Alan Akers - Captive Scorpio

And Naghan the Neemu — and a man does not obtain that sobriquet upon Kregen lightly — meekly bowed his head.

The women gathered here looked as ruthless as the men. Probably they were far more vicious, I thought then. I had the macabre idea I would recognize Dayra. I had not recognized Velia. But I thought — then

— that I must know my own daughter after the harrowing experiences through which I had gone with Velia, my Lady of the Stars.

She must be sitting directly below me, if she were here.

Gently I drew forth the longsword.

The longbow remained cased, for I had deemed it prudent to conceal that weapon in the camp. There was general talk among the swods about facing the Crimson Bowmen of the emperor, and tales that the bodyguard had been bought, which eased many an uneasy thought for the future in the army. I would leap down among this unsavory little lot and hoick Dayra out of it and if anyone of them tried to prevent me he would feel what good Krozair steel might do.

These, of course, were the maundering and chauvinistic thoughts of a fond parent who failed to comprehend the working of his daughter’s mind. But I would learn — bitterly. Easing up ready to get a good purchase and so leap down with a skirling yell to throw a startlement into them, I heard Zankov saying: “He is here now. You will all stand.”

Amid a scraping of sturmwood chairs they all stood up. A door opened and a bulky figure appeared below me, going toward the table where Zankov stood, smiling, holding out his hand. I saw the dark cloak of the newcomer, saw the low round helmet without feather or ornamentation. I saw a furtive flicker of steel and a whiplike tail bladed with a glittering, dagger slice up in the long slit in the center of the cloak’s back.

A Kataki.

And Zankov was saying: “You are heartily welcome. I bid you Lahal and Lahal, Ranjal Yasi, Stromich of Morcray.”

Silently I resheathed the longsword and sank back into the shadows. Twelve

Concerning the Throne of Vallia

They were all laughing and cheerful down there now, chattering away, handing out wine, quaffing, exchanging toasts, all very merry as nits in a ponsho fleece. I sat back in the shadows and glowered, my fists white on the hilts of my swords, my thoughts black as the cloak of Notor Zan.

“Your pass brought me safely through the gates, Zankov. But only, I think, because my men were on duty. There was a Deldar there also, a Khibil, most insulting. I would like him flogged tomorrow, flogged jikaider.”

“It shall be done, Stromich.”

“Are we all here?”

“All save for the Princess Dayra. She is expected the day after tomorrow.”

At this I roused myself. My savage thoughts refused to come to order. So Dayra was mixed up with this evil bunch — and she was not here. The day after tomorrow. Almost, then, I withdrew. But the knowledge that with the arrival of this Kataki, the twin brother to the Kataki Strom, an old enemy, the stakes in the affair had been raised to an entirely new plane, I remained. The Stromich Ranjal turned to shake the hands of those below me I could not see. But I could see his face.

Low-browed, the squat face of a Kataki, fringed with thick black hair, oiled and curled. Flaring nostrils and gape-jawed mouth with snaggly teeth has a Kataki. Wide set his eyes, brilliant and yet narrow and cold. Slavemasters, Katakis, aragorn, evil men to all they enslave. Their bladed whiptails curve arrogantly above their heads. Yes, Katakis are diffs who give to Kregen much of the evil in its brilliant reputation. Many thoughts rushed through my head. Strom Rosil Yasi and I had clashed before. I had heard of his twin brother, this Stromich Ranjal who strutted below me now. The pair of them were prime candidates for the Ice Floes of Sicce. Down south in Hamal, the enemy of Vallia, these two Katakis held high office. They were here to injure Vallia. More — they were the tools of the Wizard of Loh, Phu-si-Yantong. That devil had been balked in his attempt to control Vallia through the false creed of the Black Chyyan, and now, here he was again making a fresh attempt through these Katakis. The man who had stood on the poop of the airboat upon which I had so incontinently landed, who had given his hoarse-voiced orders to throw my flier over and to spare me — that man was this same Stromich Ranjal na Morcray. There was no mistaking that voice, now I heard it again and had a face and form to put to it. I marked him. I marked him well.

Who had been giving Ranjal his orders in the flier?

Could that have been Yantong himself?

Could it?

I did not know; but somehow, even then, I doubted it. From what I knew of Phu-si-Yantong, and that was precious little, I fancied he operated whenever he could at long distance through tools like these Katakis and like Vad Garnath ham Hestan. An old chapter of my life was being re-opened here. Yantong sought to employ me as a tool for his insane ambitions. That was why he had ordered that I should not be assassinated. I began to think again, around about then, and thought that just perhaps Yantong had grown weary of waiting, and with the Black Feathers of the Great Chyyan, and now this plot to arouse the Northeast of Vallia, he was committed to moving on an entirely new front in his aggression against Vallia.

As to myself, maybe I no longer figured in his computations.

As I listened to the conversation below some of the outlines came clearer.

“I look forward to meeting this Princess Dayra,” Ranjal was saying in that hoarse croak. “My masters have great plans for her. You, Zankov, can answer for her?”

“Assuredly.” All the nervous energy of Zankov showed in his nervous twitching, the spread of his hands, the wriggle of his shoulders, the fleer of nostrils. “She believes in the Cause. She is devoted. She has proved that.”

“Good. When the army moves we shall strike swiftly. The Trylon Udo is a fool and will be put down. But he is a figurehead and lends color to the endeavor. But the throne and crown of Vallia will not go to him.”

Everyone in the room — and I, aloft — knew who hungered for the throne. Zankov fluttered his fingers against his ears, and cheeks, and then snapped his forefingers and thumbs together.

“No. Not to Udo. To him who deserves it — who will lay unqualified claim to the crown by virtue of marriage to the Princess Dayra.”

Stromich Ranjal nodded matter-of-factly. “You will see to disposing of the rest of the family? There must be no other claimant.”

“I shall joy in the task! I have a right to the throne — my ancestors demand it of me, in blood. But Stromich, your orders have been to spare the life of the Prince Majister. What-”

“Those orders stand, as of now. I think my masters will shortly issue new directives.”

This was fascinating, listening to these schemers dispose of my life. I own I felt a little sorry for them. . Now it is important to know that when a paktun is elected by those who thus become his peers, and receives the silver pakmort, he receives also a little silver ring by which the pakmort is attached to the silken cords. In the case of a hyr-paktun the ring is of gold. When a paktun slays another in battle or in the ritual of the Jikordur — the strictly controlled duel to the death — he does not take among the consequent loot the dead man’s pakmort. That goes to the stocks for reissue with a new name, generally, although there are other uses to which it is put. But the victorious paktun claims the silver ring. This he strings upon a silken cord and wears about his person as a badge of prowess. If the slain paktun has a string of rings, the victor will take them all and string them with those he has. These savage customs of Kregen echo down the long seasons and the ages reverberate with the clash of arms and glow with the brilliance of shed blood.