There were many and various cults and societies and orders of wizards upon Kregen, having different powers. Many a wandering wizard was a fake, gaining his living from the credulous. Everyone knew there were real wizards and witches, people who could shrivel the marrow in your bones.
In the series of confusing chambers and apartments in the private portion of the rambling old villa appropriated by Alloran, the Chuliks stood guard. Their small round eyes surveyed what went on dispassionately; when they fought and killed they did so with extreme efficiency. Even renowned fighting men like Chuliks, though, looked askance when a sorcerer walked past.
The figure swathed all in a dark green cloak with the devices of Kaldi upon its breast had a golden chain girdled around its waist from which swung sword and dagger. The figure’s arms were folded upon its breast, hands thrust deeply into capacious sleeves. The enveloping hood allowed no glimpse of the face and only a fugitive gleam of an eye told that a mortal head existed within the hood.
The Chulik sentries, sweating of oily yellow skin, martial and chunky in harness of armor, smothered in weapons, breathed easier when the ominous figure in the green robe had passed by. They would furtively rub a thick thumb along a tusk, polishing it up, taking racial comfort from the action.
The eyes within the hood observed these actions; the agile and cunning brain behind the eyes noted, and sighed, and once again returned to devising ways and means of staying alive in King Vodun’s palace villa.
For times had changed for San Fraipur.
Never had he been one for shriveling a person’s eyeballs out, or melting the jelly in their bones, or turning them into little green lizards. People might believe he could do these things, and that was no bad thing, and if they did believe and he mumbled a few words and wriggled his fingers in the air, then they might feel symptoms that would prove salutary. But as for little green frogs — no, San Fraipur had no illusions about his power there.
He liked to be called San, the title given to a dominie or master or sage. He’d worked hard enough, Opaz knew, up in the island of Fruningen to gain the arcana to enable him to earn his living as a Wizard of Fruningen. He’d served Vodun Alloran faithfully since his father had been killed in the Times of Troubles, seeking refuge with the kov in the mountains as the mercenaries and the flutsmen sought to destroy them. He’d gone to Vondium and been impressed with the proud city even in her ruined state. All his arts and all his skill had been given to Vodun Alloran.
And this — Fraipur was not quite sure what to call the Opaz-forsaken thing — had subverted everything good, had turned the kov, had made him into this quasi-monster of legend, had even caused him to turn his face away from the divine radiance of Opaz.
Arachna. That was the thing’s name. Fraipur had sensed the aura there, had shriveled within himself at the evil he felt, and knew it was evil because it stood blackly against the radiance of Opaz. Arachna, and her servants were the Mantissae.
Arachna was the name by which she was known; but still San Fraipur did not know what she was, of what race she might be.
When he thought of her that agile brain of his pained him.
He did know, with very great certainty, that he stood in mortal terror of her and her assistants.
Beside that continuing horror this summons from the kov who must now be called king meant — almost — nothing. Alloran wanted to see him. That, in itself, made this day different from very many that had been blown with the wind.
These interior corridors were never as busy as those outside the green door. Slaves hurried everywhere, of course; but they were a normal part of life. Fraipur did not incline his head as stupid fat old Naghan the Chains the chamberlain passed with his fancy woman on his arm. Fraipur knew little of women. They had been denied to him in his youth during training and he’d never bothered to open new relationships when all the worlds of thaumaturgy lay awaiting his inspection.
Naghan the Chains trembled so that his chins shook; the woman on his right arm looked quickly away, and made a secret sign. Tosie the Hiffim and Naghan the Chains both devoutly believed in San Fraipur, despite the kov’s — the king’s — apparent recent slighting of the Wizard of Fruningen.
For Fraipur, the fact that Naghan and Tosie were walking together like this meant the chamberlain was off duty and was going out. Stupid and fat he might be, but he oversaw protocol at audiences. Anxiety grew in Fraipur like an ulcer.
As he walked through the various sentry-guarded rooms and passageways he saw the changes made since his last visit. This villa was large; but it was overcrowded in the outer parts where everyone was jammed up together and that was largely caused by the amount of space given over to these secret inner areas. The name of the villa had been banned from everyone’s lips by the king, and he was in the process of choosing a new name. He did not wish to give the place a too resounding name, for obvious reasons. He also did not wish to give it a mean-sounding name, for equally valid reasons.
At a green velvet door with golden strigicaws decorating the panels, Fraipur halted. The two Chuliks looked at him, and one used the butt of his spear to hit one of the slaves crouched by the door. The two slaves jumped up and opened the double-doors. Fraipur walked through.
In the old days Alloran, like everyone else, used slaves. He had used them with some consideration. Fraipur had not bothered his head overmuch about the new emperor’s edict that slavery was to be abolished. He could quite see that the slaves here would welcome that law.
In the anteroom beyond the door he was met by Jiktar Rakkan, who was a Kataki. Fraipur, like any honest citizen, detested Katakis. Now, he kept his face expressionless and followed the Kataki Jiktar, walking as though he trod on eggs.
The next archway, swathed by cloth of gold curtains and guarded by four Katakis, gave ingress to the chamber where Alloran sat in his throne waiting for the wizard.
“Come in, San Fraipur! Advance!”
“Majister,” said Fraipur, and he went into the full incline, nose on the carpet and bottom in the air. He was never one to take unnecessary chances. Alloran showed his pleasure at this slavish display, ordered Fraipur up, and waved a slave forward with a stool. The three-legged wooden stool was provided with a green and red cushion, and Fraipur understood this to be a mark of distinction.
He sat down, thankful to get off his knees, which resembled jellies.
“Majister?”
“You have not served me well lately, San. I forgive you in this, as a mark of my pleasure. Now I am king. That washes away all that is past. Now we look to the future.”
“Yes, majister.”
“I shall test your powers, San. Tell me what I wish to know, and great rewards shall be yours.”
“Majister?”
“Strom Rosil Yasi, the Kataki Strom, does not fare as well as he might upon the mainland. You see I am well-served by the Katakis.” He waved a beringed hand around the chamber and Fraipur saw the guards along the walls, harsh in black and green, feathers still in the hothouse atmosphere. Low-browed are Katakis, snaggle-toothed, owing little to humanity. Each has a long flexible whiptail to which is strapped six inches of bladed steel. A whiptail can slip that deadly dagger up between his legs and into your guts in a twinkling.
Fraipur swallowed. “So I see, majister.”
“Strom Rosil sends news that he needs more men. He has recently been held by that brat, the Prince Majister, and has conducted a strategic withdrawal across Venavito into Ovvend.” Alloran lifted a hand and a Sylvie wearing pearls and tissue placed a golden cup of wine into the outstretched paw. Sylvies are so voluptuous that they appear as though dreamlike, capable of gratifying all the hothouse desires of men. Fraipur did not look at the slave girl as Alloran continued: “You know, San, what province lies to the west of Ovvend.”
“Your own Kaldi.”
“Quite.”
“The question then, is one of the relative powers and strengths of Strom Rosil and the Prince Majister, of the numbers of troops to be sent, if any should be sent, and of the chances of success or failure—”
“There will be no failure.”
“Naturally, majister.”
“Can you tell me, San Fraipur, what is going to happen? And, then, what I must do?”
“As to the first, majister, I will try. As to the second, the king will decide.”
Fraipur sat a little straighter on the stool. Yes, he was just deciding in a congratulatory way, that was a most cunning and crafty answer, when the king frowned and leaned forward spilling the wine onto the carpet.
“I shall decide, Fraipur! But you will tell me the issues on which to base my decision! By Vox! Must I always deal with imbeciles.”
Fraipur shrank on the little three-legged stool. He could feel the hardness of the wood through the cushion.
From nowhere, slave girls appeared like ghosts to swab up the spilled wine and to pour more. The tinkle of their ankle bells affected Fraipur oddly, as though the Bells of Beng Kishi, instead of ringing in his skull, came clamoring in from the far distance. He opened his mouth, not quite sure what to say, when King Vodun spoke with the snap of command.
“Clear out, Fraipur. Return in four burs, and then tell me true. Dernun?”
[8]
“Majister!” yelped Fraipur, and scuttled off the stool and out the golden-swathed doorway, trembling.
The sound of those eternally damned ankle bells followed him, mockingly.
Alloran swigged the wine back and threw the cup casually over his shoulder where a slave girl — a Fristle fifi — caught it expertly.
“Sorcerers!” he said. “And to think I once doted on that man and all he told me.”
A figure cloaked all in deep blue velvet, silver trimmed, glided toward Alloran’s throne from a narrow side opening. The hood extended in a cup shape to enclose the vast mass of dull black hair, springy as wire. Alloran stood up as the blue-cloaked figure halted before him.
“Is all prepared?”
“All is prepared.”
With great satisfaction, Alloran took up a fresh goblet of wine and with this in his hand followed the blue-cloaked figure through the side opening into a passageway. The room at the end of the passage, although fitted out as a bedroom, with a broad canopied bed in the center, and dressing tables and mirrors and stools, conveyed the impression of the sanctuary in the inmost recesses of a temple. The walls were draped with blue velvet. The ceiling’s blue velvet hangings depended from five central points toward the cornices to create the impression of a blue star. Silver glitter heightened other impressions, and the waft of hidden fans blew pungent scents upon the air.
If this place could be likened to a sanctuary, then the bed represented the high altar.
In the near right-hand corner stood a tall chair facing the bed. Alloran walked steadily to the chair and sat down, resting the wine goblet on his knee. The five other blue-cloaked figures all gave him a slight perfunctory nod of the head, whereat he lifted his goblet to them. He was well aware of the power of these Mantissae. Their wiry hair frizzed into bowls of blackness, their lowering foreheads and snaggle teeth, the ferocity of their natural expressions, gave little clue to the fact they were all female. Their whiptails were curled up into their cloaks; Alloran knew that even here and engaged in these holy rites they would still have six-inches of bladed steel strapped to their whiptails...
When Arachna entered the chamber she formed, as it were, the centerpiece of a small but imposing procession.
The figure of Arachna was entirely covered by a swath of blue silk cloak with a mask drawn across the opening of the hood so that only the two eyeslits gave humanity to that impression of power. Alloran shifted on his chair. Humanity? Well, he trusted so...
The little procession included half-naked boys waving fans, two more of the blue-cloaked Mantissae, a giant and stupid Womox bearing a massive double-headed axe over a shoulder, and a Fristle fifi holding the silver leads of a couple of baby werstings. The bundles of black and white behaved with a docility amazing in spirited puppies.
Arachna was assisted onto the bed by her retainers who then took up positions which did not obstruct Alloran’s view.
One of the Mantissae struck a silver gong.
At once another door concealed by the blue hangings opened and a second procession entered.
Fascinated by these slow and deliberate proceedings, Alloran took a sip of his wine. His throat was dry. He looked at the figure of Arachna on its back on the bed, and saw only the two eyeslits. Was she looking at him? What could she be thinking? He dragged his own gaze away to stare at the man selected for this day’s investigations.
He stood between four of the Mantissae, naked, his wrists bound at his back. He was a Khibil, with a proud foxy face, with reddish whiskers that now were not brushed up arrogantly but drooped in dejection. A supercilious, superior race of diffs, Khibils, and this pleased Alloran, for the best results could only come from the best material.
A thread of red wine dribbled down the Khibil’s chin.
Arachna’s voice rustled like bats’ wings.
“You have your question ready to ask at the right time, Vodun?”
“I have, Arachna.”
“Do you continue to deny Opaz?”
“I do.”
“Do you continue in steadfast loyalty to Takar?”
“I do.”
“Are you content that Arachna and her Mantissae serve you so well?”
“I am.”
With a single sweeping movement as of a bird opening its wings, Arachna threw the cloak wide.
On the bed lay a Khibil girl. Artful strings of jewels enhanced her beauty and the lushness of her body glowed into the overheated air.
The Khibil jumped, staggered, was caught and held upright. He could see nothing else in all of Kregen but the most beautiful and desirable girl in that terrible and beautiful world.
“Your question, Vodun!”
Rapidly yet carefully, Alloran asked of Arachna what he had demanded of Fraipur.
Groaning, spitting, fighting with his bonds, the Khibil struggled to break free.