When I discovered the reason for this conclave I lost a great deal of interest in the proceedings. Instead, I took note of the people gathered here, in a sizeable chamber of Tom’s palace. The debate, hotly contested with much rhetoric and waving of arms, consisted of the chief priests of Tolaar and Dokerty claiming the right to crown Tom king. It was generally conceded that the earthquake was a direct reproof, a sure sign that the priests of Cymbaro were unfit to place the crown on Tom’s head. Some went so far as to suggest that no one of Cymbaro should be anywhere near the coronation.
On the way we passed two mobs, all shrieking and waving cudgels and throwing brickbats. One gang shrilled abuse outside the Temple of Dokerty, accusing the red-robed priests of committing the series of horrific murders. The other gang was yelling outside the Temple of Tolaar. Among them, I suspected, were very many agitators paid by the Dokerty hierarchy to draw attention away from themselves.
Now, in the meeting, San Volar, with some pretensions to authority as the chief priest of the largest religion, suggested in his languid way that perhaps Dokerty, too, was not fit to conduct the ceremony. The chief priest of Dokerty — a large, almost bloated man, with the flushed face and breaking veins of one who indulges too freely in the good things of life — violently objected. He was clad in a red robe from neck to feet. His shoes were red. His hat was red. He was all red.
“I categorically deny that these murders are anything to do with Dokerty!” He was passionate, wrought up, seeming ready to burst into flames.
“Everything, San Cronal, points to the opposite.” San Volar spoke in his quiet, lisping way, vastly enjoying making this huge red-bloated fellow squirm.
There were a few other priests there, representing some of the minor cults. They appeared a timid bunch, seeking only to secure a small place for themselves in the rituals.
A single look at Khon the Mak’s entourage told me that my engaging sparring-partner, Dagert of Paylen, a most rascally gentleman, was not in attendance. Khon the Mak and Prince Ortyg spent the time glaring daggers one at the other.
With red jowls all aquiver: “My name, San Volar, as you very well know, is San C’Cronal.”
Tom, sitting tiredly in a chair overseeing this quarrelsome gathering, raised a hand for silence. He tried to calm them down and to apportion certain parts of the ceremonies to various religions. I stopped listening and took stock of these great ones of the land, with their entourages backing them, as we backed Nandisha. Our werstings, of course, had been left outside, and as others had their own packs of savage dogs the leashes would be severely strained.
With San Paynor and the Cymbaro delegation I was surprised and pleased to see San Duven. He looked fit, slightly tanned from his travels, very upright. The way the meeting was arranged, with the principals in a circle around Tom and we supporters to the rear, meant I had only occasional glimpses of everyone. Hyr Kov Brannomar, after Tom the most powerful man in the kingdom, said very little. He knew I was Dray Prescot. He gave me a look when he spotted me among the crowd, a raised eyebrow, a half-smile, and then a turn away.
The wrangling went on. I shifted my feet, bored to tears. In that, as on many previous occasions on Kregen, I was very wrong.
Standing belligerently in the forefront of Prince Ortyg’s followers Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun scowled at us. A large, florid man, with the shoulders of an ox, he looked like and was — as we knew to our cost — a great deal of trouble.
Presently the time came for the private part of the conference. All us followers trooped out and there was a lot of petty bickering as to precedence, a certain amount of shoving. Protocol and the importance of rank duly observed were vital facts in the lives of these high flown folk and their retainers.
I didn’t give a damn where I landed up in the mob surging out. Ranaj said, curtly: “We take our proper precedence, Drajak. We owe it to the dignity of our mistress.”
Well, by Krun, you couldn’t say fairer than that.
The parties lounged about outside. Jiktar Nath ti Fangenun sauntered over. He eyed us and then focused his gaze on me.
“I shall know you again, blintz.”
Fweygo did not stir at my shoulder. Ranaj started to say something and I cut in, sharply, with: “You and your men slew our good comrades. If you want to make something of it, step out into that garden. I am at your disposal.” He wore rapier and dagger.
Slowly he shook his head, face mottling.
“I think not.”
“Then,” snarled Ranaj. “Schtump! Clear off, blintz.”
There was a much more pleasant reunion as I spoke to Duven. He looked fit, bursting with energy, his every word indicating his absolute dedication to Cymbaro. I congratulated him on his courageous actions during the earthquake in brief soldierly words, not in any sickly fashion. Everything, he declaimed, was done at the behest of Cymbaro, who gave him the strength and purpose of will.
I said: “You went and returned from Farinsee very quickly.”
“Oh,” he said. “I took a lifter.”
“And Tiri?”
“I unfortunately did not have that pleasure.”
“A pity.”
He excused himself and went off and the moment he’d gone a lithe slip of a girl glided up to me. She was not slave, for she wore a revealing dark green shamlak and flowers in her corn gold hair.
As she passed she pressed a note in my hand. Then she was gone, skipping away with her long slender legs splendid in the lights.
Being a fellow used to wearisome intrigues I waited until I was sure no one observed me before opening the note. It was from Hyr Kov Brannomar. It requested an audience. Would I meet him at The Golden Zorca, a very private and high class establishment.
Now, having boasted of how wonderful I, Dray Prescot, was at the intrigue business, I now found myself slung by my own varter, as they say in Clishdrin. I’d stepped away from the crowd to the ornate gate to the little enclosed garden. A net descended over my head and I was brutally hauled in like a catch of fish, flung headlong to the ground beyond the gate and wall. The gate slammed shut.
“Right, you blintz!” came the voice of Nath ti Fangenun. “You asked me to step into the garden.” I rolled about in the net thrashing helplessly. “Here I am!”
He wasn’t alone.
Well, he wouldn’t be, would he, the cramph.
Nets are devilish things to get out of quickly, as I knew only too well. Useless to try to draw my knife and cut through. I took a strand in each fist and in the instant I savagely burst them apart a cracking great clout laid alongside my head and over I went. Instead of trying to rise, as these bully boys expected, I went on with the roll. Two of the net’s strands parted and I started on the next square. A hard-toed boot crashed into my ribs and I let out a gasp. By Krun! These plug-uglies meant business!
More net strands parted and I fixed a most malicious eye on my attackers. A big Rapa jumped in to kick me again and I rolled away. On the other side another Rapa brought a damned great cudgel down. Going on with the roll I collided with his legs and swept them away from under him. He fell on top of me and before I could heave him aside his mate kicked him in mistake for me. That was quite pleasant.
My head was free and the last couple of bits of net dangled as I stood up. I gave the second Rapa a good kick as I did so.
They’d been kicking me and hitting me with bludgeons. This did not mean they did not intend to kill me. They wanted to have their perverted idea of a bit of fun first.
By this time I was so bitter and frustrated about the whole lousy situation in Oxonium I had no such inhibitions.
In a scrap of this kind the rapier would be the best weapon.
Out came the Jiktar with that sliding snick of a professional fighting man and the companion hikdar followed, snugging into my left hand.
I jumped for my attackers.
Standing at the back waiting their turn to kick and beat me, a polsim and a Brokelsh saw my face. They turned and ran.
The two Rapas were not so quick.
At the very last moment I deflected my blades so that, instead of killing them stone dead outright, I pinked them where it would hurt. They yowled, feathers extremely ruffled, and ran off.
Blades up, I faced Nath ti Fangenun.
Give the rast his due, he hadn’t run off. He stood there, rapier and main gauche poised, watching me.
“I see, blintz, you have some skill—” he started to prattle on.
I just jumped in, slid his blades with the dagger, and hit him an almighty clout around the head. He toppled backwards, a glazed look sweeping over his eyes. He dropped his sword and dagger. He fell down. And I, Day Preset, drew back my foot to let him have a good one in the ribs.
I stood there, balanced on one foot, still feeling the blood pounding in me. By the disgusting diseased nostrils and dangling eyeballs of Makki Grodno! Was this what all this nonsense was bringing me to? Nasty little brawls in quiet gardens. Kicking a man when he was down? The rast wasn’t worth soiling my boot on.
Thrusting the unbloodied weapons back into scabbards I gave a last malignant look at the unconscious Jiktar, and took myself off.
Mind you, a little brisk exercise gets the old blood tingling around the veins and arteries again, by Vox!
Nobody appeared to have heard the fracas, and in truth there had not been a great deal of noise. By the time our principals emerged from their secret conclave, Fangenun and his cronies were back on duty with their fellows. The two Rapas were wearing bandages. Ranaj gave me a long look; but said nothing. There was a great deal of hubbub which quietened down as the great ones took up their positions with their retainers.
With the werstings snarling and growling before us we wended our way back to Nandisha’s palace.
When Dimpy heard there was no news of Tiri he looked morose. He was most restless. So I suggested when I got off duty late that evening we went along to the Temple of Cymbaro to see if anything had been heard of our dancing lady friend.
Dimpy brightened up at once.
After the hour of mid the young princess Nisha decided she wanted to go shopping. Naturally the lion maid, Rofi, would accompany her. I was detailed as part of the escort whilst Fweygo remained with the others at the palace. The princess was in a most playful mood and she and Rofi chattered like parakeets. I own I sighed for them, two young scraps of humanity trying to be cheerful and grow up into the hostile environment of Kregen. As a job, protecting them was not unwelcome, save — save for the ache for Delia and Esser Rarioch.
Thankfully, nothing untoward occurred during the shopping expedition. When I spotted a handsome red shamlak on a stall in the market I weakened. The loops and embroidery were a dull yellow, and the whole garment was in the best of taste. I could wear it off duty. So I bought it. Then we all trooped back to the palace for tea.
Although I say nothing untoward happened there were, of course, a couple of the quarrels erupting into fights going on in the market. We guards kept our charges well clear. The sense of oppressive thunder hanging over Oxonium portended worse and worse outbreaks to come. And, through it all, we had a fellow who did not want to be king, broodingly awaiting his coronation.
What the result of the meeting of the high ones might be was not at this stage revealed to us common folk. After trying to sort Dimpy with news of Tiri at the shrine to Cymbaro I’d have to go along to The Golden Zorca to meet Brannomar. He might vouchsafe the information. All the same, it meant little to me.
When, at last, I came off duty I put on that splendid new rose red shamlak. It fitted well. Hitching up my weaponry and with Dimpy in tow, off I sallied to see San Paynor. If Duven was there we might have a jar or two.
Logan met us and after a little time we were admitted to San Paynor’s outer study. The temple lay quietly at this time, for the banging, slamming, shouting workmen had all gone home. It was very peaceful. Paynor looked up from architect’s plans to greet us.
“Some of the old passageways were brought down and others blocked,” he told us. “We’re worried in case the foundations are faulty.” He went on to say that, like all the buildings, a maze of tunnels existed under the temple. Many had odd exits long forgotten. We drank a fine pale wine, Dimpy as well; but there was no news of Tiri. Dimpy sat silently, his glass clutched hard between his fingers.
“Duven?” said Paynor. “Ah — you’ve just missed him. He’s gone out to minister to a sick parishioner, a vegetable merchant in Momolam Street.”
I looked a question. Unexpectedly, Dimpy piped up. “I know that place. The Hill of Dancing Ghosts.”
“We generally call it Barter Hill,” smiled Paynor.
There was some time yet so I suggested we went across to The Hill of Dancing Ghosts. We might bump into Duven. In any event, the places would still be open and we could have our jar. Dimpy agreed and we said the remberees.
Taking the cable cars we soared out over the lower spaces. The lights were just coming on in the city and glowed like fairy lamps from the hills. Down below spits and sparks of light glimmered up. The young bloods would be decking themselves in their best and venturing down for their dark enjoyments. The cutthroats would be sharpening their knives. The cutpurses would be making sure their cunning curved blades were ready for the lightning slash. Was there in all this busy anticipatory activity some innocent young girl somewhere walking home destined to die, to be ripped to shreds this night?
One fact could not escape notice. Not one of the murder victims had been a devotee of Dokerty.
Momolam Street ran at the back of an avenue leading to the Kyro of Nath the Haggler. Dimpy glanced quickly up at me in the lanternlight. He must be thinking what I was, that here was the place we first met.
Everything was running flat out, the last of the day traders still hoping for last minute sales, the night hawks opening up. We passed a patrol of the City Guard, hard-faced, grim in armor. They could not be everywhere. They’d cut the size of the patrols down in order to increase the number. The vegetable shop stood at the corner of an alley evilly lit. Beside it lanternlight showed the facade of a temple to one of the minor cults, The Most Puissant Nethized, and as though to mock the very insignificance of Nethized, a more imposing frontage of a temple to Dokerty rose opposite.