Free Captive Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Page A

rivalries no doubt split the people of Drak’s City, as they do in most places, unfortunately, and Nath the Knife would have chosen the meeting place carefully. I went up and I was ready to leap aside, to draw and to go into action, or to fashion a smile and a Llahal and listen.
    The third door opened onto a narrow corridor that led via a rain-swept open walkway to the next-door building.
    I had not envisioned this.
    Barty could watch The Ball and Chain to no avail.
    I pressed on. I remained firmly convinced that the stikitches did not mean to kill me. All this rigmarole would not then have been necessary — I had dealt with assassins before.
    Two men in tatty finery met me at the far door and I was able to duck in out of the rain. They wore three purple feathers, all curved the same way, ostentatiously pinned to the breasts of their tunics. They carried their rapiers loose in the scabbards. Their faces, dark and lowering, with strips of dark chin beard, were entirely unprepossessing; but they greeted me cheerfully enough, evidently assigned merely as guides.
    “Laygon the Strigicaw?” I said.
    “He is waiting, dom. This way.”
    We went into the building and along dusty and unused passages to the far side. We descended a flight of stairs. The slope of the land here meant we were still one story above the street; but all the windows were covered with torn sacking.
    Mineral oil lamps illuminated the dusty, half-wrecked room into which I was ushered. Houses were often left to fall down in the Old City, or knocked down. Rebuilding was on an entirely casual basis.
    The air smelled musty. Dust hung in the beams of the lamps.
    A table had been pulled across a corner and a tall-backed chair positioned before it. At the table sat three men and one woman. All wore steel masks. Their clothes were unremarkable, save for the badge of the three purple feathers.
    My two guides indicated the chair and I sat down.
    For a moment a silence ensued.
    Then the woman said: “Llahal, Dray Prescot.”
    I said: “I do not like stikitches. You have asked me here. I am to meet Nath the Knife. Is he here, hiding behind a mask?”
    The man on the extreme left said in a voice like breaking iron: “I am here. But you will talk with Laygon the Strigicaw.”
    “Which one is he?”
    The man on the right said: “Here.” His voice sounded mellow, full of the rotundity of roast beef and old crusty port.
    “Well, Laygon, speak up.”
    “You are the Prince Majister of Vallia. The writ of Vondium and Vallia does not run in Drak’s City.”
    “I have never cared much for laws that cannot be enforced. Spit out what you want. I am due at the Temple of Opaz the Nantifer two burs after midday.”
    “We do not much go in for temples, here in the Old City,” said the woman. Her voice gasped just a little, as though she had difficulty in breathing. Maybe it was just the stale air. “And you had best keep a seemly tongue in your mouth—”
    ‘Tell me what you want, now, and stop this shilly-shallying.”
    Nath the Knife nodded his head, and the steel mask caught the lamplight. All the masks were perfectly plain, and covered the whole face. I looked at the other parts of the bodies of these four, studying their hands, the way they held themselves, the angles of their heads.
    ‘Tell him, Koter Laygon.”
    “The position is, Dray Prescot, the bokkertu has been signed and sealed upon you. You are accredited a dead man and due for the Ice Floes of Sicce.”
    “I think twelve of you tried, and there were twelve holes in the canal. I, too, can write a fine bokkertu.” The word bokkertu, as you know, can mean any number of legal arrangements.
    Laygon plunged on, and if he grew warm, I, for one, felt pleasure.
    “I have taken out the assignment upon you. You are my kitchew. But—” He paused.
    The chill menace of the situation was inescapable.
    These men were assassins, dangerous, feral as leems. They would unhesitatingly kill — but they liked to get paid