“A stray varter bolt pierced her through the throat, above the corselet rim. She died in my arms.” Leone’s hard plain face revealed no outward emotion; Drak was not deceived.
“She was handmaid to the queen; but she kept on pestering to go with the army and be a Jikai Vuvushi. In the end the queen relented and gave her assent. Shirl the Elegant was very dear to the queen.”
“I see. Then she will have to know. I give thanks to Opaz that the queen stays in Vondium.”
Leone stared at him, and the slight movement of her right eyebrow was of enormous significance.
“I believe the queen would dearly love to be with the army, to march with her regiment of Jikai Vuvushis, to be with the man she — the prince she—”
“All right, Leone. I know, you know, the whole damned world of Kregen knows Queen Lushfymi of Lome wants to marry me. Well, I am not so sure.”
“May I say, prince, that it would be a splendid match? Lome is a very rich country, and Pandahem is allied to us now, after the wars, and—”
“Allied to us! By Vox, Leone! You saw that fresh damned army come shrieking off the beaches! They were from Pandahem. They were Pandaheem. I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t more than a few men from Lome among ’em!”
“Majister!”
“Aye, and a few girls, too!”
“Jis — you do me dishonor — I cannot—”
Before Drak had time to spit out that he didn’t really mean what he said in the heat of angry resentment, Leone fled from the room. Drak swore. He swept the maps off the table, then he kicked the table leg, then he swore some more.
Women!
The trouble was, ever since Queen Lush — at once he mentally corrected himself. He ought to refer to her as Queen Lushfymi, although she was generally known as Queen Lush. She’d come to Vallia to marry the old emperor, Drak’s grandfather, and when he had been killed, Queen Lush, after some fraught experiences with sorcery, had decided her best bet would be to marry the Prince Majister. One day Prince Drak would be the emperor.
Well, and so he would, if his father had his way. Drak refused even to think about all that. He had a campaign to run and Vodun Alloran, the damned traitor, to whack. Time enough later to think of marrying.
And then — of course! — he could not stop himself thinking of Silda.
Daughter of his father’s boon companion, Seg Segutorio, the finest Bowman of Loh in the world of Kregen, Silda Segutoria troubled Drak in ways he just couldn’t fathom. He knew she loved him. She had risked her life, willingly offering it up, to save him from death. She was marvelous, wonderful, impetuous, quicksilver, and damned devious, too, like all the women who were members of the famous if secret sorority the Sisters of the Rose.
Into the bargain he knew that Seg Segutorio, who was like an uncle to Drak, and his father the emperor and his mother the empress, all wanted Drak and Silda to marry. That seemed in their eyes to be inevitable and wonderfully apt.
And here was Queen Lush, sophisticated, alluring, a woman of the world, sensual and clever and reputed possessed of some sorcerous powers, setting her cap at him.
It was all a muddle.
He glanced at his own great Krozair longsword standing in the corner by the fireplace. The coals were mostly burned through now and he’d better turn in before the room became too cold. He was a Krozair of Zy, a member of that martial and mystical Order. Yes, life was a lot simpler out there in the Eye of the World, the inner sea of Kregen. Out there, where his brother Zeg was King of Zandikar, life was simple. If anything wore green you killed it. If anything wore red you fought for it with your life.
As for Silda Segutoria — where in a Herrelldrin Hell had the girl got herself? Where the blazes could she be? She might be in Vondium, where Queen Lush was no doubt living a life of luxury. She might be off on a wild adventure for the Sisters of the Rose. There was a strong possibility she could be with his sister Dayra, or his mother, the Empress Delia, although recent letters had not mentioned her. She could, even, be haring off into breathtaking adventures with his father, the Emperor of Vallia.
Thoroughly dissatisfied, Drak rolled himself up in his cloak and drifted off to sleep where he dreamed dreams of men with no eyes sloshing about in the bloodied surf of Swanton’s Bay.
The kov who would be king
The loss of so many fine specimens was not to be allowed to interfere with the festivities — not if Kov Vodun Alloran na Kaldi had anything to say, no, by Vox!
“There are captives aplenty,” he shouted at his chamberlains. “Use them! Do I have to think of everything?”
In preparation for the many ceremonies the streets were garlanded, tapestries and carpets hung down from balconies, ales and wines were brought in by the cartful, trees were decorated with strings of colored lights for the evening entertainments.
Strolling players, whose numbers had declined during the Times of Trouble, were now reappearing. If folk believed that these new troublous times were over, then they could be encouraged in that belief. Troupes of actors and actresses, singers, jugglers, fire-eaters, animal-tricksters, gathered in the town to add their color and sparkle to the festive occasion.
In the natural course of his own estimation of himself, Alloran took his personal tailor on his travels. This functionary shared quarters, meals and salary with the hairdresser, the bootmaker, the perfumer, the mistress of the linen and other men and women whose sole function in life was to care for the person of Vodun Alloran.
“I want clothes more beautiful, more sumptuous, more glorious than any seen before,” Alloran instructed his tailor, a snuffily little Och called Opnar the Silk.
“It shall be done, my lord kov,” gabbled Opnar.
“After all,” said Alloran, looking at himself in the tall mirror in the angle of the room, “after all, this is the first time I have been crowned king.” He smiled widely at his own reflection, pleased with the air of authority and regal command he himself sensed emanating from his reflection. “Although I am completely persuaded it will not be the last.”
“Assuredly not, my lord kov.”
The little Och bid his assistants bring in bales of materials so that a beginning could be made on the choice of fabrics. He was pleased in one way that the kov spoke to him in so familiar a fashion, and in another trembled lest inadvertently a great state secret should slip out and necessitate the removal of his head from his narrow shoulders.
Alloran expressed dissatisfaction with everything he was shown, which was perfectly normal. Opnar did not take out his own fears and ill humor on his assistants. He was in general a gentle man who just wanted to make fine clothes.
“And let there be a great quantity of gold,” declared Alloran, forcefully. “Gold lace, gold bullion, gold leaf, gold everywhere. The people must see and know how great a king I am.”
That seemed a perfectly logical request and desire to Opnar the Silk. He bobbed and nodded and unrolled more cloth.
A sentry at the double doors bellowed: “Kapt Logan Lakelmi, my lord kov, desires admittance.”
Naturally Alloran had installed himself in the finest residence in the town and already plans fomented in his head to increase the size of the place, and build higher walls and more sumptuous chambers. Once he had decided where in his new realms he would build his capital and palace, he would indulge himself in a frenzy of building on a colossal scale.
He gestured negligently with a beringed finger, the sentry vanished to reappear with Kapt Logan Lakelmi.
“My lord kov!” rapped out Lakelmi, saluting.
“Kapt Logan. The news?”
“Is good. The Kataki Strom has gained a great victory over the Prince Majister. A place called Swanton’s Bay. The Vallians run in rout, and—”
“Hold, Kapt Logan! Yes, the news is exceedingly good. The Kataki Strom has done well, although I sent him a great reinforcement for his army. But, Kapt Logan, softly. We are all Vallians in Vallia — although you are a mercenary from Loh — do not forget that. When I am king over all, when I am emperor, I shall be the Emperor of Vallia.”
“Yes, my lord kov.”
“Vallia!” breathed Alloran. There was genuine emotion in him, his eyes bright. “Yes, I shall be Emperor of Vallia, and Vallians will rule in their own country as is proper.” He glanced under down-drawn lids at Lakelmi. “But I shall not forget loyal servants, Kapt Logan. You will not be forgotten.”
“I thank you. Do you wish to see the lists—?”
“Later.”
Kapt Logan Lakelmi, with the red hair of Loh, with his spare, tall, erect figure, looked every inch the fighting man. Now he acted as Alloran’s chief of staff, and longed for an independent command. That would come, he felt sure. The kov’s plans encompassed many more campaigns and battles, and there would be employment for many mercenaries for seasons to come.
Lakelmi knew something of Alloran’s history. The kov, despairing of ever being kov in those peaceful days before the Times of Troubles, when his father was set to live, it seemed, forever, had gone abroad. He had become a mercenary as a very young man. Then he had worked and fought his way up to become a paktun, a mercenary with a reputation. The next step had been to mort-paktun, a warrior elected by his peers, who wore the silver mortil-head on its silk ribbons at his throat. His fame had spread among his own kind. Before he had taken the next step, to become a zhan-paktun, wearing the golden zhantilhead at his throat, tribulations and disaster had fallen upon Vallia.
Alloran, returning home, his father killed by malignant hostiles, had fought for his kovnate, and lost, and fled to the capital of the country, Vondium.
There he had joined the new Vallian army and, given a brigade by the new emperor, had fought well. He had been selected to go to the southwest with an army and to clear out the slavers and all those festering upon the misery of Vallia, and to return all those provinces to the empire.
Just how the corrosive ambition had at last broken through, Lakelmi was not sure. What was certain was that Vodun Alloran had rejected loyalty to the emperor. He had fought for his own kovnate province, had won that back, had taken neighboring provinces, and then declared his own independence.
The next inevitable step was to crown himself King of Southwest Vallia.
With the latest victory against the forces of the Prince Majister of Vallia to crown his efforts, nothing appeared to stand in his way. His ambitions would be rewarded.
Yes, Kapt Logan Lakelmi felt convinced a bright and prosperous future lay ahead.
That was — if he didn’t get himself killed in some stupid affray.
The golden glitter of the pakzhan at his throat on its silken cords told everyone that he was a zhanpaktun. That lofty eminence within the mercenary fraternity was to Logan Lakelmi of far greater importance than his present position as Kapt to Kov Vodun.
Now he pushed the rolled lists back under his left arm. Later, the kov said. Well, that suited Lakelmi.
“Jen,” he said. “There is a matter of the runaway slaves who have been recaptured—”
“That is a matter for the judiciary, Logan.”
“Assuredly. But I would like to offer them the chance to enroll in the ranks. We do need men.”
Alloran scowled.
“Men! They cost gold, you pay them, and sometimes they fight and sometimes they run away. And they get killed and where is the gold then?”
Lakelmi remained silent. Opnar held a roll of watered green silk in his hands, unmoving.
“Slaves who show how ungrateful they are by running away must be punished. I hew to the old traditions of Vallia. Slavery is an institution hallowed by age. I could not live in the new Vallia created by the emperor where he has abolished slavery. The man is a fool, there is no denying that.”
“Yes, my lord kov.”
“After they have been punished, after they have been striped jikaider, you may attempt to recruit them.”
“Thank you, my lord kov.”
Already schemes jumped into his head. He’d have a private word or three with the Whip-Deldars. They would not stripe the slaves badly, and certainly he’d avoid jikaidering them, a savage punishment in which a left-handed and a right-handed lash crisscrossed their backs with a checkerboard of blood. He’d get himself some prime flint-fodder, by Hlo-Hli!
Then Alloran said with a smile of great craftiness: “But, good Logan, who is to pay the rightful owners of the slaves? Always assuming they do not wish the return of their rightful property.”
This emphasis on the rightfulness of it disturbed Lakelmi.
“I will speak to them, my lord kov, and see what may be done.”
“Do that, Logan, do that.”
“The fact remains, we still need more numbers to fill the ranks of the armies.”
“Yes, and I suppose those lists you hold so tightly under your arm tell me of more gold lost with the men of Strom
[4]
Rosil’s army?”
“Casualties were light—”
“Thank Takar for that!”
“A fresh recruitment should land this afternoon, the argenters have been sighted sailing in without trouble and if each ship carries three hundred men there should be at least six thousand or so.”
Lakelmi had deliberately changed the subject of conversation from Strom Rosil. Lakelmi knew that the Kataki Strom had provided most of the gold for the army fighting on the mainland. No one knew where the gold came from; they knew where it went, though, by Lohako the Bold!
“I hope,” grunted Alloran in his offensive way, “there are good fighting men amongst them. We have enough of these mewling weaklings you call flint-fodder.”
“That is so, my lord kov.”
“And I need first-class cavalry. And air!” He glared at the Kapt. “What I would give for some aerial cavalry, and squadrons of fliers, airboats, to give me mastery aloft. As it is, every battle is touch and go in the air.”
“This is true of all armies, jen. We shall manage.”
After a few more words the audience was finished and Kapt Logan Lakelmi went off about his duties. Alloran threw a bolt of cloth at Opnar and his helpers, swore at them, told them they must find finer stuffs than this shoddy, and went off to eat his customary huge midday meal. After that he went down in panoply to see about the new arrivals whose ships, having anchored or moored up, were discharging their freight, both human and material.