Masks of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Page B

halted.
     
    Advancing along the road toward us came the first of the incoming produce from the country, heavy wagons drawn by shaggy old quoffas like perambulating hearth rugs, carts hauled by low-slung mytzers with their multitude of legs. Country folk walked along, children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, the men in simple country clothes of smocks and tunics, some with shaggy jerkins, smaller editions of the quoffas they guided.
    Pompino at the head of our people passed.
    I said: “Do you go on, Pompino. I’ll join you later.”
    “Oh?”
    “Aye.”
    He looked at me. He’d experienced my desires to go off by myself before. He brushed up those reddish whiskers and started to say something, thought better of it, and yelled at the crew: “Step lively, there!
    We’ve a ways to travel before we reach breakfast!”
    As Naghan the Pellendur reached me I said to him: “Naghan. Would you have one of your lads carry my bundle, please? I’ll claim it later, and intact, I trust.”
    “Of course, horter Jak. But—?”
    I was stripping off the blue tunic and cut-off trousers. In their place I wrapped a length of green cloth about myself, unblinking of the color. An old brown blanket went over my shoulder in a roll. I handed Naghan the rapier and main gauche. He took them, mightily puzzled. I handed him the sword, the straight cut and thruster, and he took that, too. Over my right hip was sheathed a sailor knife. That would suffice.
    Perhaps I’d find a stout stick from a hedge.
    The Fristle guard Deldar said: “Horter Jak. Do you know what you are doing?”
    “Yes, Naghan, strange as that may seem. Now go along with your people. I’ll catch you in time for dinner.”
    He shook his catlike head, and tugged his whiskers, but he yelled at his men and off they went along the road.
    In the shadow of the stand of trees I watched them, searching for the form of Dayra. I did not see her. I frowned. A quoffa-cart creaked along toward me, loaded with what looked like cabbages. The man leading the animal chewed a straw and wore his hat pulled down. I simply fell in at the tailgate of the cart, and Dayra said, “And about time, too!”
    I refused to be discomposed.
    “Look, Ros, this is no place for you—”
    “They’re Vallians — and there are others who are friends besides Sosie—”
    “Yes, but—”
    “It is no use arguing.”
    So, in a kind of armed truce, we walked back to Pettarsmot where we had been imprisoned, fined —
    and not fed.
     
    She wore her own blanket in a kind of poncho, and had changed her russet tunic for a blue skirt and bodice. I saw I was going to have trouble with this smart daughter of mine if I wanted to sneak off in the future...
    She’d retained her swords, also, under the poncho.
    Going along quietly at the tail of the wagon we reentered Pettarsmot. The place looked no different, as indeed, why should it? We went along to the prison block and stopped outside to have a scout around.
    For all our casual attitude, this was not going to be easy.
    “Bash somebody over the head and ask,” counseled Dayra.
    With a little devil prodding me, I said: “Now if we had a carpet handy...”
    She stared at me. “I haven’t forgotten!”
    “Well, this is how we do it, then.”
    We found the fellow standing guard at a small side door. As we rounded the corner we both stopped.
    Dayra gasped.
    Out in the center of the parade ground lay the imposing if wrecked shape of a flying sailing ship of the air. Val Defender , masts trailing over the side, a raffle of cordage cumbering her decks, squatted like a child’s toy trodden underfoot by a careless adult.
    I brightened up when I saw her.
    “That’s more like it!”
    “What—?”
    “Grab this fellow and let’s get inside.”
    The guard went to sleep standing up and as I eased him to the ground Dayra slid the door open. Light from an open roof spilled down, revealing an empty corridor. We stuffed the guard into a corner, tied and gagged, and