The Balintol Cycle II

Chapter three

Chapter threeWhat I intended to do was go out and steal the Prism of Power.

Just how that desirable objective was to be achieved I didn’t yet know. From what I knew of the temple to Dokerty I might be able to sneak in using the secret passageways. Veda could probably make a fair shot at mapping them for me. There were those damned Whiptails to consider. The Katakis presumably were no longer finding rich pickings for their slaving habits among prisoners of war. So they’d signed on as guards for the temple. Once the wars began they’d be at their despicable trade, like a flock of Rippasch, ripping flesh.

The silence in the room held after Veda’s last remark. She’d spoken with more passion than at any other time during the whole talk. The pallor of her face was emphasized by the faintest of flushes along her cheekbones.

I said: “I may not be the fabled Dray Prescot. But I intend to steal this wonderful Prism of Power.”

The Ambassador coughed, and put a delicate yellow lace kerchief to his mouth.

“Yes!” snapped Veda. “But—!” She checked.

I told her she was in no fit state to accompany me. She flared up at this, so I threatened her with Suzy the Surcease, whose word, I told the Unruly, was law.

The thought crossed my mind that I hoped she wouldn’t regard me in the same light as her father.

From the story of her miserable upbringing anybody could see that she would inevitably not care for men, not particularly care at all. In fact, from what she had suffered she’d be bound to hate men. That fact that I’d rescued her from being turned into an ibmanzy, and she’d then given me the jikai, might — perhaps — cause her to look on some men with a little less disfavor.

She was looking at me now with a long calculating stare. “The Prism of Power is well guarded. Those disgusting Katakis—” Her shoulders shook briefly. Her head went up. “Yes, well. I need to serve Gralufon for what he did. And His Highness. You will need a guide through the temple.”

Gralufon, therefore, was the name of Granumin’s twin brother. If he ran security for the temple he’d be the tough nut I’d already assessed him to be. Of course, a guide would be useful.

“You’re not fit,” I said in my old gravel shifting voice.

So, naturally, a wrangle ensued.

The upshot of that little argument saw Veda with more color in her face than I’d ever seen before. She breathed deeply. Her nostrils pinched in. She worked herself up into a right old paddy.

She called me a few choicely ripe names, too. But, to my relief, she didn’t say something to the effect that I was just like any other blintz of a man. I needed her friendship, for I needed her knowledge of the ibmanzy project if Balintol — and Paz — were to be saved.

In the event, as I’d threatened her with Suzy the Surcease when she’d first flared up in anger, I damned well had to come through on my word. Suzy stuck a few needles into the Unruly, who promptly went into a calm, deep sleep.

Staring down at her as she lay under a thin yellow sheet in the bed, with Suzy making sure she was comfortable, I reflected that during my hectic career upon Kregen a considerable number of headstrong women had bothered me. Quite apart from the queens and empresses and the grand ladies of that ilk, I recalled how Mevancy and Tiri, to name but two of the most recent, had bedeviled me. Rather glumly, I suppose, I fancied this willful young lady with her serious ways would give me a whole heap more trouble.

I shook myself. This was no way for a bold thrusting adventurer to behave, by Krun!

The ambassador swiftly provided me with the change of clothes I requested. A simple russet tunic, not a shamlak, with black bone fastenings. The trousers were russet too, and gathered in at the ankle in the style here. The cape was dark gray, covering my weapons. A red — or reddish — outfit has always, as you know, been my choice; now, though, with these cramphs of the Dokerty persuasion prancing around in their red robes, the color served a dual purpose.

Breaking into palaces and temples is so very often the proper business of your gallant adventurer. I’d done that a few times, by Vox! But, I never forgot that each time was different. What perils lurked in the temple to Dokerty only time would reveal. That they’d be unpleasant was a foregone conclusion.

“Well, Drajak,” said Naghan Vindo, “you are set on this?”

I hitched up my sword. “Yep.”

He let out a little sigh, and then tugged his goatee.

“My duty requires me to send a report to the Emperor.”

There was no answer to that. I asked him to tell my lad Drak, the Emperor of Vallia, that his father might be a harebrained maniac but that there seemed no other way of resolving the problem of the ibmanzies. The regent C’Chermina had the young king, Yando, under her thumb. Should she succeed in her lunatic ambitions to conquer Tolindrin and then Winlan to the north west, she’d go after the other countries of Balintol. Then, why then, by Vox, she might cast megalomaniac eyes upon Vallia. Drak should start to make preparations.

Of course, by that time yours truly, Dray Prescot, would be cast away on the planet of his birth, four hundred light years from his home on Kregen. The Star Lords, the Everoinye, were not to be failed. Oh, no, by the pendulous bosom and bounteous bottom of the Divine Madam of Belschutz!

There was nothing else for it. I just had to go off and grab this infernal Prism of Power.

As you know, my comrade Wizard of Loh, Deb Lu Quienyin, had shown me how to alter my facial appearance, subtly changing the planes and angles. This deception could be kept up for some time, albeit at the cost of considerable discomfort. Every time I put on a new face the effect was as of a swarm of bumblebees all stinging like crazy. The more often I used this wizardly technique, the less it stung, to be sure. But, by Krun, sting it still did!

Naghan Vindo produced a wide-brimmed hat at my request. Black and without feathers, it would serve to shield my face until the time came for me to change my appearance.

The hat did not have the two slots in the front brim that are so distinctive of Vallian apparel. I put it on and tweaked the brim down so that shadows fell over my face.

“Very fetching,” said the ambassador in his dry way.

I felt my lips twitch. Oh, yes, we Vallians — as I considered myself a Vallian among many other homelands — like the humor of a situation no matter how dark and ominous the surroundings.

The ambassador leaned across the table and picked up the sheet of paper on which Veda during those moments when she hadn’t been shouting at me had sketched out a plan of what she knew of the temple. As she had indicated, the inner sanctum was well guarded. The whole place was a mazy labyrinth, like so many temples and palaces upon Kregen. Apart from the vulgarly imposing front entrance, I knew of two other doors. One stood in the blind wall at the back where I’d first ventured in, the other where Veda had led us out. Neither of those, I fancied, would prove suitable.

She had marked other entrances, with some idea of what lay beyond them. The quarters occupied by His Highness consisted, on Veda’s map, of a blank square surrounded by porticoes and anterooms. This confounded winged symbol, the Flutubium, must be concealed somewhere there. Most probably it was stuck in some damned heathen shrine above an altar. If they sacrificed young virgins on that, I, for one, would not be surprised.

This whole enterprise looked more and more difficult the longer I looked at it. Well, I’d stop fretting and get on with it. There was one useful way of insinuating myself into the temple to Dokerty. Accordingly, that was exactly what I would do.

“This looks a right leem’s nest.” The ambassador tugged his goatee, frowning at Veda’s map. “I’d better have some of my lads go with you.”

“That’s a sporting offer, Naghan. But — no thanks. I’ll be slipperier on my own.”

“As you wish.” In his dry way he added: “I had, of course, intended to accompany you myself.”

By Krun! Here it was again! This correct diplomat knew the stories of Dray Prescot, how he went haring off over Kregen clad in a scarlet breechclout and wielding a Great Krozair longsword. So, like many another, he hungered for the chance to go along. With some carefully chosen words I soothed him down. He retained his dignity intact.

Now, as you know, many and many a time I’ve laid a pretty plan and many and many a time my clever scheme has gone hideously wrong.

There should be no insuperable difficulty in assuming the face of one of the people in the Dokerty pest-hole. So I’d be able to get in. The problem thereafter was obvious. No. Oh, no, by Vox. I had to find out something about this person, whoever it might be. Enough information had to be gathered to allow me to make sensible replies to simple questions.

I stood up.

“Right, Naghan, I’m off. I’m not breaking into the temple now. I want to find out more. You’ll see me again when you do.”

“Majister.”

I gave a sort of half cough half grunt at this nicety and took myself off.

Selecting a suitable mark was not difficult. Positioning myself outside the temple in a shadowy alcove I assumed that guileless face, not quite stupid, more that of a simpleton, which has served me so well in the past. In addition, its very simpleness meant it did not sting like the deuce all the time.

When the fellow I wanted walked out — strutted out rather — in an affected, pompous way, I followed him and by bumping into him and apologizing profusely and buttering on the flattery, and buying him a drink, convinced him he had met a boon companion. I hung on his every word, oohing and aahing as appropriate. He was fleshy, with broken veins over his nose, and watery eyes. The broken veins would have to be painted on with cosmetics. He appeared to be slightly more bulky than I was. His might be mostly fat and mine muscle, but I could ape him well enough. I sucked up to him. He talked. He had a black-fanged winespout that loved to hear its own words. I learned enough, I fancied, for my purpose.

He said his name was Hyslop Nath ti Vernaloin. He told me this with such an air of pomposity, of grandness, that I guessed I was supposed to be mightily impressed.

Despite his name and his attitude he was still only a sub-priest, although with pretensions and, as he assured me with the gesture he had of rubbing that veinous nose, the certainty of achieving senior priesthood in the next couple of seasons.

This Hyslop struck me as being the perfect pompous nincompoop for my nefarious purposes.

The one great problem that still faced me was — where to stow the i***t?

The day wore on, it rained a trifle, we went for a meal, for which I paid, and then I decided it was time to act. At my suggestion we had taken a private room at The Harland Lifter, a middling tavern where, I recall, tensed up as I was for the murky deeds ahead, the ale was very fair. We sat eating palines from a pottery dish.

“Praise to Dokerty!” enunciated this fat Hyslop, popping a paline. I stood up, casually, and walked across so that I would pass beyond his chair. He did not turn around as he went on talking. “You’re a very fine fellow, Logan.” I’d told him my name was Logan Umpitor. “A very fine fellow. Now if you joined us in Dok—”

He stopped gabbling away by reason of the fact that he went to sleep. Admittedly, he went to sleep sitting instead of standing as more often than not happened. I took my pressing, cunning fingers away from his neck, and sighed. The things one did in the service of the Star Lords!

His clothes came off in a trice, he was bound hand and foot and gagged with the table cloth and the curtain cords and stuffed away in a cupboard among the crockery. I bundled up my own clothes and hid them in the upholstered bottom of a chair, thanking all the Names that I’d discovered this suitable hiding place. He wore a braxter and daggers.

The cape would cover my rapier and my drexer would pass as a braxter. Now you will well understand I was loath to part with the trusty Krozair brand. It was concealed well enough; there would be times, I felt sure, when some movement would reveal it about the person of Hyslop Nath ti Vernaloin. He did not carry a longsword.

There were plenty of the northern and local longswords in the city. I felt I could not risk abandoning the Krozair blade, particularly when at any moment I might be confronted by a damned great ibmanzy, a foaming maniacal monster out to destroy me utterly. Only the Krozair longsword had proved effective against one of these demons. No, by the Blade of Kurin! The weapon must be kept.

Well aware of the risks I was taking I went downstairs in the exaggeratedly important strut of Hyslop and told the landlord that my friend was sleeping it off, that I’d be back later. I paid over gold — Hyslop’s gold, I might add, to my secret glee — retained the room for the night and requested my friend Logan Umpitor not be disturbed. Then I went off, wearing Hyslop’s face as well as his clothes. The game, as they say in Clishdrin, was afoot.

One odd fact I noticed was that wearing red gave me quite a lift in spirits.

Entering the vulgar temple by the front stairways and giant doors, I found the obnoxious personality of Hyslop served me well. I stuck my nose in the air and stalked on.

From Veda’s map committed to memory the various pathways and corridors proved easy to follow. The usual motley assemblage of people moved about their business in the temple. The air smelled unpleasantly close, of sweat and incense and — quite distinct to an old leem-hunter — of fear.

What went on between these grim walls was enough to induce outright terror in the stoutest of hearts.

Few guards showed themselves until some way into the structure. A party of mixed diffs marched past escorting a girl in the last stages of exhaustion. She was naked. Instinctively my hand gripped onto my sword hilt. Then I, Dray Prescot, had to harden my heart. There was nothing in reality I could do, and, in addition, I knew nothing of the case. If she was to be punished that would be a normal and accepted part of running the temple. By the time I’d reached that reluctant conclusion, the guards rounded a corner and were gone.

All the same, mind you! What had Dray Prescot become in these latter days upon Kregen! Still, in those early days when I’d gone raving into instant action, I’d not had the enormous burdens and responsibilities weighing me down now.

Of course, she was just one poor little naked girl being dragged off to some ghastly punishment. Nothing at all to do with me. She was nothing whatsoever to do with me, who was supposed to be the Emperor of Emperors, the Emperor of All Paz.

Was she?

Without really understanding, I found myself brisking up in that strutting, ridiculous walk of Hyslop’s.

Around the corner after the party of guards I went.

They were just about to pass through a doorway smaller rather than larger than most of the portals in here. The door was black.

By the trailing infested entrails and mucus congested eyeballs of Makki Grodno! No! This was sheer lunacy. This would smash my plan to pieces! I had to get after the Prism of Power.

There was no escape.

I was still the maniacal Dray Prescot who’d been brought to Kregen and gone sailing down the River Aph with a Scorpion for crew. No, there was no escape from my destiny.

Turning my face to the wall I changed it, putting on the simple countenance that served me so well.

I hitched up my sword. I finished with Hyslop’s stupid strut.

Cursing destiny, cursing my fate, cursing what you will, off I charged through the black doorway after the guards.