“But Niamh has never before opposed the Rovers. Perhaps She fears us, and would align Herself with the White Wizard before we overwhelm Her green star. If so, the girl, Lurn, may be here as spy. Or assassin. Or as both.”
Drask swirled the wine, moodily peering into its glittering golden depths. Then he drained the chalice and tossed it away to clang hollowly against the tiled floor.
“Perhaps this girl knows Her purpose,” Drask growled.
“I doubt not she belongs to the Green Sisterhood, but, from her youth, she is doubtless a mere novice and probably would not be partner to her Mistress’ secret plans. However, in her we have the key that may unlock many secrets… .”
“Aye,” Drask growled. “If the key break not under the pressure of prying open the lock.”
Suddenly there came a cry, and the thud and scuffle of running feet pounding down the long corridor. The door burst open, showing the guard, Ygurm, his white and frightened face pale against brown scruff of beard and eyes bulging.
“Lord—Lord!”
Drask sprang from the bed. “What is it? Well, speak, man—don’t stand there gasping as if Calastor himself were at your heels. What is it?”
“The girl—”
“What of her?” With one stride Drask was across the room. Seizing a handful of Ygurm’s scarlet cape, he dragged the burly guard from his feet, shaking him as a chorn shakes a sand-rat, till his teeth rattled in his head.
“What’s happened? If you’ve let her escape, you dull-witted cur, I swear by Thaxis’ bowels I’ll have you spitted on your own standard! Speak!”
“She’s gone—gone—vanished into this air, before my eyes!” Ygurm stammered, cold terror flaming on his face.
4.
BAZAAR OF A HUNDRED WORLDS
FROM THE TOWER OF NINE GODS, the fourth trumpet rang, marking the hour. Aloft, both of the twin suns were ablaze in the morning sky … the fierce, yellow glare of Havory 36A mingling with the lesser pallor of 36B, her White Dwarf companion. A dark fleck against the vault of searing blue, a long horn-hawk circled tirelessly.
Below, in the bustling bazaar of Argion City, the foods and luxuries of a hundred worlds were for sale to any passerby whose pocket-pouch bore the weight of a few iridium dahlers. Here, fetched hither by green-robed Desert Pirates of the great mid-continental desert called The Central Sands, in long caravans of slow-pacing slidars with little iron bells woven in their golden manes to ward off desert goblins, were rich casks of Godilian musk-wine … superbly worked scimitars of ion-bathed steel from Zha the Jungle Planet, with green diamonds hewn from the airless rocks of The Dead Worlds set in their glittering hilts … rare idols of carven, scented wood from distant Clesh, the world the witches rule.
The vast bazaar was one stupendous visual feast, blazing in the terrific glare, mirror-bright blades and helms and gems shattering the sunlight into a thousand twinkling stars. Gorgeous bales of crystal-cloth, spun by the intelligent Arachnidae of Algol IV, shimmered like iridescent mist. From the distant Mnom, the Dark World, whose ebon coast never knew the benison of solar radiance but dwelt forever in the eternal shadow of the planet’s companion, came bundles of weirdly glowing flowers, phosphor-roses burning gold and green, fire-lilies of pallid cream and milky blue flame.
As Perion strolled at his ease through the crowded, noisy bustle of the great bazaar, he seemed without a care in the world. Hands tucked carelessly in his girdle, the little piper swaggered about, whistling cheerfully, doffing his cap to an occasional Star Rover, and tossing a copper or two of the Warlord’s bounty to leprous, persistent beggars who crouched in the shade like ragged, whining bundles of living filth.
He was very much the cock of the walk, this scrawny turncoat, basking in the full noon of Drask’s regal favor. And he looked much more prosperous today. The ingrained filth was gone from face and hands … in fact, those who passed near him discovered with wonder that the little beggar walked in a perfumed cloud of expensive oils and unguents. His tattered rags were gone, replaced by glowing fabrics whose rich hues clashed absurdly, glittering with gemmed amulets and charms.
Behind him, as he strolled with princely insouciance and scattered his largess in an orgy of shopping, plodded a patient little mule to whose plump back was strapped an enormous wicker hamper.
As ever, the most popular corner of the bazaar was the slave-block. A fat, perspiring Spican with plum-purple skin and weird white eyes presided there, displaying his captive lovelies to a gaping throng. Tonguth, stout and bristle-bearded, a horned helm and fur cloak adorning his burly form, stood with fat placid Abdekiel in the forefront of the crowd as Perion approached. The Rover chieftain was running a gleaming and appreciative eye over the naked limbs of an Amazon-breasted Dorovan maid of truly heroic proportions, as the Spican auctioneer was loudly bawling a descriptive recommendation of her charms (presumably aimed at those unfortunates in the rear who could not see, as few of the Dorovan’s features were obscured from sight by her translucent veil). The oily shaman looked on with cold distaste.
“Have you ever seen such a bosom, my masters? Behold!—like the Twin Moons of Urnadon. And flesh of such texture?—like white velvet, stroked to living warmth with a rod of fire-crystal!” He ran a plum-colored hand down one generously-curved flank, like a fat purple spider, and rolled his white eyeballs in simulated ecstasy. “Smooth as finest marble, but soft as a zephyr’s kiss. Nay, my masters, Cynomome of Spica guarantees your hands have never fondled such womanflesh in all your days. Come! Who will start the bidding—at three hundred dahlers?”
The spectators jostled nearer, ogling the woman’s Junoesque form lasciviously. Abdekiel eyed them with chill loathing.
“Revolting,” he hissed. “Men should control their lusts— not be controlled by them.”
Tonguth grunted, licking his lips as his hot eyes explored the naked slave lingeringly. Then he caught Abdekiel’s contemptuous glare of icy disgust—and snorted with sudden mirth.
“If yonder spectacle revolts your tender soul, shaman, why then do you linger, gawking with the rest? Take yourself off—go mumble your devotions over a rotting scroll, or burn a snake’s guts before some idol—and leave men to the pleasures of men!”
The shaman’s fat lips writhed in a sneering smile.
“I am not here to lust over this sickening display of animal appetites, but to find the missing dancing-slut your men let slip through their stupid fingers. And surely it has occurred to even your thick wits, my Lord Tonguth, that the least obtrusive means of smuggling a girl from this trader’s city—would be among a consignment of slaves?”
The burly Chieftain scratched his stubbled jowls, reflectively. “Clever,” he said in reluctant admiration. “Yes, it might work at that… .”
“Work? Certainly it would work. A touch of paint to change the wench’s coloring—dye for her ash-silver hair— and any spy, disguised as merchant or noble, could bear her from this city hidden amongst a few other human purchases, right past your very gaze, without a chance of detection.”