Anderson, Poul - Novel 18 Read online

  “What’s happening?” Josserek asked, lips to her ear so a stray hair tickled them. His heart thuttered.

  “I don’t know. A raid on the Lairs? Casiru says they have been made whenever the viceroy learned where important Knife Brothers were holed up.”

  “M-m-m. Do you think we should scat?”

  “Where else can we go? Under the new rule, innkeepers must report foreign guests who can’t show entry permits. Any who disobey, likeliest think they will cut your throat, plunder your purse, and for me—” Donya uttered a snarl.

  Josserek gathered she had arrived unlawfully. Casiru could arrange that for her, after she sent word she was on her way. No matter now. They retreated back down the lane and crossed the street at a safe point. Scant traffic moved along it, a mule-drawn wagon, a few hasty pedestrians, and none in the Lairs. There everybody was gone to his den. Except that it was less ruinous—but ugly, littered with trash and offal, prowled by curs and alley cats—this might almost have been the Hollow Houses. Echoes flapped among shadows. The chilling air quenched most stenches.

  Overtopping the neighbors which jammed against either side, Casiru’s dwelling loomed square above the narrow way on which it fronted. “We’re home,” Josserek called, and sprang forward.

  Through twilight he saw the door lie smashed.

  A shout. Men who sped from within. Men out of two more buildings. Drawn blades agleam. “Hold where you are!” When they didn’t find us here, they waited. Clatter of boots on cobblestones. A hard hand clapped around his wrist. A Barommian face behind.

  Josserek yanked his arm free, between thumb and fingers. His knee lashed upward. The soldier lurched back, dropped his sword, wailed his pain. Josserek whirled about. He swayed and crouched aside as he did. Steel whistled where he had been. “Take them alive, you scuts!” yelped in the tongue of Haamandur. Through him flashed: That makes things easier for me. He glimpsed Donya, backed against a wall. Her chance was gone. But these cavalrymen didn’t know dirty fighting afoot. Bone crunched, blood squirted beneath the heel of Josserek’s hand. The edge of it chopped at a neck. Then he was clear, running on longer legs than theirs, into a murkful maze. Behind him a horn lowed, calling the squad at Fountain Circus. Too late.

  Yet where now could a spy from the Seafolk hide?

  CHAPTER 6

  “No, the Nine Devils take him, Casiru was gone from his house when my men seized it,” Sidfr rasped.

  “Or else he had a tunnel known to himself alone,” Ponsario suggested. “They say every fox digs two ways in and out of his den. This fox, moreover, has many earths. I fear your hounds will get no spoor of him for a long while to come.”

  Sidfr squinted at the fat flat face. “Why did you never tell me about Casiru earlier?” he demanded.

  Ponsario shifted in his chair, folded hands across belly, glanced around the Moon chamber. Morning brightened it, coffee steamed delicious, windows stood open to mild air and a cheery sound of traffic. But the red man had laid hand on dirk.

  “Well, Captain General, you bear a thousand different burdens,” Ponsario said. “At your behest I, like colleagues of mine, informed on those Brotherhoods which most threatened your purposes, such as the Rippers and their academy for assassins. That was when we had specific information, sir, which was seldom. The Lairs keep their secrets, especially since the Guilds began getting alienated from them. But should we trouble you about every scrap of word which still comes our way?” His gaze grew pointed. “I believe your distinguished colleague, the Imperial Voice, vetoed proposals to clean out the Lairs entirely. Besides hurting too many innocent people, that would create more difficulties than it resolved. Drastic changes cannot well be carried out overnight. I am sure the Captain General agrees.”

  Sidir half laughed. “Also, you’d rather hold something in reserve, you Guildsmen.”

  “M-m-m ... in this instance, sir; may I respectfully remind you that, precisely because he was left in business, Casiru received foreign agents whom you might otherwise have had much trouble in identifying and catching. You did catch them, did you not?”

  “One. A female Northlander. The Killimaraichan she was with, he got away.”

  “They are definitely of those nations, sir?”

  “Yes. No mistaking a Northlander, and the Killimaraichan admitted being such in the hearing of household members that we did grab and interrogate. He claimed he was a fugitive, but Casiru showed more interest in him than that might warrant. As for the woman, there is no doubt she came down to spy on us.”

  Ponsario sipped his coffee, obviously relieved that the talk had veered from accusing him. “In my opinion, sir, Casiru had no intentions beyond acting as a middleman, for whatever squeeze he could get. Which would likeliest have been bribes and fees out of all proportion to the service rendered. What could anybody really accomplish? A lone Killimaraichan—well, he is worth capture, to find out if his superiors have some important scheme. But the odds are, he came on a mere fishing expedition. The Northlander cannot even be called an agent.”

  “Why not?”

  Ponsario raised his brows. “How, sir? You know no ghost of a government has ever existed in that country. A few worried matriarchs—matriarchs only of their homes—may have agreed somebody should go and try to learn about you. At most. The Rogaviki have no state, no tribal structure, no military cadre, no warriors who keep in practice by raiding or feuding—actually no law, it is said, nor customs or duties binding on any who don’t choose—”

  “Nevertheless,” Sidir cut him off, “they’ve kept civilized settlers out of a huge territory for as long as chronicles remember, and destroyed every army sent to avenge homesteaders they massacred. Whence comes their strength? I called you here this morning, Ponsario, partly to find out where Casiru might be and what he’ll do next, partly what to expect from this person we hold.”

  The merchant smirked. ‘Traders and peaceful travelers through the Northlands say there is absolutely nothing like the native women.” Seriously: “But that’s when they are willing. Prisoners are always deadly dangerous. Either they turn into homicidal maniacs, or they lurk for the first chance to pull some treachery—lethal by choice, though it cost their own lives.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. This brach fought fiercely till subdued. But since, they say she’s been calm.”

  “Why does the Captain General ask me about Northfolk? Didn’t you have ample experience in the last invasion, ten or eleven years ago?”

  “No,” Sidrr said. “That campaign was an element in a larger effort, to win more farms and pastures for

  Rahfd. We also moved northwestward, into Thunwa.” He got a blank look. “The dwellers there live not unlike Barommians, some yeomen, some herders, spread thinly through highlands which could be cultivated thickly, warlike men, who acquired enough knowledge from the Empire that they stayed it off for centuries. They were vassals of the Ayan Imperium, though, and we renewed that claim. I led a brigade of ours. Never have I met hardier fighters.”

  “But you broke them, did you not?”

  “Yes. Which consoled us for the failure in Rogaviki country. And advanced my career, until now—” Sidrr sighed. “I’ve studied everything I could find on the Northfolk, of course, insofar as time has allowed. But I’ve no real sense in my bones of what they are like.”

  “Well, sir, I have myself had limited contact with them,” Ponsario confessed. “They bring furs to the trading posts for my Guild, which ships fabrics in return. However, the bulk of that goes through the Metallists, who do by far the major traffic. Thus I have principally common knowledge. They live widely spread, chiefly by hunting, following herds in summer, spending the winter in houses when they don’t gad about over hundreds of miles. Most wives keep two, three, or still more husbands. Unmarried women ... seem to have various possibilities. Wars among Rogaviki groups have never occurred, they claim, and they exalt the skillful hunter or craftsman, not the fighting man. Nor have I, myself, ever heard of a murder or robbery up there, tho
ugh doubtless it happens occasionally, inasmuch as our people do report very rare, incidental mention of outcasts. Rogaviki respect the lands of neighboring folk, both civilized and primitive. When theirs are encroached on, they fight with wolverine ferocity. Then, as soon as the trespassers have left, they are ready to reestablish friendly relations, as if incapable of holding a grudge no matter what they suffered.” Ponsario’s cup clacked down, empty. “Yet they are an impossible people really to get to know. They are hospitable to strangers they deem harmless, but visitors have told how they never reveal any depths in themselves. Perhaps they have none. They certainly show little in the way of ceremonies. Their women sometimes bed a guest, but act more like minks—or demons—than human females.”

  “Is that what you can tell me?” Sidfr asked.

  “In outline, yes, sir.”

  “Nothing I had not heard before. You waste my time.

  “Get out. Send me a written report on Casiru and the Rattlebone Brotherhood, everything you know ... less long-winded than you are.”

  Ponsario bowed and flourished his way from the chamber. Sidfr sat a while gnawing his impatience. So much to do! A civilization to make safe, powerful, stable—thereby assuring the future of Clan Chalif and, before all else, the descendants of his own father—for this, half a continent to vanquish—and how many men whose good faith and good sense he could trust?

  Several hundred leathery, hoarse-voiced Barommian sergeants. And their best officers.... In the name of the Witch, how long since last I gathered friends for a night’s joy? Drinking till heads fly afloat; boasts, memories, bawdy songs; girls for everybody, lavish as the food they bring us; wrestling, gambling, stamping out a ring-dance to a drumbeat like hoofs in gallop; comradeship, comradeship.

  He thrust the wish from him. The commander of an Imperial Rahfdian army could not well invite his underlings to an orgy, nor accept such an invitation. Not till he was home again beneath the high volcanoes.

  At present—The challenge shivered in Sidfr like a harpstring. He rose and departed on rapidly clacking bootheels. Guards at the door slapped breastplates in salute.

  The hallway was long, vaulted, set with polished granite and malachite, dimly gas-lit. At its end, an arch gave on a circular staircase. Startled, Sidfr halted. Yurussun Soth-Zora was emerging.

  Tall in his robe, the Rahfdian paused too. For a few pulsebeats both were silent. Then: “Greeting, Captain General” and “Greeting, Imperial Voice.”

  Gone awkward, Sadfr said, “Let me express in person—I meant to later—express the regret my orderly brought you yesterday evening, that I could not dine with you alone as we planned. A task has proved knottier than I foresaw.”

  Glow from the nearest lamp shimmered off Yurus-sun’s spectacles in such wise that two tiny flames looked at the Barommian. “That is clear. Your courtesy is appreciated. You are still pursuing the matter in question?”

  “Yes. And your honorable self is interested likewise? My apologies if you expected notification. It was, is, a piece of nearly routine military business. No direct impact on civil government, except that we arrested a few criminals.” And before we left Nats, I required that police power be the army’s.

  “A reasonable judgment. Though, pardon me, not necessarily a correct judgment. When I heard about the major prisoner you took—staff gossip is buzzing—I went to inspect her. Next I was on my way toward you.”

  “She’s a failed spy—better said, a scout—from the barbarians. Nothing else. What do you care?” Sidfr realized the Imperial Voice might justifiably take umbrage at his curtness.

  But Yurussun grew still more solemn. “You are housing her pleasantly, I see. What are your plans for her?” Sidfr flushed. “I’ll keep her about.”

  “She is ... handsome. However, you can take your pick of many beautiful girls. You do. Why this risky creature?”

  “I don’t plan on ravishing her, for ancestors’ sake! I’ll try to, to get acquainted. I’ve had no worthwhile experience yet of these people I’m ordered to subjugate. Knowing just a single one could make a big difference.”

  “Nobody comes to know a Rogaviki, Captain General.”

  “So I’ve heard. But how are they inscrutable? What does their near company feel like? This sample—a captive, in need of our good will—she can give me a better idea than did what few traders and drifters I’ve briefly met.”

  Yurussun stood a while leaning on his staff. “You may learn to your sorrow, Captain General,” he said at length. “And that could imperil your followers.”

  Sidfr snorted. “I’ve been warned, prisoners often are violent. Do you think I, my sentries right outside, I should fear attack by a woman?”

  “Perhaps not. But perhaps worse.” Yurussun looked down the corridor. Doors reached shut. The ages were gone when Arvanneth needed many palace functionaries. Here was more privacy that he could be sure of in the Moon Chamber or the Arcanum Cubicle itself.

  “Harken, I pray you.” His white beard swayed as he hunched forward to speak low and earnestly. “When I was young, I traveled far among Northfolk. An Imperial margrave had asked a commission be sent. I was its clerk. Livestock from the south, game from the north were straying across his border and causing damage, dwellers were killing such beasts on sight, an expensive nuisance for both peoples. We negotiated an agreement. Cairns would be raised to define the frontier exactly. From time to time Rahfdians and Rogaviki would meet at designated spots, bringing the tails of strays. Whoever had the fewest would pay in proportion to the difference, metal from them or coin from us, according to a formula which assumed the unwanted animals had done more harm than their carcasses were worth. It worked well enough, I believe—was even resumed after our last attempted conquest failed. But the point is, Captain General, there was no king or chief or council or anybody who could speak for that kith as a whole. We must spend months, in winter when they were more or less settled down, going from stead to stead, persuading each separate family. Thus I think I came to know them better than most outsiders.”

  Sidfr waited. He had heard bare mention of this before.

  “Their women were often curious about us,” Yurus-sun said in an old man’s tone. “They would boldly invite us to their bodies. Some accompanied us a ways, our guides to the next few places.”

  Sidfr mustered scorn: “I’ve gathered traders’ tales. They whisper how the Rogaviki woman is a witch, a nymph, something supematurally female. The story is she can endlessly satisfy any man she will, without ever satiating him, but the cost is apt to be becoming her helpless slave, who at last cares for nothing else in life but her. Myth! Horse apples! Why don’t the factors upriver get ensnared?”

  “A short encounter leaves but a sweet, wild memory, I suppose. And I suppose, too, much of the belief about her comes simply because she is as independent as a man, as competent and dangerous. Indeed, her husbands are not subservient. And yet—and yet—did you know that the Wilderwood savages, with whom the eastern Rogaviki have some contact, that they think the plains folk, both sexes, are a kind of elves? I can understand why, and I can understand the Southron superstitions, and I wonder if they are wholly superstitions ... I, who knew Brusa of Starrok for half a month, and in half a century since have never won free of her.”

  Yurussun’s words faded out. Sidfr stood amazed. Not only was self-baring quite unlike a Tolan Philosopher— Rahfdian nobles hardly ever fell in love as their peasants or any Barommians might; they kept their women too inferior.

  Maybe that tripled the impact of a wholly untamed girl.

  “I will, eh, I will respect your confidence,” Sidfr said finally.

  “I put away my pride for you with reluctance,” Yurussun mumbled, “however well I know that that youth is dead who bore my name.” Then sharply: “Beware. I wish you would have that prisoner killed, or released, or gotten rid of somehow. If you will not, at least watch yourself, always watch. If you feel a spell coming on you, tell me, that I may urge you to break it before too late.” />
  His hand on the staff trembled. Without ceremony, he brushed past and shuffled on down the corridor.

  Sidfr lingered hesitant. Had he heard truth?

  Hah! I’ll grant Rogaviki women may be better bed-mates than most. Helmeted in skepticism, he proceeded. The stone stairs leading up through the Crow Tower were worn to troughs. Candles guttered feebly in sconces, against chill walls. Echoes rattled like laughter.

  But the apartment on top was large, comfortable, well maintained. Four pikemen guarded the landing. They were Rahfdians—no sense tying down his e1ite here—big, erect in blue jackets and trousers, boots built to march in, brass-stripped leather cuirasses, round casques whereon their regimental insignia were enameled. They saluted smartly. Sidir felt a surge of pride that drove out his last small forebodings. Before the Barommians took over, soldiers had been lower in Rahid than sidewinders, and deserved it, scarcely more than brigands scouring about through the wreckage of a nation. These might still be derided by scholars; but they stood as the outer wall of civilization.

  He passed by and closed the door again behind him.

  Donya was on her own feet. He had ordered her issued a robe to replace her harlot’s disguise, and the rooms here included a bath. Her right cheek bore a purpling bruise, her left wrist a red slash, and he knew she had taken a battering before his squad got her bound. Her carriage showed no trace. A sunbeam from an ogive window turned fresh-combed hair dull gold and sheened over long roundings beneath black silk.