The Quest of Kadji Page 5

  “You mean, today’s date, surely! For dawn is not many hours away, and the folk of Khôr reckon a day as beginning one hour past midnight, do they not?” urged Kadji.

  “Very well, then, today’s date, surely, but why do you ask all of these questions …”

  Grim purpose burned in the boy’s clear bright eyes, and determination could be seen in the firm set of his jaw.

  “You are in my debt, are you not, Akthoob, for that I saved you a beating from the hands of that kugar bully, Jashpode, and mayhap saved your life, indeed?”

  “Yes, yes, to be sure, young sir, but I do not—”

  “I like it not, that I must force you to endanger yourself, old man, but my cause is very urgent, and as I see it we shall not be any great hazard, if all goes well. But now I fear I must ask you to absolve yourself of your debt to me, by doing me a favor …”

  “A favor? What favor, young sir?” Curiosity glittered in the slant black eyes.

  In short words Kadji answered him and watched the curiosity turn first to consternation, then astonishment, and finally—to terror.

  vii. The Double Impostor

  SURPRISINGLY ENOUGH, it proved no great task to enter the Khalidûr. True, the bridges that spanned the moat, and the gates and portals through which they must passed, were under very heavy guard, and those guards were not the burly, red-faced Rashemba knights (most of whom, Kadji learned, had been brutally massacred during the first swift, crimson hours following the assasination of the Emperor, and those survivors now disarmed, under guard, or fled) but nervous, truculent kugar hirelings.

  The odd thing was that one glance at their pass sufficed to win them past guardpost after guardpost, and generally without any questioning at all. Kadji, garbed for this expedition in sober robes and betraying no signs of either his true Kozanga identity or his assumed Ushamtar guise, had frankly expected keen questioning to expose the falsity of their purpose. And while he did not expect arrest, he would not have been surprised had the guards at the very first checkpoint brusquely turned them back, refusing to let them pass.

  In preparation for this he had bidden the old wizard to clothe himself inmost unwizardly raiment: sober and nondescript, but expensive garments in good taste.

  As it was, their pass,—after all a valid one,—saw them through the hazardous moments of scrutiny and ere long they stood within the vaulted halls of the Khalidûr, and both of them could begin to breathe again.

  The explanation of the miraculous ease whereby they had passed the sentinels of the Khalldûr was simple. A dynasty had fallen in the first hours of dawn; and now, in the earliest hours of morning, a new regime was being put together. Hundreds of people were streaming in and out of the royal fortress, important kugar lords bound for council meetings, young lordlings, boys, messengers and the like, scurrying back and forth with screeds and notes, commands and memoranda. No individual with a proper pass could safely be stopped for questioning, for no guard could be certain—in this uneasy and disquiet time—whom he could offend with impunity. The most insignificant-looking fellow might by tomorrow wield terrifying powers of life and death over the remnants of an empire. Hence they passed through swiftly.

  The immense pile of the ancient Khalidûr was murmurous with sound, whispering conversations in the corners, the footsteps of hurrying pages and message-bearers, the bustle of important lords. In the busy throng no one bothered even to notice the presence of two unfamiliar faces, here where so very much was new and where so many faces were those of strangers.

  Hardly caring to risk stopping a passerby to ask him the way, Kadji and old Akthoob found their way through the shadowy and labyrinthine ways of the vast fortress by a combination of lucky accident and inspired guesswork. Without wasting too much of their time, they gained the entrance of the great Throne Hall at last.

  For the rest of his life Kadji never forgot that moment. And yet, oddly enough, he could hardly remember the hall itself, one of the wonders of the world, with its soaring columns like a forest of stone trees, its stupendous dome, its glistening and mirrorlike pave of slick black marble. From the moment they stumbled upon their goal his attention was riveted on the thing that lay under a scarlet-and-gold cloth at the foot of the throne itself.

  The throne—as for it, he spared hardly a glance at the glorious and immeasurably ancient seat of imperial power. True, it was fashioned entirely of pure and solid gold, and contained in itself the ransom of a province; true, the hand of some long-dead genius had lavished a lifetime of skill in the fashioning of it, for it was formed into the likeness of a coiled and glittering dragon whose arched wings rose enormous, and whose uplifted head was a snarling and terrible fanged mask of ferocity with eyes that glistened like orbs of flame. Two gigantical fire-rubies were those eyes, and their like the remainder of all this world could not afford. But Kadji saw it not, the Dragon Throne, for his eyes were fixed upon that which lay at its foot, on the lowest of the nine tiers of the dais whereupon the throne stood.

  A young woman was bending over the covered body as the two entered the hall, and Kadji seized his companion’s arm and shoved the old Easterling wizard into the shadow of a column from which they could watch unobserved.

  The woman drew back the torn tapestry a little as if to reassure herself that it was truly the dead Emperor who lay there. For a long moment she looked, ignored by the guards who stood about the throne with stolid and indifferent faces. Then she drew up the cloth again and turned away to make her way swiftly and purposefully out of the hall.

  As she glided away her path took her directly into the glare of gold light from massed candles, and Kadji sucked in his breath with amazement and wonder. For it was—Thyra! The mystery girl he had glimpsed many days ago, disguised as a wandering Perushka lass, in the little village of Nabdoor—the girl he had seen but recently borne through the streets of kingly Khôr like a princess!

  What was the secret of the flamehaired girl who so often crossed his path? The boy’s tanned face settled grimly: he must face one mystery at a time. And so he but watched helplessly as the strange young woman left the Throne. Hall and vanished from his view.

  Then, with the nervous wizard at his heels, Kadji rapidly crossed the length of the hall and approached the throne and that which lay at its foot. The body was sprawled on the lowest step of the dais, and a rich tapestry had been hastily torn down to cover the dead thing. Kadji stepped nearer, despite Akthoob’s fearful admonitions; he shrugged off the restraining hand the little Easterling laid on his arm. He must make certain that this was in truth the body of the man all the world thought to be Yakthodah but be knew as Shamad the Impostor. He bent over it but he could not see its face because of the torn tapestry. Greatly daring, he reached out and drew aside one corner of the covering, exposing the head and breast of the corpse.

  Akthoob turned pale as milk and gestured feebly, but Kadji ignored him and bent closer, straining to see in the dim wavering light of distant candles.

  There were kugar mercenaries, stationed about the throne to guard the body, but they gazed stolidly ahead and paid Kadji no attention. It was naught to them who came to gaze upon or mock or revile the body of the Holy Emperor. In the general uncertainty of the times, they, like the sentinels at the gate, did not care to earn the enmity of any strange or unfamiliar person who might, ere long; turn out a man of power with a long memory.

  So Kadji turned back the blood-stained tapestry and gazed without hindrance upon the face beneath.

  It was cold and white as marble. In death, and death had robbed it of much of its beautiful perfection. The mouth was drawn in a frozen grimace of terror or outrage or surprise (who could say?) and the glazed, unseeing eyes stared up forever at the unknown face of the assassin.

  Many knives had done the fearful deed—or perchance but one knife, striking many times. For the corpse bore frightful wounds in breast and shoulder, belly, throat, and side. It lay in a pool of drying blood, sticky and glutinous and vile.

  Only one
wound was visible on the face of Yakthodah, and that was in the cheek. Part of the lower face was slashed and gory, and Kadji noted without saying anything that the wound had obliterated that portion of the face that had borne the scarlet leaf-shaped birthmark he had noticed yesterday when he bad watched this man riding through the streets on his way to a night of revelry—

  “Come; look,” he bade Akthoob.

  The old wizard shuddered and rolled up his eyes but did not dare make too vocal a protest with the guards so near. He shuffled timorously over to where the Red Hawk stood and peered down with frightened eyes at the gory horror beneath the cloth.

  “Is that Yakthodah?” the boy asked in a low whisper.

  “Of course—who else should it be?”

  “But is it? Look closely; you saw him yesterday as clearly as did I.”

  Akthoob shuddered and turned away.

  “Whoever he was yesterday, he is dead meat today … let us be gone from this accursed palace, young sir, I beg of you.”

  “In a moment. Look again … look at his jaws,” he said.

  “What of it? The Holy Emperor did not have time to shave before they … they … cannot we go now, while we yet have whole skins? What if the man be not shaved?”

  “Nothing, perchance,” frowned Kadji. “But somehow it seems odd that his beard-stubble should be so long. Yestereve, when we saw him riding by, the Emperor was cleanly shaven … but this is no one night’s crop of whiskers … it looks like this man had not shaved in two days, perchance three… . Had the Emperor anyone in his court who resembled him?”

  “Haii, gods, will you stand here talking when any moment we might be … well, and how should I know?” whimpered the wizard fretfully.

  “Think,” Kadji insisted. “You were in the Khalidûr at least once ere now, were you not, to be interviewed by the Chancellor so that you might obtain permission ‘to perform before The court. Saw you anyone who resembled the Emperor?”

  “Well … yes, now that you remind me of it, this humble person did indeed notice a minor functionary … a handsome youth with an extreme pallor and light eyes … he did look somewhat like the Holy Dragon Emperor. I remember thinking so at the time, although it had quite passed out of my mind …”

  Kadji replaced the tapestry and turned away, striding thoughtfully across the hall. The guards regarded him with stolid indifference. At one of the exits from the hall, he exclaimed suddenly, and turned, excitement lighting up his face.

  “What is it now?” groaned the Easterling.

  “Where is Zamog?” Kadji demanded fiercely.

  “Wha … the Dragonman? Why …”

  “Yes! The loyal monsterliug that went ever at his master’s back; surely, to have struck down the Emperor, the assassin would first have had to slay the faithful Zamog.”

  A strange light dawned in Akthoob’s slitted eyes.

  “Can it be … ?”

  “Yakthodah was slain right there, where his body now lies; and the body of Zamog the Dragonman should be hereabouts, if he is dead. But where is it? Nowhere! And why should they have bothered to carry away the corpse of the blue-scaled one? Kick it into a corner and forget it, let it lie—that’s how they would have thought, under the pressure of swift events! If Zamog is not here, it means the monsterling is not slain; and if Zamog is not slain …”

  Excitement flared in the face of Akthoob.

  “What is this you are saying! Does this humble one understand you to suggest …”

  “Yes. That is not the body of Yakthodah, but of another. The man you knew as Yakthodah is an impostor named Shamad. He yet lives; he has fled—doubtless, fled the city itself.”

  Kadji laughed, a boyish, reckless laugh, dangerous in this shadowy and murmurous place filled with eyes and ears. He cocked an irreverent thumb back at the hacked corpse.

  “That dead man is a double impostor … and Shamad lives!”

  Part Three

  TWO RODE EAST

  The world is wide—the seas are deep—

  A man must go a Warrior’s way!

  Let the women wail and weep:

  A man can die but once, they say!

  —Road Song of the Kozanga Nomads

  i. Questions and Answers

  THE SNOW had stopped and they rode back toward the House of the Seven Moons under a clear sky of hard wintry blue. And as they left the towering cliff of the Khalidôr behind, little Akthoob visibly relaxed and gradually became his talkative old self again. He plied Kadji with questions, and as for the Red Hawk, he answered them truthfully enough, for he felt he owed the old wizard that much courtesy at least.

  “Aii, then you are not a Free Sword of the Ushamtar, as this lowly one had been given to believe, but an assassin of the Kozanga Nomads, dispatched by your lordly chieftain to slay the false Emperor! This humble person begins to understand …”

  “To understand what, old man?”

  Akthoob shrugged, but there was a hint of laughter in. his slanted black eyes.

  “The manner in which you fought with the young lord of the kugars,” he explained. “This elderly one has seen the Ushamtar warriors in battle, and also, once, the noble-hearted heroes of the Chayyim Kozanga. And your mode and method of fighting, young sir, were purely Kozanga and in no wise similar to the Ushamtar …”

  Kadji winced a little at how swiftly and easily an observant eye had penetrated his imposture. “Let us hope the Highborn Cyrib Jashpode is not so observant as you, old man; for now that the kugar lords are in control of the city, it would not do for me to have aroused the slightest suspicions in the mind of one who already has a grudge against me!”

  “Ay, ‘twould not do, this one agrees,” the old wizard shuddered. Then, changing the subject: “But tell me, young Kadji (If this humble person may call you that by that name), what has become of the living Shamad? Think you that he has concealed himself in some corner or cranny of imperial Khôr? Surely he could not have fled the city—not with the kugars, his deadly enemies, in control of all gates?”

  Kadji frowned thoughtfully and chewed his lower lip.

  “Shamad must have been warned of the impending plot and substituted his hapless look-alike for himself; I would not put it past him to have forced the young functionary who so closely resembled himself to put on the imperial regalia—and then murder the unfortunate youth with his own hand, leaving the corpse for the kugars to see when they came to slay him. In the confusion, the kugars might well suppose others of their plot had already done the deed … but as to whether Shamad still dwells within the walls of Khôr or not, who can say? If he gambles on the swift arrival of his ally, Bayazin the High Prince, then he might well be hidden somewhere of the warren of the Khalidôr, awaiting the Rashemba host to seize the city … but methinks not. Shamad cannot know how long the kugar force can hold the city against Rashemba siege: I believe he has fled the city; he and his monstrous Dragonman servant; for, should the High. Prince break the kugars, the Impostor can always return in triumph from hiding.”

  “Aii, but how could, he get out, with his dearest enemies holding every gate and entryway?”

  Kadji smiled grimly.

  “The swordbrothers of my clan have a saying, old man—‘Gold is a key can open. any gate’—and Shamad must have amassed much of the beautiful metal during his brief regime! And not all of the gates of Khôr are huge and heavy-guarded … yesterday as I studied the gates, I noted a small, obscure, seldom-used postern gate in the eastern wall of the city; Shamad and his pet monster could have gained it with ease, through the labyrinth of alleyways in the eastern quarter. It gives out on the empty plain, to be sure, but Shamad could have ridden east a ways and then turned aside to take the Grand Chemedis Road, the mighty highway across the plains the merchant caravans use. I wonder if it could be thus… .”

  The little wizard shyly cleared his throat. “Ahem! Perhaps this small and insignificant person can assist you,” he suggested diffidently.

  “In what manner?”

  �
��This lowly one has some poor learning In the Art Sorcerons … to be precise, young sir, this person knows an art by which the minds of one or two men can be made blinded, fascinated, enrapt, and thereupon can be made to divulge any information they may possess …”

  Kadji frowned, “Does it work? We don’t want to arouse any suspicions …”

  Akthoob smiled affably. “leave it to this person—but come, we near our hostelry … what is toward?”

  Kadji had seen it, too, and reined his black Feridoon pony to a standstill. For a host of kugar swordsmen invested the courtyard of their inn, and among them he glimpsed the face of Cyrib Jashpodoe.

  ii. The Mind Jewel

  IN HASTY confusion, they turned their steeds aside into a narrow, cobbled alley and rode its length, emerging into the Street of Monoliths, which led in the opposite direction from the boulevard on which was the House of the Seven Moons.

  The little wizard was moaning with fear, and Kadji himself was tense and distressed. He could not be certain, but it looked as if the young kugar bully; now doubtless in a position of some influence, since his class had seized control of the regime, had returned in strength to have his revenge on Kadji for the humiliation he had received at the hands of the young Kozanga warrior.

  At any rate, Kadji did not intend to ride into the jaws of the wolf in order to ascertain his mood. Forewarned was forearmed, as the saying had it. He would take refuge elsewhere, but there was no reason the old Easterling wizard should any longer be involved in his troubles, and it might well prove dangerous to the old man should he be. So he suggested they part company here.

  Akthoob was not happy at the thought. He pointed out that the anger of Cyril, Jashpode might well be aimed at himself as well as Kadji, since his clumsiness had been the cause of the trouble. The Nomad youth could see the sense of the argument. They debated as to a possible course of action.

  Since Shamad had perhaps already fled from Khôr, according to Kadji’s theory, the boy no longer had any reason to linger in the troubled city. And to remain in Khôr might be to involve him in the civil war and the coming siege: he was anxious to be gone and on the road in pursuit of his wily and cunning quarry. Akthoob, too, had no wish to endure the miseries of the siege or the vengeance of the kugar bully, and would prefer to leave the dust of Khôr behind him. So they resolved to ride without further delay directly to the little unused postern gate whereof Kadji had spoken; if possible, they might discover that Shamad had, in truth, left the city by that means; at worst, they could leave the city themselves by that Ill-guarded way. Under the lowering sky of afternoon they crossed the city by means of alleys and side-streets and drew up before the postern where two sleepy kugar mercenaries, wrapped in fleece-lined cloaks, huddled about a small iron cauldron of smouldering coals.