Masks of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Page A

seize a sword and so go red-roaring headlong into action...
    “And, fool, this?” The woman’s voice purred now just as a big cat purrs — sometimes — before he has your head in his jaws.
    “Nath said that was not real gold, lady, and you can see it is not real gold by reason of the bit of brass off behind the left eyehole which I saw at once and told poor Nath and he said, he said—”
    She sighed. She looked down.
    “Fined three gold Deldys for being a fool of fools.”
    “Why, thank you, lady.”
    Somebody at my back was having the devil of a job, spluttering and wheezing and fairly bursting to stop themselves from laughing out loud, long and uproariously.
    Grimacing away to the woman on the podium I got a quick glance back. Trust Pompino! He was in no case to step forward and take charge of the situation.
    But I misjudged my Khibil comrade. He shut his eyes, squeezed, opened them, took a whooshing breath, and then stepped out beside me.
    “My lady,” he roared out, very brisk, very correct, your upright paktun to the life. “We seek honest employment. Do you have any openings for guards here in Pettarsmot, for, my lady, we are all experienced mercenaries, and take our full pay as prescribed—”
    “The land crawls with mercenaries since the wars, fellow. Go along to that pest-hole in Bormark, Port Marsilus. They recruit an army there. They will welcome riff-raff like you.”
     
    “Thank you, my lady—”
    “Fined one gold Deldy—”
    “What for?” Pompino was outraged once again.
    “Fined two gold Deldys for speaking importunately to a lady, and two more for speaking improperly.
    Guards!”
    I tensed, but the guards merely ran us out of the chamber and into a narrow hall where they told us to wait.
    Presently slaves appeared carrying our gear. We checked it over, grumbling, and found the gold vanished. The lady Moincy had pitched it exactly — proving Murkizon right, after all — and there was not a single gold coin left to us.
    We belted up our armor and weaponry, and were all of us in a fine foul mood, I can tell you!
    “This place is worse than the Diproo-Blessed Tavern on pay night,” said Pompino. “The quicker we are out of here the better.”
    “Absolutely right,” I said.
    Dayra looked at me, her face rosy with repressed passion, and then she turned away. Her shoulder lifted against me.
    Surrounded by guards with arrows nocked and ready, we were escorted to the town gate.
    The town of Pettarsmot was just a town. The houses were neat and tidy, and no doubt the hovels were well out of the way, the folk were well-dressed and walked about with a brisk air of business. At the gate the towers were manned by guards. Flags flew. The Suns shone. Dust lifted. The hikdar in command waved us through.
    “On your way! If you come by here again you will no doubt be more circumspect.”
    “Oh,” said Cap’n Murkizon before anyone could let rip some noise, any noise, to drown him. “We’ll be back.”
    “And what does that mean?”
    “Why, horter,” I said, pushing forward and grinning that silly sly grin. “We did enjoy your night’s lodging
    — and your supper and breakfast.”
    His pudgy face blanked with rage, blood rushed under the skin, then Pompino shoved me aside and roared out: “One has to suffer loons these days, hikdar! Never fear. We shall bid you all remberee, and depart!”
    Poor Dayra was so wrought up I saw her press her hands together. Her fingers writhed and coiled one within another. I felt for her. But her life was precious, far, far more precious than anything else.
    All the same, if these idiots of Pettarsmot thought they had done with me, they were vastly mistaken.
    Now it chanced that I’d been wearing a plain blue tunic with short trousers cut to the knee. I strode off along the road, with the irrigation ditch alongside, until we’d passed beyond the first stand of trees where we were out of observation of the guards on the gate towers. Here I