Alan Akers - Captive Scorpio

Queen Lush would get no real grasp of the true feelings in Vallia, then. . I fancied she would have her spies busy, and was shrewd enough by all accounts to take the pulse of the empire.

Vad Kolo nal Larravur took the emperor’s remark about the commands of the queen as a personal rebuke. He withdrew a little, his face shadowed. I kept the frown off my face. If the emperor could so thoughtlessly upset his own people, he would make himself even more isolated. Vad Kolo’s daughter took his arm and spoke quickly, softly, in his ear. He scowled a bit, and then edged himself back into the group around the queen, forcing a smile. This daughter — she had some courtesy title, of course — was lithe, well-formed, glowing of face, open of countenance. She wore a dark yellow gown with silver lacing, and a long thin poniard of typical Vallian manufacture swung at her girdle. This was Leona nal Larravur. On the left shoulder of the gown she wore a brooch fashioned from ronil gems into the likeness of a purple bush, with a green emerald stem. By this device I knew Leona nal Larravur was a member of the Order of Sisters of Samphron. One of the ronils was missing, the one on the extreme tip of the bush-brooch. It was unlikely that the brooch for so meaningful a symbol was of Krasny work — inferior — nor was it likely that the stone would be knocked out by an ordinary accidental dropping of the brooch, even on the hardest of stone. The gold mounting had been painted over purple.

A small vertical frown kept dinting in between Leona nal Larravur’s eyebrows, then she would force a smile, and the skin would smooth out and those two worrying lines disappear. The conversation became more animated as less tea was drunk and more wine flowed. The emperor’s huge bark of laughter crashed out with more and more frequency. Colors in cheeks heightened. Eyes grew warm. I looked across at Delia. It was time we departed. Now, I did not then hear the words spoken, nor was I a witness to the entire scene. But voices around the queen were raised. The tones were still polite; but the venom was unmistakable. A hush fell over the rest of the Reception Room. Everyone looked and listened.

The queen’s color was up. Her violet eyes were flying danger signals. The emperor was furious. His bulky body towered over the small, slight form of Foke Lyrsmin. Old Foke quivered, staring up, his elegant dark clothes shaking. A small, cheerful, wiry fellow, Foke Lyrsmin, the Kov of Vyborg. We had had a right old time of it at the uncompleted wedding ceremony he’d planned with Merle, the daughter of Trylon Jefan Werden.[2]The Lady of Vallia he had subsequently married was enchanting; she stood at his side, her face scarlet, her lips trembling. Their two strapping sons and two delightful daughters hesitated, as it were, on the edges of this ghastly scene.

“. . and I don’t care what it is you meant to say, Kov Foke! You call yourself my friend.” The emperor’s voice boomed, rich and heavy, and everyone heard. “I do not account those as friends who insult Queen Lushfymi.”

“Majister — I did not insult-”

“I heard, Lyrsmin! I am not deaf! Be thankful I do not order your head off this instant.”

At this the Kovneva of Vyborg let out a little squeak of pure agony. Her two stalwart sons held her arms, supporting her. How Old Foke had managed to get them was a mystery.

“But, majister-”

“Begone, Foke Lyrsmin!”

“But-”

“Shastum! Not another word. Go! Leave my presence.”

Poor Old Foke looked shattered. His thin body writhed in the elegant gown. He turned about, and his teeth chattered.

“And, Foke na Vyborg — I shall expect a written apology to be transmitted to the Queen of Lome, together with a gift of quality sufficient to show your sorrow and regrets and your wholehearted desire to make amends for your disgusting behavior.”

Foke couldn’t say another word. The emperor had commanded that. He trailed away. His delightful wife followed, helped out by the twin sons, and the twin daughters tripped along afterward, like naughty schoolchildren chastised and sent to bed. The colors of Vyborg, maroon and silver, looked pathetic as they left.

The Reception Room filled again with conversation as people started talking away. Scenes like this were no longer as common as they once had been. Delia caught my eye. I nodded sideways. We started to make for the doors.

If there can be said, at that time, to have been a party in a political sense around the emperor, then Foke was certainly a member. I suppose the people near him might be called the Imperial Party. They had nothing like the organization or the power of the racters. But they were men loyal to the throne.

“Poor Foke,” said Delia.

“He looked shattered. Did you see what it was?”

“No. But Queen Lush was most put out.”

“Oh no, my heart.” We had reached the doors and the gaudily uniformed flunkeys were opening up again after the doors had been closed after the Vyborgs. “Oh, no. Old Foke was the one who was put out.”

“Now,” I said to Delia when all the preparations were complete. “This water bottle.”

“I see it, my love.”

We had gone up to our Valkan villa, which was still not fully brought back to habitability, despite the length of time that had elapsed since I’d acquired it by virtue of being made the Strom of Valka behind my back. But there were apartments enough beautifully furnished to make it a real home. Nalgre the Staff was the current Chamberlain, a stout fellow and one I would trust. We kept no slaves. The villa was set somewhat back from the road, bowered in greenery, presenting an outward appearance of decay and neglect. I did not object to that. Further along on the Hill — the Valkan villa was situated on the Hill of Vel’alar — the villas of the nobles presented all the munificence of aspect expected of the rich and mighty of the empire.

“This water bottle.” I hefted it. Plain leather, scuffed, worn, it was a scruffy-looking object. “We must keep it safely locked away in the stoutest iron chest.”

Delia nodded understandingly. After I had mended my hurts in the Sacred Pool of Baptism I had filled this water bottle with the milky fluid that conferred life. My return from the island of Ba-Domek on which stands the Swinging City of Aphrasoe had been rushed with the help of my Djangs; but I had managed to bring back my weapons, that superb zorca Shadow, and this water bottle.

“It will be safe here.” Delia placed the bottle in humespack, wrapping the cloth over it, and then wadding down household linen so that the iron chest almost overflowed. We closed the lid and sat companionably upon it and did up the locks. They can make fine chests in Vallia, for they have much gold and silver, jewels and precious objects to preserve.

The four keys and the master key were secreted away in a brick hole concealed within the wall of our bedroom. No picture covered that lenken paneling there; the wood had been carpentered to a close fit by men long since dead. I had found that small hiding place only by chance, and regretted it was not large enough to accommodate the water bottle itself.

As we went up to the landing platform I said to Delia: “We keep up five villas here besides the quarters in the palace. It might be a good idea to sell one or two.”

She cocked her head at me. The night air breathed sweet about us. She of the Veils rode through a tracery of clouds. The landing platform was dusty, and dead leaves blew with brittle rustlings into the corners. We had slept enough to feel refreshed. I was sorry that Delia could not fly with me; but she was adamant. The Sisters of the Rose had to be attended to first.