my clothes.

We crawled out from under the barrow and shook our heads, bloated with sound.

The order in which we took stock of the situation might have reflected a mutual dependence in a coming battle; it could just as easily have revealed our nervous preoccupations. Unmok peered through the swirls of dust toward the two wizards. I looked back into the Souk for the assassins.

Assassins are hardy souls, the stikitches’ trade being of a demanding nature, and two leather- and bronze-clad men still sheltered in an arcade opening, peering out at us. Their beards showed black against the pallor of their skin. The rest of the gang had fled; at least, they were nowhere in sight. Leaving my observation of the assassins and that problem, I turned to look where Unmok stared, rigid with a terror he made valiant attempts to conceal.

The two sorcerers had by no means finished their altercation. The disc of light spun between them, coruscating and throwing off streams of radiant matter as though a Catherine Wheel spun to a crazy destruction. The shards of light struck the walls of the Souk with thunderclap noises. Chunks of masonry were blasted away. Dust sifted among the wreaths of smoke.

“Let us—” said Unmok, and he swallowed and wet his lips before he could continue. “Let us get away!”

I nodded. The wizards’ quarrel was no concern of ours and we were like to be harmed by its side effects. The assassins presented a simpler and more approachable problem, for all that I had looked their way first. I have no truck with sorcerers unless I count them as friends or must use them despite all.

We began to move back down the Souk.

The crackle of splintered crystal under our feet sounded like mahogany leaves. The assassins eased out from their arcade.

“Two,” said Unmok. “I think we will be able.”

The assassins bared their swords, the weapons glinting in the light of the sorcerer’s quarrel.

The Souk presented a melancholy spectacle, empty of people apart from us four, with the paving strewn with smashed Trifles, stalls overturned, bales of cloth unrolled and abandoned in serpentine meanderings, smashed glass and pottery, feathers and ivory and knickknacks scattered everywhere. The noise and light at our backs persisted. We moved on.

“Are they assassins?” asked Unmok, as the two men ahead of us hesitated. They began to withdraw, steadily, their weapons lifted, going slowly, but they drew back before us as we advanced.

Without looking back, and just to cheer up Unmok’s little Och heart, I said, “They need not be retreating because of us.”

Unmok burst out with a comment that almost made me smile. He whirled to look back.

“The sorcerers still fight, Jak — you devil! You had me going then...”

“True.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you into one of my wild-beast cages.”

“Riddles were never one of my easiest marks.”

The assassins — if they were stikitches — halted again and then once more drew off. They moved with purpose.

“It could be they seek to lure us on—”

“On to our doom!” Unmok cast another look back. “Well, there is no getting out that way.”

Keeping a very sharp lookout in all the nooks and crannies of the Souk, bathed in that supernatural fire, we pressed on.

The occult radiance drove our shadows ahead of us, long and dark and leaping, seeming to draw us on as the fires forced flames and smoke into the Souk. The mineral-oil lamps cast gobbets of flame as they fell in the continuing crashing destruction of the roof. We were running now, leaping obstacles and diving past overturned stalls as the crystal burst and the lamps showered down and the fires raged.

We must have looked like two phantom figures bursting through veils of smoke from some time of forbidden lore, some realm of ancient magic. The assassins hovered, their steel glinting. Then they swung away, looking back for only heartbeats; Unmok ripped out his sword and waved it — and the assassins fled.

“That,” said Unmok with immense satisfaction, “has seen them off.”

“By Harg!” I said, leaping forward. “I want to know more about this — who sent them — what the hell they’re up to!”

“Jak—”

The backs of the assassins leaped and dived among the Trifles scattered over the Souk. The roof fell in successive crashings. The fire crackled. Smoke streamered in long layers, stinging the eyes and making us cough. I roared after the fleeing assassins.

The whole area had been cleared of people, and any thoughts that the first roof-falls had finished the business were now seen to be ill-founded. What the sorcerers had begun the fire and the domino effect along the roof would finish.

One of the men running ahead of us skidded on a mess of squishes upended from a basket. His arms flailed. He staggered into a rack of cheap zorca trappings, and before he could recover I put my fist around his neck. He squeaked like a rabbit.

“Let me go!” he shrieked. “The sorcerers—”

I let my dagger make an acquaintance with the space between his third and fourth ribs. “Do not fret over the wizards, dom. They quarrel between themselves. You should rather fear for your fate—” the dagger twitched “—here and now.”

He gasped, twisting, trying to kick, trying to bite. I moved the dagger.

“Tell me who sent you, and I will let you live.”

“I cannot—”

“Very well. You have your stikitche honor. You may adhere to your code and die, here and now. I do not care. I will find your comrades. One will tell me.”

“You devil!”

“So I am told.”

“I cannot tell you!”

“You mean that for a short moment you will not.”

“Listen, dom — take that dagger away. It is sharp!”

“A blunt dagger is like a grave without a corpse.”

He knew that old Kregish saying, which may be taken in two ways, both of them apposite. He went limp in my fist.

“If—”

“Just speak up.”

“I am no stikitche.”

Unmok arrived then and made a disgusted sound.

“We guessed as much. As assassins you would make passable dung-sweepers.”

“So,” I said, “Vad Noran sent you. And you’ve failed him.”

I felt the quiver of him in my grip. “I did not tell you that! I did not! As Havil is my witness, I did not speak!”

I gave him a resounding kick up the backside and let him go. He had merely confirmed what we suspected. I bellowed after him as he scampered off.

“If you dare to face Noran, tell him we will keep our silence. We will keep that and the gold. Tell him.”

He did not answer, did not look back. He just ran.

Unmok rubbed his middle right across his face; his upper right still gripped his sword. “Now that I’ve seen him close to, I do recognize him. He’s one of Noran’s men, all right. They call him Hue the Grasshopper. But the others with him...”

“Of a tougher frame of mind, I would think. But if they are not assassins, I, for one, am profoundly grateful.”

There was no need for me to elaborate. Once stikitches take out a contract, they will, within the framework of their so-called honor codes, fulfill it, or arrange the recompense on annulment. If I was to do what I had to do in Huringa, I did not want a horde of hairy, unwashed assassins breathing down my neck all the time.

What I had to do now was to find some way of taking my leave of Unmok the Nets so that I could bid farewell to Tyfar and Jaezila. If one problem had been resolved the rest remained.

All the same...

“I wonder—” I said as we dusted ourselves off and started off toward the far end of the Souk. “I wonder what the quarrel was between the two sorcerers.”

Unmok gave a little cluck of sound, a dutifully respectful and at the same time dismissive appraisal of all wizardly doings.

“Who can say? They are unto themselves — thank all the gods.”

People began to move about at the far end, creeping out of hiding places, standing up to look with bewildered horror upon the catastrophe. The fires burned fiercely at our backs. We went on and found an arcade with an opening onto a narrow side alley. One or two people evidenced a desire to talk to us; we had no wish to engage them in conversation. By Krun, no!

The fires burst through between the empty walls and threw orange and crimson weals against the evening sky. We dodged along the alley and turned right and then left between shuttered buildings and came out onto the Street of Condiments where people stood about, staring up, talking among themselves, watching the fires. The conflagration would be brought under control by fat Queen Fahia’s officials, for like most monarchs of important cities, Fahia kept up services to deal with emergencies of this kind.

Ashes blew on the evening breeze. We went through the throngs, their eternal chatter about the Arena for the moment forgotten, and thought about a wet.

“My throat is as dry as a Herrelldrin Hell,” said Unmok.

“There’s a swinging flagon.”

We went into the low-arched opening and sat at a wooden table, and the Fristle fifi brought us a jug and two flagons. Unmok poured and we drank. By Vox! I was thirsty. My Och companion scattered a few copper coins on the table, a handful of obs, and we refilled the flagons.

“Talking of money,” said Unmok, which was a perfectly logical process of thought for him, “I am in poor case to see Avec. He will think my talk of gold a cod to catch him.” He started again to bang at his clothes and to pull and tweak them about to make them fit better.

“We have the gold now, Unmok, and no man will quibble when his hand jingles the bag of yellows. Just tell him straight out.”

“I will. You are right.”

Unmok the Nets was a wily enough fellow when it came to money matters, and his banking connections with Avec Parlin, I fancied, would not altogether favor the banker. Unmok’s burning desire now was to buy a cage voller, an airboat fitted for the carriage of wild beasts. With such an airboat in his possession, with his connections, he ought to make money like wildfire.

The Fristle fifi in her yellow apron — for she was not a slave — came over with a wooden tray filled with odds and ends of munchables, and we popped a few into our mouths and chewed as we talked. The wine, a middling Stuvan, lowered in the jug.

“Avec will know the best bargains,” said Unmok, with confidence. “We need a large vessel, but she must be economical to run. A few deldys more on the initial costs to insure that will pay dividends.”

I fretted within myself, for I had more or less promised Unmok I would ship out with him on his next voyage, and yet I could not in all conscience do so. I knew that, although my own country of Vallia was in good and capable hands, I wanted to return there and finish up the business of uniting the land and turning out the villains who had so destroyed and brought low the Empire of Vallia. I sipped wine to conceal the turmoil of my thoughts, and Unmok burbled cheerfully on, already in command of his famous cage voller and soaring through the skies with a full cargo of fearsome, snarling, savage beasts.

Then he stopped talking, and his jowly Och face changed, a frown of concentration drawing down his brows.

“Hue the Grasshopper — Vad Noran’s man you lifted up to inspect — may not have been a stikitche, being at best a stable hand. But the man who followed us, dogging our footsteps — he was an altogether more ugly customer.”

So I guessed Unmok had seen this altogether more ugly customer pass outside the tavern, still seeking us, no doubt.

I felt relief.

The persistence of this tracker afforded me a chance to postpone telling Unmok that I would not be shipping out with him, that our partnership was ended unless he chose to go with me. I stood up.

“Jak?”

“You go and see Avec Parlin. Make sure he lays his hands on the very best cage voller we can afford. All the gold is yours. I may not be able to ship out with you—”

“Jak!”

“—But I will see you again. You know you have my word on that. Now, which way did this ugly customer go? I will sort him out—”

“Jak!”

“—So there is no good arguing, there’s a good fellow.”

Unmok swelled out those jowly Och chops and tilted his head back to look at me. He did not stand up, and in that I felt the smaller of the two of us.

“He went along toward the Avenue of Sleeths. No, there is no profit in arguing with you. You have secrets, that I do know. I will see Avec and arrange the cage voller. After that — you must decide. As for me, we are partners, and remain so.”

Little, are Ochs, puffy and with six limbs, and not apims like me at all. But in that moment Unmok the Nets displayed a dignity surpassing many and many a blowhard apim lout I have known. And that thought should surprise no one in two worlds.

“Although—” and here Unmok shivered his whole body, as though gripped by a vampire spider of Chem. “Although if you go away I will take it hard. We have been partners for only a small length of time, as these things are measured, and yet in that time we have been through much together. It is of value to me to think of that, and those times...”

“It is of value to me, also. I think you know that.” The lamplight glittered on the bronze studs of Unmok’s jerkin beneath the opened fold of his tunic. “Secrets — yes, we all have secrets. It is difficult for me to explain. I believe you would find it well-nigh impossible to credit. But explain I will. I will.”

His regard of me did not waver.

“May the hands of all the gods rest lightly on you, Jak the Shot, and may Ochenshum have you in his keeping.”

I nodded and without the usual remberees on parting, I went out and along the street toward the Avenue of Sleeths.

After all, as I tried to tell myself with some hollow vehemence, how could a partnership with a little Och wild-beast catcher and a half-promise to him possibly weigh in the balance against the preoccupations of an emperor and the fate of an empire?