The Spikatur Cycle

Chapter three

Chapter three

In which Nath Nazabhan, Kapt of the Phalanx, is at last named“A sorcerer was reported sniffing around one of the university buildings.”

“Ortyg Voinderam has absconded with the Lady Fransha, and her father, the Lord of Mavindeul, having recovered from a fit occasioned by his paroxysm of rage, vows vengeance, and his agents have been seen in Drak’s City.”

“Filemon, the shoe contractor, has defaulted on payment for a thousand hides.”

“An outbreak of horn rot is reported in the zorcas of Thoth Valaha.”

“It is reported that an idol of Mev-ira-Halviren opened its eyes and spoke, since when a multitude of the credulous flock to the temple of this outmoded religion, and the priests wax fat.”

“A Hamalese spy has been apprehended in Delphond and is being brought to Vondium in chains.”

“It is reliably reported that...”

“The latest situation appreciations show that...”

“What are your orders concerning...?”

And so on and so on...

The motives of anyone who takes on the job of putting a country back together again after seasons of unrest and destruction surely need very close scrutiny.

While the process of reconstruction is going on there is little time if any for introspection. It is all work, work and more work, from long before the twin Suns of Scorpio rise to long after they set. All the same, despite the constant crushing work load, doubts must creep in. Self-analysis is probably engendered by the pressures and fatigue. And then, as they say in Balintol, you’ll forget which hand to use and stand there, motionless, like a cartwheel.

Enevon Ob-Eye, my chief stylor, had recruited a large and growing bureau to handle the paperwork.

Every death warrant was seen by me, personally, and in many cases with discussions with the magistrates concerned to delve deeper into the matter, the sentences were commuted to lesser punishments. This damned Hamalese spy, for instance...

“Hang him,” said Nath Nazabhan, the fierceness of his words matched by the anger he felt against the enemies of his country. “Hang him from the highest branch in all Vondium.”

I sipped the wine, for it was evening and the lights had been brought in and the curtains closed. My small workroom with the books and charts, the arms rack, enclosed us. The wine was superb — Vela’s Tears from Valka — and I swallowed down, keeping Nath waiting before replying.

Then: “Nath. It is high time this vexed question of your name was settled.”

“You will not hang this Hamalese spy?”

“Probably not. If you ask him which he prefers, to be hanged by us or sent back to the Empress Thyllis, what do you think he will reply?”

Nath’s face creased. “So we hang him?” He could see the funny side of that. “Because it is more tender?”

“He might be won over. At least, we must make the attempt. Naghan Vanki will earn his keep as the chief spymaster in this.”

“I am privileged to command the Phalanx. We are the most powerful fighting force Vallia possesses. I leave spies and darkness of that kind to Vanki’s faceless minions.”

“And, Nath, that is the problem. Your father’s rank of Nazab gives you the right to call yourself Nazabhan. We have talked on this. You are the Kapt of the Phalanx. I have warned you often enough that the Phalanx is vulnerable—”

“And have we not overturned all who came against us?”

“Yes, yes. We have done well together. And you keep shying away from this business of your name.”

Enevon Ob-Eye rustled papers at the side of my desk where he had brought in the latest reports. A small folding stool allowed him to sit down to the job. His own offices were large and crammed with people and files and papers.

“If I may speak for Nath, majis? He wishes to remain in the Imperial service, with your blessing, as a Justicar governing a province or city. He has no ambitions to be ennobled in the main ranks of the peerage — at least—” and here Enevon squinted his one eye up— “that is how I read the situation.”

“That is so, Enevon.” Nath spoke crisply.

I said, “You know that at any time you wish you may be appointed Justicar to govern the city or province of your choice. The imperial provinces around Vondium are in our hands once more, and arrangements can be made that will not unduly upset the incumbents.” Nath Nazabhan was a good comrade, a fine man, who led the Phalanx and who was devoted to that immense cutting instrument of war, as the brumbytes within the ranks were devoted to him. So, I added, “You’d have to leave the Phalanx, of course.”

“That, I am not prepared to do.”

Enevon closed his eye. I leaned back and sipped the wine.

“So, as you are set in your ways, Nath, and it is necessary that you be rewarded—”

“It is not necessary, majister!”

“Oh, but, Nath, it is.”

Nath, as a superb example of the splendid young fighting men who had fought shoulder to shoulder to liberate Vallia and stave off the attacks of the predators feasting on the prostrate empire, a blade comrade, a man of unquestioned loyalty, Nath must be seen to shine in that galaxy of gallants who had stepped forth to save Vallia in her Time of Troubles.

“You remember the Battle of Kochwold, Nath?”

“Who can ever forget it?”

“We had three Phalanxes there. It was a famous victory.”

“Aye.”

“It appears to me that Nath na Kochwold has a ring.”[1]

“Majister?”

Enevon rustled more papers and pulled out a large sheet much embellished with fine writing and scrollwork. He placed this down before me and then fussed in his meticulous way with the sealing equipment. I looked steadily at Nath.

“Kyr Nath! No more shillyshallying. Your rank will be formally announced when the lists are promulgated. You are Nath na Kochwold.” Then, and I hoped in no testy way, I added, “There are so many Naths on Kregen you have to accept the needle in this.” And I signed and sealed the patent.

Nath opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and his lower jaw moved sideways before he spoke.

“And I keep the Phalanx?”

I nodded.

“Then, majister, I thank you. By Vox! I shall have no difficulty in remembering my name!”

The feeling of relief I experienced in having pushed that problem to a solution lasted for some time as we worked on. But, inevitably, more problems came crowding in and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel remained obscured. Mind you, to call rewarding Nath — or anyone of the people who labored so hard for Vallia — a problem is to be foolish. It was just Nath’s insistence on remaining with the Phalanx that prevented my using him in a wider capacity for which he was perfectly suited.

Plans for Turko to march northward to Falinur pushed ahead. An army had to be collected. It had to be equipped and fed. And, at the same time, the rest of the territories regained in the island had to be protected.

Two new plants for processing the bumper crop of mergem we had been blessed with this season had just reached completion. Mergem, a leguminous plant, when dried may be stored for long periods and then reconstituted. It is rich in protein, vitamins and minerals, with trace elements — although at the time I knew nothing of them, by Vox! — and has seen many a beleaguered city safely through a siege. With little persuasion from me, the Presidio, to whom I was delegating more and more responsibility, had ordered the planting of vast areas of mergem. These two new processing facilities would give an even larger return than the traditional methods of grinding and drying in the suns light. Now we could use not only the pods, but the stalks as well.

And, as all good Kregans know, you can flavor your reconstituted mergem with all manner of tasty fruit juices.

Delia burst into my room as I shoved the mergem file away. She looked marvelous, rosy of face, brilliant of eye, quivering with passion.

“Dray! You sit here! What are you about? Why haven’t you done something?”

I stood up. I think — I am not sure — Enevon killed a smile. I searched for meaning, and for words.

“Come on, Dray! We can’t just do nothing! We must hurry!”

“Yes,” I said. And I tried to put a snap, a ring of decision into my voice. “We must act!”

“At once!”

“Of course...”

Now my Delia is the most wonderful person in two worlds. That goes without saying, although I have said it, will say it and continue to say it. But, all the same — what in the frozen wastes of the Ice Floes of Sicce was she talking about now? By Zim-Zair! It was enough to make a plain old fellow like me jump up and down on his hat.

And here came Jilian, recovered of her wounds, roaring into my little study, shouting that we must hurry. Jilian with her black leathers and her pale face with those dark brilliant eyes brought a heady wash of action wherever she went. Jilian, with her whip and her claw.

“Don’t just stand there, Jak!” she called.

Delia said, “Oh, you have to take a two-handed sword to stir him up when he gets like this. Come on, Dray!”

I swallowed. Venturing all, I said in a voice that was little more than a husky croak, “Where to?”

Both women — both gorgeously beautiful women — stared at me as though I was bereft of my senses.

“Well, I don’t know!” said Jilian.

“I’ve no idea,” said Delia. “But we must hurry!”

Now I shut my mouth most firmly. I put both hands flat on the desk. I closed my eyes.

Enevon coughed. “I think, majis, this matter touches the business of Ortyg Voinderam—”

“An imbecile I’ll sink my claw into if—” began Jilian.

Now I grasped what was going on — well, some of it. Ortyg Voinderam had eloped with the Lady Fransha, and Delia as Empress of Vallia no doubt knew far more about the affair than anyone could guess. From this knowledge I judged that young i***t Voinderam had not obtained an opinion from the empress. Delia would not interfere in matters of the heart. But, as she was the empress, these were matters that were of concern to her.

After all, in the mating of noble houses coalitions formed and business was transacted and heads could be parted from shoulders.

I ventured again, attempting to sound as though I was fully apprised of the situation. “So no one knows where Ortyg has gone?”

“Where he has taken poor Fransha!”

“Now, Jilian,” I said in my reasonable voice. “Perhaps she went willingly. Perhaps they are in love—”

“Of course they’re in love! That’s why she went! And that’s why we have to get her back!”

I shook my head. I reached for the glass of Vela’s Tears. I sipped the strong red wine that comes from Southern Valka. I was all at sea again. These women...!

A kind of brain wave occurred to me then, and I spoke up with a firmer voice. “Call all the members of both households. Call all our chamberlains. Contact Naghan Vanki. Order a fast voller. Saddle a dozen zorcas and two dozen totrixes. Have the Emperor’s Sword Watch stand to arms — No.” I felt I’d gone far enough. I didn’t want the Emperor’s Sword Watch given unnecessary burdens, turned out of barracks at all hours, their training program interrupted. “No, cancel that last order.”

Delia saw through all that nonsense on the instant.

“You may think it all very funny, Dray. But it is serious. Ortyg and Fransha are passionately in love and the match is generally regarded with great favor—”

“Well, why—?”

“Because if they run off like this the families will never agree, old Larghos of Mavindeul, Fransha’s father, will turn against Ortyg Voinderam and make his daughter wed that Fridil Goss. Then you know what will happen.”

I did. My old antagonist, Natyzha Famphreon, with the wizened face and lush body would rub her hands with glee when she heard the news. She was a leading member of the Racter party, once the most powerful political force in Vallia, able to dictate to the emperors, and now sadly fallen away and confined to their locus of discontent in the northwest. After Turko had regained Falinur we had to deal with Layco Jhansi who fought the damned Racters to the north of him. Many men expressed the pious hope that they’d kill each other off before we had to march against them.

I looked down at the cluttered desk. A paper protruded from a file — a thin file, just opened — and on the paper two names were written out fairly. Weg Wegashtorio. Nath Karidge. The next file concerned the state of our airboats. We could buy none from Hamal, seeing Hamal was at this time our mortal enemy. We could not manufacture airboats ourselves, only our flying sailing ships. Embassies had gone down south into the Dawn Lands in the hope of buying fliers. I had to go to Hyrklana not just to find our friends; making deals to buy fliers was also on the agenda there. I sighed.

All these pressing problems of empire, and I was being entwined in the passions of lovers. A world might shiver and shake and empires totter and fall, but two foolish young people in love must take precedence.

Well, there is a justice in that, I suppose...

The other three people in my study were well aware of the network of agents — spies — I had set up distinct from the empire’s chief spymaster, Naghan Vanki, and his organization. Enevon had been an active participant in our plans.

So now Delia could burst out hotly, “We have worked hard up there in Mavindeul. The stromnate is ready to declare for us if they are guaranteed support. And old Larghos has no love for Natyzha, despite he holds his stromnate at her hands.”

A strom, the equivalent of an Earthly count, has certain powers. We had promised to make Larghos, Strom of Mavindeul, a strom in his own right with his own province if he threw in with us. The marriage of his daughter Fransha was a part of this, for young Ortyg Voinderam was the son of the Vad of Khovala, and Khovala’s southwestern border marched with that of Mavindeul. If everyone agreed, Mavindeul would rise, Khovala would march and we would send troops across the Great River to join in the attack from the imperial province of Thermin, whose governor just happened to be the father of Nath of Kochwold. It all fit perfectly.

And now passions could not wait, and the couple had eloped.

Enevon coughed. “If the Lady Fransha is married off to Fridil Goss, a puppet of Natyzha Famphreon’s, Mavindeul will not dare declare for us, for they will get no support from Khovala.”

“I suppose,” I said in a vague way, “Khovala will not support, anyway, seeing their vad’s son has the girl he wants?”

“It will not rest with them. Mavindeul holds the key.”

A vad is the rank of nobility below a kov, which roughly equates with a duke, and a vad is very high on the tree of rank and power and prestige. Old Antar Voinderam wasn’t going to stick his neck out for nothing, and nothing would be all he would get if he tried to march against Natyzha Famphreon without the support of Mavindeul. Rather — he would get something — a great many dead soldiers in his forces.

The situation was perfectly simple. It was not at all complicated. After all, this was just the kind of problem your real emperor would tackle and solve twice a day before breakfast.

But — I wasn’t a real emperor — at least, not in my own eyes. I was just plain Dray Prescot, tackling a colossal task with all the wits and cunning I may be blessed with. The sooner I could wrap up this business of liberating the Empire of Vallia and hand the lot over to my son Drak in working order, the better.

By Zair, yes!

And together with that, there was no denying the fascination of handling these problems. How did you perform the balancing act necessary to gain your ends? How did you please everybody? Well, that can’t be done, of course. There is a pull, a dark tide in men, that urges them to meddle with the lives and destinies of other people. We felt that we were acting for the right reasons in attempting to free Vallia from the hordes of mercenaries and slavers who had descended on the islands in the Time of Troubles. We believed that these people gathered together under the new flag of Vallia. The moment I suspected the tiniest suggestion of corrupting power — I’d be off, by Vox, off and away and out of it.

It is not necessarily true that absolute power corrupts; it does do so, lamentably, but it is not a rule that it must.

Anyway — how many men-in history have possessed real, true, genuine absolute power? Perhaps it is having only the illusion of absolute power that corrupts. I did know that the passions of young lovers were, if not more important than, at least certainly as important as, the devious political maneuvers we were forced to in our struggle to clean up the mess in Vallia.

Rather heavily, I said, “Send everyone suitable to try to trace Ortyg and Fransha. We can hope they have left a trail. I’ll go and see Antar Voinderam if he is still at his villa here. And I shall try to catch Fransha’s father, Larghos, before he departs.”

I closed the next file on the desk. It concerned the Opaz-forsaken zorca horn rot, a frightful business.

“I don’t like the idea of Larghos sending to Drak’s City to hire assassins.”