THE DEATH PLOT
Jadgor's faith in the action of the assembly proved justified, in fact.
Croft went before the representatives of the Tamarizian states that
very same night.
With Koryphu to precede him, telling of the meeting in the mountains
north of Cathur, the slaying of the flier by Kalamita's orders--the
swift retaliation of his fellow in simple fashion, he waited until the
Cathurian had lashed the minds of the men who heard him to a pitch of
sullen fury, then rose slowly to his feet.
"These demands bid for no consideration," he began and paused, laying
his hand on the hilt of his sword.
An outburst of swift acclaim greeted the words and was followed by
silence as he explained the object of his presence in Zitra--emphasized
the need of a messenger being sent north, and asked for their
sanctioning word.
Now and then he was interrupted by a question, but for the most part
he spoke without interruption. And at the end he cried very much as he
had cried in the public square to the citizens of Zitra:
"Grant me this, O representatives of Tamarizia--give me time to prepare
Tamarizia's answer to this coward's threat of a treacherous nation,
which, daring not again the shock of arms, seeks yet to win back her
lost prestige behind the tender bodies of a woman and her child. Grant
me the power to meet craft with craft, nor think that the signet given
to Koryphu was stripped from the hand of Naia of Aphur save by force,
in the treacherous hope that it might seem to support a spurious plea
from her that Tamarizia yield."
For a moment no one spoke after he had finished and stood waiting for
their answer, and then the man from Bithur rose.
"Nay," he cried, "not that Naia, daughter of Jadgor's sister, daughter
of Lakkon--not that Naia, who was wed to Zitu's Mouthpiece within Atla
of Bithur when the blue hordes of Mazzer captained by the brother
of this same Kalamita, and other men of his nation, lapped like the
waves of an unclean sea against Atla's walls. Not of such metal is her
spirit. Tamarizians, send this messenger north from Mazhur; let him
demand that Zollaria support or deny her woman agent's words."
"Aye--aye," came other voices.
Jadgor rose, his silver cuirass blazing. "Add to the message answer to
Kalamita's foul threat, that if aught befalls Jason, Son of Jason--aye,
or Naia, mother of Jason--ere parley is held on the matter, Tamarizia
waits but the knowledge to unsheathe the sword."
"Aye--aye," again a storm of voices answered his suggestion.
"A vote--a vote!" someone began shouting.
"Let Tamarizia's message be strong."
In the end, once the turmoil excited by the Bithurian and Jadgor had
in a measure subsided, a formal vote was taken, and Croft himself
was empowered to draft the message entrusting it to one of the
regular government couriers--men so employed for years and of trained
endurance. Well satisfied, he went back to the palace, worked half the
night in formulating it to his liking, interviewed the man who was to
bear it, and watched his galley sail out of Zitra and turn north at
dawn.
And now Himyra and his work behind its red walls called him. He lost
small time in answering its call. Once more his galley slipped forth
from the massive sea-doors. Zitra sank into the Central Sea--or seemed
to, slipping little by little beneath the sparkling waters with its
shimmering milk white walls.
Speed. He had used the word to Jadgor. And now he called upon the
captain of the galley for it--speed to Himyra. And he promised himself
speed on the task before him once he reached Aphur's ruddy city--such
speed as never before, not even in the heat of his preparation against
the Zollarian war, had he employed.
For three days he chafed against the surge and plunge of the galley,
the slither of each passing wave, until after dawn on the morn of the
fourth, the mouth of the Na was reached. Eight days had been consumed
on the journey--eight days wherein Naia of Aphur had lain in the room
under Helmor's palace--their light, save for a few brief moments with
each dawning, shut away from her purple eyes--growing ever darker and
larger in the white mask of her face.
* * * * *
Eight days. The thought stabbed Croft almost as keenly as a
dagger-thrust might have hurt. Eight days--and how much longer until
he finished his work. There were times when his course--the time of
her durance, seemed an infinity of days no less to him than to Naia
of Aphur herself--times when, save for his unshakable resolution, he
would have been tempted to wring his hands, to mouth at the trick fate
had played upon him, to curse--perhaps to shriek his protest at the
seemingly countless delays by which even in his labors he was faced.
And Naia of Aphur had not even labor to break the ordeal of her
waiting. On the morning of that eighth day Jason Croft, Mouthpiece of
Zitu, stood looking down to the swirl of the Na's yellow flood past the
hull of the galley with a somber face.
Presently he raised it. Before night he would be in Himyra, and he had
come back to the same conclusion he always reached. He squared his
shoulders and set his lips back into lines of determination. He turned
his face up the yellow river as though even then to catch the first
glimpse of its mighty walls. In Himyra he would work.
Work! It was the panacea for waiting--it was the answer to the riddle
that obsessed him as he himself had said more than once in considering
the matter--the means to Naia of Aphur's and Jason, the Son of Jason's,
release. He had forbidden word of his coming preceding him to Robur's
city. He wanted no trumpery of public welcomes, no ceremonials, however
slight, to delay his purpose now. Almost before the galley had tied
fast to the quays he left it, and threw himself into his task.
He gave himself wholly to it. He appeared unexpectedly that afternoon
in the shops, the forges, learning that Robur had not been idle, with a
mounting satisfaction, finally meeting Aphur's governor face to face on
one of his stops.
"Zitu!" cried Robur. "I knew not of your returning. Is it your spirit
come to mark my progress, Jason, my friend, or do I behold you in the
flesh?"
"Both," Croft answered. "Spirit and flesh united on the work before us,
Rob, at last."
"All is arranged?" Robur's eyes flashed with anticipation of Croft's
answer.
"Aye." Jason inclined his head. "There should be naught to distract
from our labors from now until the end."
"The end--_hai_--the end," said Robur. "Together we shall bring it
quickly, my friend."
Little by little each day the work advanced. The liquid fire was an
accomplished fact. Trusted men--the best educated in their line in
Himyra were engaged now upon its production, its preparation for the
final venture, as they filled it into the containing flasks.
The shapes of six blimps were slowly forming--huge, unwieldly seeming
bags constructed out of Croft's varnished cloth. Little by little the
means of putting the plan of rescue into execution was taking concrete
form at last.
Miles of rope and cordage were flowing out of the shops--were being
woven into the harness by which the cars should be swung beneath the
gigantic envelopes. Vast quantities of chemicals were being collected
toward the production of unlimited cubic feet of hydrogen gas.
Through all the seeming chaos Jason moved, ordering, directing, with a
fresh certainty of precision now, as something like a definite result
to all the days and nights of labor showed.
With him went Robur, aiding and abetting in all ways toward the
successful issue of the task. Gaya listened each night to a report of
the progress made.
During the war with Mazzer, Croft had perfected a dry-cell battery to
solve the ignition troubles of the armored moturs. Now with the liquid
fire in the process of manufacture, he turned himself to the problem
of constructing an electric flashlight, by which signals between the
blimps could be exchanged.
Days passed. A Zitran had elapsed since his return from Zitra.
At its end word came by wireless that Zollaria's answer had been
received--that Helmor consented to the naming of a Zollarian delegation
to discuss the terms of ransom--that a Tamarizian party would be
formed and sent north to meet them, with instructions to protract the
negotiations, turn the parleys between the Zollarians and themselves
into a useless war of words.
Croft read the message and wirelessed back his ratification of it. He
was very well pleased indeed. Let the matter be delayed yet another
Zitran as it might without exciting undue suspicion, since it would
take well-nigh half that time for the two delegations to be arranged
and get together, and he felt he would be practically prepared.
Even now six monster bags were nearing completion in the huge sheds
built by swarming workmen for their housing. The cars were ready for
attaching, the moturs to be installed. That ceaseless driving of a
double shift had crowded the work of two Zitrans into one so far as
results were concerned. Satisfied with the word from Zitra, Croft flung
himself into the last stages of his task with redoubled vigor. The
envelopes were inflated and floated clear of the ground.
Workmen swarmed about them on spidery trestles and stages, harnessing
each monster inside its network of securely knotted cordage, binding
fast with each intricate twist and turning as it seemed to the man who
ceaselessly watched them, some part of his desperate hope.
Motur-trucks brought from the shops of their fabrication the cages to
be hung beneath each tensely floating shape. Men sweating at their
labor, made them fast. The new moturs Croft had designed at first were
assembled, delivered and mounted. Propellers were set in place. Day by
day the first dirigibles of Palos grew nearer to completion.
Robur was inseparable during those days from Croft. He viewed the
monster devices with unbounded enthusiasm and amaze, vowing them the
marvel of their age, repeating over and over again his own conception
of the consternation they must cause in Zollarian minds when, without
warning, they appeared and hung above Berla's walls. Gaya drove down at
his solicitation on one occasion and gazed at the hugely bulking shapes
out of widening brown eyes.
Word came again from Zitra that the Tamarizian delegation had gone
north.
"Let them go," Croft cried to Robur. "Ere long shall Jason follow."
"Aye, by Zitu," the Aphurian replied, casting his eyes toward the
glistening gas-bags, beneath which the swarming workmen toiled.
* * * * *
Came a day when the last rivet was driven home, the last nut screwed
into place, when Croft distributed largess to the workmen and a vast
roar of human voices filled all the places where his latest creation
had been given birth. Croft stood with Robur and viewed them--the
mighty engines for the deliverance of his hostages to fate. His heart
leaped.
"With the sun," he said, turning to his companion, "let Himyra see
them. We make a test."
"I and thou," Robur returned, flashing his even teeth. "Dost remember
the dawn you mounted the skies in the first airplane, Jason--and,
returning, found Naia waiting to dare the venture with you? Now, by
Zitu, Robur goes to try these blimps himself."
Croft nodded. His hand crept out and closed on the other man's. Well he
remembered the day his words recalled. His return from the trial flight
in the plane to find Naia waiting beside the hangar in her russet
leather dress, and how as they rose between the Sirian sun and Himyra,
she had lifted her voice and sung in a pure abandonment of emotion.
Deep in his heart he vowed that these monsters of his construction
should bring her back to Himyra--give her the opportunity to sing again.
Yet, all he said to Robur was, "Aye, Rob, if you wish."
Robur's muscles gripped down upon his fingers. "And not only to the
testing, friend of Aphur, but even to Berla itself."
"Berla." Croft loosened his hand to lay it on Robur's shoulder, look
into the son of Jadgor's eager face. "It is not in my heart, Rob, to
refuse you anything in this."
Dawn came and Himyra gasped--gasped and stood with heads back-tilted,
staring upward at a mighty oblong bag that swung in majestic fashion
high above the walls. It hung there like a monstrous bubble, glinting
as the rays of Sirius struck upon it--drifting slowly as it seemed
before the winds of morning. And yet--even as they watched it, turning
and moving against the wind in steady fashion--silently--without
seeming reason, too high above the red, red city of Aphur, for the ears
of her people to sense how its moturs roared.
An hour before--under direction of Croft and Robur--it had been dragged
slowly forth from its concealing shed. With filled tanks its engines
waited the awakening touch of the engineers--men selected for this
first attempt at dirigible navigation from the aviation personnel by
Croft himself. A huge flash of the liquid fire, equipped with its
spraying device, was attached to the carrier designed to hold it. When
this was done Croft and Robur stepped aboard.
A hundred workmen--men who had labored to construct it--held the ropes
that still controlled it, ready to release it at a word.
"Let go!" That word came in the Mouthpiece of Zitu's voice.
Two hundred hands relaxed their hold upon the ropes. The blimp soared
toward the skies.
Himyra fell away beneath it, became a red gem on the yellow sand of
the desert, the breast of Aphur, pierced by the thread of the Na like
a sparkling, supporting chain. To the north and east the waters of the
Central Sea showed as bright as burnished silver under the first rays
of the sun.
Robur made no comment, said no word. He stood tight-lipped, gripping
the rail of the platform on which they rode with tensely muscled hands.
Croft ordered the engines started--and even so there was no feeling
that the mighty fabric moved. Rather it seemed stationary, the only
solid thing in all existence, while Palos and all it held dropped away
from beneath it, until Himyra's palaces and shops and houses became
things no larger than the toys of children, her people, pigmies moving
antlike on her streets.
Croft pointed beyond the walls.
"The desert," he said and watched while the blimp answered to the
manipulation of her engines--her rudder and vanes.
Then and then only he spoke to Robur for the first time. "The desert.
Recall you, Rob, the morn of the first motur in Himyra, when we drove
into it from Himyra's walls, and Lakkon's gnuppas bolted, and I
touched the hand of Naia of Aphur first?"
"Aye." Robur turned. Himyra was receding as the blimp followed her new
course. "By--Zitu--we are aiming for it again."
Croft nodded. "It is in my mind to try first the liquid fire upon its
scanty vegetation, where it can do small harm."
And after that he waited until they flew above a comparatively level
tract of country, covered by a low-growing shrub, that throve on scanty
moisture, before he stationed himself at the spraying device and opened
the valve of the flask.
Far below, the scrub blossomed suddenly into tiny points of color like
swiftly opening flowers--that grew, expanded, ran together in patches
and lines of quivering light, until the whole mass of vegetation
vanished, blotted out beneath a leaping sea of flame. A moment before
it had lain there unchanged, as it and the desert had lain practically
unchanged for years, and now it was a seething, smoking, blazing thing,
sinking down in a red destruction unloosed upon it from the skies.
Croft closed the tank. "Back to Himyra," he cried and turned a set
face to Robur, to find his features pale and rigid, his eyes narrowed
as though the vegetation beneath him, writhing in a swift dissolution,
were to his imagination the bodies of men and women caught beneath a
rain of death inside a city's walls.
"It is finished, Rob," he said, speaking in a voice that quivered
tensely. "As soon as the fliers are trained we go north."
Croft nodded. The strange intoxication of success was upon him.
"Ere night," he said, "we test the others." And then sinking his voice
for no ears save Robur's. "And tonight I shall look into Naia of
Aphur's eyes and tell her we are well-nigh prepared."
* * * * *
That day he entered his motur once the blimp had landed, drove to the
airplane hangars, and called for volunteers to man the other five ships.
Returning with the men selected he personally tested each blimp,
rising, maneuvering and returning before a constantly growing crowd,
which in the end required the use of a detachment of the Himyra guard
for its restraining.
Himyra was seething with an excitement augmented with the ascent
of each mighty glistening bag. A jostling throng pressed like an
impenetrable wall about the sheds, as each new monster was towed out by
its straining attendants, was manned by its waiting crew, and rose.
They watched and pointed, gesticulated, and cheered.
"Hail to the Mouthpiece of Zitu!" they roared whenever Croft appeared.
That night, eagerness possessed him when he sought his chamber and laid
himself down--an eagerness that had possessed him through the length
of the day--an eagerness to visit Naia and tell her that the thing was
done.
He closed his eyes and released the bonds of his spirit. North and
north he fled across the Central Sea where the giant shapes he had
designed and built would make their way ere long. North and north over
Mazhur, where the Tamarizian delegation had gone to meet that of the
northern nation. North and north to Berla, and to Helmor's palace and
the fetid room beneath it--to stand gazing with eager eyes on Naia of
Aphur's form.
Pale as death she sat there, waiting, waiting, as she had waited so
long, and she was speaking. "Jason--Jason," over and over she was
repeating the word to his son.
"Ja-son--" the baby lips repeated with a scanning effort. And Naia of
Aphur smiled and gathered him into her arms.
Jason--with a full heart Croft understood that she was teaching the
child the name of his father--that this word was one of the first his
tongue had known.
"Beloved--O my beloved!" he sent their meeting call to her.
She stiffened, threw up her head, and turned to Maia.
"Come, take the child, thou faithful one," she directed--waited until
the blue girl had complied and stretched her form on the couch, ere she
answered his summons, releasing her astral body to steal into Croft's
waiting arms.
For a moment he simply held her, and then he told her. "Beloved--the
time approaches. The thing is done."
"Done?" she faltered.
"Aye, finished wholly," Jason said, and felt her quiver--sensed the
fires of her astral being quicken--found the form he held suddenly
glowing.
"Now Zitu be praised." In all her slender length she pressed suddenly
closer to him. "Draws then so near the day?"
"Aye, by Zitu," he declared.
"I know not the meaning of it," Naia said, "but Maia lies daily on the
straw within the door of our chamber--and she had heard mutterings now
and then among the guard. Thy mention of Bandhor recalls it. Kalamita's
brother has come among them within the last few suns, if one may credit
their speech among themselves."
"Bandhor? To what purpose?" Croft questioned quickly, vaguely disturbed
that the Zollarian generalissimo should have held speech in person with
members of the palace guard.
"Nay, I know not. Maia but heard mention of his presence--some word
concerning Helmor's signet."
"His signet? Hai!" Croft found himself suddenly shaken. "Now may
Zitemku seize that woman, and Adita turn her favor from her!"
"Thou meanest--Kalamita?" And now Naia clung against him, not in
womanly yearning, but with the quick fear of a mother. "Jason--"
"Aye," he said tensely, "have you forgotten how she forced thy own ring
from thee--or the foul thing she planned, save Helmor had overruled
her? Now Zitu be thanked you have spoken of this in time since, in my
own way, those things she plans may be learned, and Helmor warned."
For now it seemed to him, that lost in the press of work in Himyra,
supported by the sense of security derived from the dreams he had
inspired in the brain of Zollaria's monarch he had indeed been blind,
and that while he had labored without ceasing, the woman who hated him
as only a woman of her type could hate, and Ptah, priest of Bel, and
possibly Bandhor also, had been busy with their schemes. Wherefore, it
was best that he learn quickly what those schemes embraced, what new
danger to Naia and Jason, Son of Jason, might be involved.
"Fear not, beloved. Zitu means not these spawn of Zitemku to prevail
against us--wherefore we are warned. Ga, thou art, priestess of the
Eternal Fire, to me--messenger of Azil have I been to thee, and shall
be again--but messenger of Zilla will I be to these plotters--making
all their plotting vain. Farewell, thou mate of Jason. He goes to learn
what they plan."
In a final caress, he sunk his mouth again to hers, seeming as always
when he kissed her in such fashion to draw the very essence of her
being to him. And then he left her, making his way swiftly out of the
palace and pausing where the fire urns flared before it, across a
mighty space.
* * * * *
Once more, then, it behooved him to bring himself into contact with
the woman Kalamita. He willed himself toward her, passed swiftly to
Bandhor's palace and failed to find any sign; paused, baffled for a
time before he recalled the scene he had witnessed between her and
Ptah, Bel's priest, in the latter's quarters in the temple. Then, where
better if she were plotting against Helmor, he asked himself, than in
that ebon-walled room.
Swiftly he sought it, and there he found her--and not only her, but
Bandhor, Ptah, and another, a heretofore unknown man.
The four were seated around Ptah's table, where flaring oil-lamps
partly dispelled the gloom, pricking out the intent masks of the
several faces, causing iridescent flashes of light from the jeweled
bands that circled Kalamita's arms, and broidered her garment's hem.
In a way that half light struck Croft as wholly fitting to the scene
wherein these four sat together and plotted against Helmor's reign.
For that they were plotting, the woman's first words made plain.
"It is to thee, Panthor," she declared, eyeing the third masculine
member of the party. "It is for thee to say whether thy cousin shall
hold Zollaria's throne. Twice have his plans to humble Tamarizia
failed, his efforts proved vain. Think not but the people say Helmor
has no more Bel's favor--wherefore Zollaria is no longer strong. So
then--a quick stroke and the thing is done."
"Aye--a quick stroke." Panthor nodded. He was heavy-set, not unlike
Helmor, his cousin, in a way, with full lips of a sensual turn and
closely cut hair, the stubble of which was blond. "But--regarding
this child. I question not the sincerity of Kalamita, yet were it
slain--even to gain Bel's favor, which none more than I admit is
needful, would not Tamarizia, according to her own words, descend upon
us with superior weapons and bring defeat to our armies again?"
"By Bel, has then Panthor so little faith in his favor?" Ptah exclaimed.
"Peace." Kalamita's red lips curled. "Your question is a man's
question, Panthor, and the question not of a man's heart, but his
brain. Think you Tamarizia means all she says--or speaks to gain her
ends. This Mouthpiece is a man--and Naia of Aphur is a woman--and
though a child be slain, still is she a woman and the mate of Jason,
and he has twice defeated Helmor's plans to gain. Think you the
child's death would change the heart of Tamarizia's strong man, or
that he would carry his threat far--were she kept safe from harm to be
surrendered once more to his arms?"
"Nay, by Bel!" roared Bandhor, striking the table. "My sister has
struck the mark in her words--with Bel's favor purchased--her oath
redeemed and the woman still in our possession, Tamarizia may well balk
a resort to arms. It remains then to get the child in our hands."
"My hands," said Ptah with an evil grin.
Bandhor nodded. "Aye, into thy hands, Priest of the Strong One--and
there is a way in which it may be done. Let Helmor's signet be
presented to the captain of the guard now placed upon him, and our ends
are gained."
Kalamita leaned half across the table toward Panthor.
"Thou knowest the device on Helmor's ring?"
"Aye," said Panthor slowly.
"And thou knowest some worker of stones?"
"Aye, Priestess of Adita." A tremor of understanding crept into
Panthor's tones.
Kalamita drew back and regarded him out of narrowed lids. "Were it not
possible to have him make what we need?"
"By Bel--" Panthor began, and stiffened under her glance. "Aye--so it
could be done. Yet time would be required."
"Time?" The woman shrugged. "Is Panthor so anxious then, to mount
the throne? Helmor plays into our hands in this in entering into
parley with the southern nation. Once we have the child he will seek
to regain him--to take from Bel what has been declared his own.
Then--Bandhor--is not brother of Kalamita, and captain of Zollaria's
men for nothing--Bel's own priest shall declare Panthor emperor in
Helmor's place and Bandhor shall support him. How say you--is it not
well planned?"
"Aye," said Panthor thickly. "Aye, Priestess of Adita."
"Then let Panthor see Helmor's sign cut on a stone." Kalamita rose.
"And let him place it in Bandhor's hand when it is done. Ptah, build
you the fires--let them be ready for the torch at the appointed time.
Kalamita's oath to the Strong One shall be redeemed. How long, Panthor,
before thy part shall be done?"
"Ten suns, perchance twelve," said Panthor, he and Bandhor also rising.
"See to it." Kalamita turned to leave the room. Ptah moved his heavy
body to set the door open before her, and Bandhor joined her. They
passed out and were gone.
Ptah turned back. "Hail emperor, favorite of Bel," he said, bending his
heavy neck to incline his head to Panthor.
Panthor's expression changed. He drew himself up to his fullest height.
Already he seemed to sense the weight of authority upon him as he
answered. "By Bel--O Ptah--thou and I together once Helmor sits no more
upon the throne."