THE SEEDS OF TREACHERY
[Illustration]
Otar, a warrior in the service of Vokal, a powerful and high-ranking
nobleman of the city of Ammad, was violently unhappy this night. His
sandaled feet beat an angry rhythm against the pavement in front of the
arched opening in the high stone wall about his master's estate. Thirty
paces one way, an about face executed with the military precision Vokal
demanded of his guards, then thirty paces back again, spear held rigidly
across his tunic-clad chest.
The velvety blackness of a moonless night weighted the street and
matched his mood--a blackness only intensified by the feeble yellow rays
of a lantern in a niche above the gate. Silently he cursed the captain
of the guards who had demoted him to night sentry duty, then he cursed
Vokal for his mad judgment in picking so heartless a captain to begin
with.
There was a sound reason for Otar's unhappiness. Only the day before he
had taken a mate--the incomparable Marua, daughter of one of Vokal's
understewards--Marua, whose exquisite blonde beauty and matchless form
had brought her a host of male admirers, many of them in high positions
in Vokal's service. Among them was Ekbar, captain of the nobleman's
guards; and therein, Otar knew, lay the reason why he was walking a
midnight post outside Vokal's sprawling estate. The thought of his
lovely new mate alone in his snug apartment in the guard's quarters
while he paced away the hours brought a fresh flood of curses to his
lips.
"Greetings," said a hoarse whispering voice behind him.
Otar, startled, whirled and leveled his spear in one rapid motion. "Who
speaks?" he growled.
An indistinct figure, muffled to the chin in a black cloak, was standing
in the street only a foot or two beyond reach of the questing spearhead.
"Fear not," said the harsh voice. "It is I--Heglar, nobleman of Ammad. I
am here to hold an audience with the noble Vokal. At his own invitation.
Here." He held out his hand from under the cloak and something gleamed
from the center of his palm in the faint light. "Examine this by the
rays from yonder lantern."
Cautiously, his heavy spear ready in his right hand, Otar took the
object and backed away until he could see it clearly. His careful
maneuvering was in line with orders, for attempts at assassination were
fairly common among Ammad's nobles in their ceaseless efforts for power
second only to Jaltor himself, king of all Ammad.
A single glance was all Otar needed. It was Vokal's personal talisman: a
small square of gold bearing on one side a peculiar design cut in the
soft metal. No humblest warrior in all Vokal's vast retinue who did not
know that design and his duties when faced with it.
He returned the talisman to the man who called himself Heglar and
stepped back, bringing his spear sharply to a saluting position. "You
may pass, noble Heglar. This path will bring you to a side door of
Vokal's palace. The guard there will see to it that you are taken to
him."
* * * * *
Vokal stood on a small balcony of stone outside his private apartment on
the fourth level of his huge, many-roomed palace. He was a tall slender
graceful man in his early fifties, with a narrow face, small cameo-sharp
features and a languid almost dreamy quality in his movements and
expression. Prematurely gray hair waved back from a brow of classical
perfection, and the hand he lifted to smooth that hair was narrow and
long fingered and beautifully kept. He was wearing the knee-length tunic
common to all men and women of Ammad, but his was of a better weave, its
belt of the same material was a full two inches wider and trimmed with
the purple of Ammadian royalty.
From this elevated position he was able to look out over the northern
section of the city of Ammad--a vast orderly array of box-like stone
buildings, some gray and some white, rising one to three floors above
the streets. Fully five miles from where Vokal stood was the northern
section of the great gray wall of stone encircling the city, and the
buildings became smaller and simpler in design the nearer they were to
that wall.
A man's position in Ammad was determined by how near the city's center
his dwelling stood. At the metropolis' exact center was the mammoth
palace of Jaltor, king of Ammad and supreme ruler of a vast country of
jungle, plain and mountain extending a moon's march in all directions.
Like Vokal's own palace, Jaltor's rose from the crest of one of the
city's five hills; but the king's, in addition to being at the exact
center of Ammad, stood on the highest of them all. It could be seen from
the windows on the opposite side of Vokal's palace--the principal reason
his personal quarters were here. Sight of that huge sprawling pile of
white stone, its roof six levels above the ground, was a constant source
of irritation to him.
A sound of soft knocking from behind him aroused Vokal from his reverie,
and he turned unhurriedly and re-entered the room.
The knocking was repeated. Vokal sank gracefully into an easy chair
covered with the soft pelt of Tarlok, the leopard, crossed his shapely
bare legs and studied the effect with approval.
Again the sound of knocking, a shade louder this time. "Enter," called
Vokal around a yawn which he covered with the tips of two fingers.
A door opened, revealing the rigidly erect figure and carefully
expressionless visage of an officer of the palace guard.
Vokal concluded his yawn. "Yes, Bartan?"
"The noble Heglar is here, Most-High."
"Excellent! Permit him to enter immediately."
The guard executed a sharp quarter turn and stepped back, allowing a man
swathed to the chin in the voluminous folds of a black cloak to push
past him into the room.
"Greetings, noble Vokal." The words came out in a hoarse croak that
grated against the host's sensitive ears.
"Greetings, noble Heglar." Vokal's smile seemed even dreamier than
usual. "Remove your cloak, please, and be seated.... Bartan, tell a
slave to bring us wine."
"At once, Most-High." The guard withdrew, closing the door softly.
Vokal's gray-blue eyes went to his guest and he smiled blandly. "I
trust all is well with you and the members of your family, noble
Heglar."
* * * * *
Stripped of his cloak, Heglar was revealed as a man of extraordinary
thinness and considerable age. The pronounced hollows in his cheeks and
a thin nose the dimensions of an eagle's beak, together with the rocky
ridge of an underslung jaw, gave him an emaciated look. But his body was
straight as a young sapling, his shoulders for all their boniness were
surprisingly broad, and his light blue eyes were alert and piercing.
He ignored his host's solicitous inquiry concerning his family and bent
and unknotted the thongs of his heelless sandals. Kicking them off he
leaned back in his chair and, sighing with relief, placed his bare feet
on a low stool in front of him.
If he caught the faint wrinkle of disgust about Vokal's shapely lips he
ignored it. "You'll forgive an old man for humoring his feet," he
croaked. "I'm not accustomed to long walks these days."
"By all means give them comfort."
"I tried to learn from your messenger the reason behind your asking me
here tonight. He would tell me nothing--simply gave me your message,
handed me your emblem piece--" he dug a hand into a pocket of the tunic,
took out the square of gold and handed it to Vokal--"and left without
another word."
"You could hardly expect one of my men to do otherwise," Vokal said
frostily.
"One never knows." The old man settled himself more comfortably in his
chair. "I was curious and a little doubtful at the interest of the third
most powerful man in all Ammad--especially when his interest concerns
the most impoverished and least influential noble of that same country."
There was a soft knock at the door and a slave girl slipped in, placed a
tray of wine and two goblets on a low table between the two men, and
went out as silently as she had entered.
Heglar's eyes followed her trim figure until the gently closing door
shut off his view. "Believe me," he said, watching Vokal fill the two
goblets, "there was a day I had slaves like that one. Many slaves--and
more warriors than any noble in all Ammad. Only old Rokkor himself,
Jaltor's father, had more of them."
He sighed gustily. "But that's all in the past now. My only regret is
that I must leave my young mate and our two children with little more
than a roof above their heads when I die."
"Your love for the gracious and beautiful Rhoa is well known throughout
all Ammad," Vokal murmured, handing his guest one of the filled goblets.
The old man gulped a third of its contents before taking the container
from his lips. "And why shouldn't I love her?" he demanded harshly.
"Thirty summers my junior, lovely enough to have her pick of men--and
she chooses me. Forty summers I spent with my first woman--and what a
sour-faced old hyena _she_ was--and not a child to show for it. Now we
have two, Rhoa and I--and I have nothing to leave them but a miserable
hovel in place of the palace I once owned."
Vokal sipped daintily from his goblet and let the garrulous old man
ramble on. Let him go on bemoaning his lowly position and living over
his past glories. Every word of it would make the old one more agreeable
to Vokal's proposition.
The nostalgic refrain went on until Heglar had emptied his first
glass of wine and extended it for a second helping. This time he
spilled a few drops on the floor as a voluntary offering to the
God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud--a tribute given usually only
during formal dinners--gulped down several swallows of the alcoholic
grape beverage, then turned those sharp eyes on Vokal.
"But," he said hoarsely, "you didn't ask me here to talk of the old
days. What do you want of me, noble Vokal?"
* * * * *
There was a short period of silence during which Vokal appeared to be
making up his mind. Wavering light from candles set in wall brackets
about the long, richly furnished room gave a lean, almost vulpine cast
to his calm face and a glittering sparkle to his cold eyes. Finally he
said:
"I want to make you a wealthy man again, Heglar."
The hand holding the wine goblet jerked involuntarily and some of the
wrinkles in the aged face seemed to deepen. "... Why me?"
Vokal smiled dreamily. "Right to the point, eh, Heglar? It is one of my
reasons for selecting you."
"Hmm." The old one looked down into his half-empty goblet to hide the
sudden gleam in his eyes. "Tell me more of these reasons for wishing to
make me rich."
"The list is long," Vokal said graciously, "so I shall give only the
principal ones. First, it is well known throughout all Ammad that you
are a man of your word--that once you give a pledge nothing in this
world or the next could force you to go back on your word."
Heglar scowled. "One of the reasons I am a poor man today!"
"Secondly," Vokal went on, "it is reported that you are a walking dead
man, that you have only a few moons left to live because of the sickness
in your throat." At the other's startled expression he waved a languid
hand. "It is common knowledge, noble Heglar; your physician is a
talkative man."
"Thirdly," he continued, his voice calm, almost indifferent, "your long
and honorable career as a mighty warrior proves you a man of great
physical courage, and you are still strong and active enough for a
dangerous task."
A wry smile touched the old man's lips. "Then I am expected to earn this
wealth you are offering me?"
"Of course. I am not noted for being a charitable man, noble Heglar."
"... Are there other reasons?"
"Lastly," Vokal said imperturbably, "as a nobleman you have the freedom
of Jaltor's court and may come and go there as you please."
He looked sharply at the older man as he finished speaking and for a
long moment they stared into each other's eyes in silence.
Heglar was the first to speak. "Now that you have listed my
qualifications, what use do you expect to put them to?"
Vokal bent forward and fixed him with his penetrating gaze. "I must call
upon the first of them before this conversation can go any further. Will
you give me your solemn pledge that not one word of this will go beyond
the two of us?"
"... Yes."
"Good. I want you to forfeit the few remaining moons of life left to
you."
Heglar blinked. It was the sole sign of emotion aroused by that
startling declaration. "Those few moons are priceless to me, noble
Vokal," he said, a faint smile hovering about his lips.
"I am prepared to pay heavily for them."
"You would have to.... What do you want me to do?"
Vokal leaned back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers
lightly together, looking over them at the old man. His eyes had gone
back to being dreamy again. He said:
"I want you to _attempt_ the assassination of Jaltor, king of Ammad!"
The breath left Heglar's lungs in an explosive gasp. "What madness is
this!" he cried hoarsely. "Why do you want Jaltor dead? Certainly his
death would not better your position as a noble in the court. His son
would take the throne; and even if something happened to _him_, his
sister would be next in line. Are you planning to do away with the
entire royal family, noble Vokal?"
Vokal was shaking his head. "I'm afraid you did not understand
me, my friend. I said that I wanted you to _attempt_ Jaltor's
assassination--not to kill him."
"This makes no sense to me!"
"It is very simple. I want you to attend one of Jaltor's morning
audiences within the next day or two. Work your way close to him, draw a
knife and make a clumsy attempt to stab him. But be sure you fail. The
guards will overpower you instantly; and when Jaltor demands to know why
you tried to kill him, refuse to answer other than to hint that you were
not alone in the plot."
"Knowing Jaltor as we both do, he will order you put to torture in an
effort to learn the facts. Endure that torture as long as you possibly
can. Then blurt out the name of the man who hired you."
Heglar was watching him through narrowed eyes. "I'm beginning to see the
light," he said dourly. "The name I give him will be that of the man you
are really after."
"Exactly."
"Whereupon I will be put to death."
"Jaltor has never been famed for his leniency, noble Heglar."
* * * * *
The old man drained his goblet of wine and put it on the table with a
steady hand. "At least he is a just man. He would punish only those he
believed implicated in the plot; my family would not be persecuted." He
seemed to be speaking to himself. "Rhoa would be a wealthy woman and my
children would never know want or hardship...."
His eyes came slowly up to Vokal. "My price will be one thousand tals!"
It was a staggering amount--the equivalent of twelve thousand young male
slaves--but Vokal never hesitated. "I will pay it, noble Heglar," he
said quietly.
"In advance."
"As you wish. I need no assurance beyond your word that you will carry
out the exact terms of the arrangement."
Heglar sighed. "You have my word.... What name will Jaltor's torture
wring from my reluctant lips?"
"That of the noble Garlud."
"Oho!" Heglar nodded in tribute. "That clears up the picture. Garlud is
second only to Jaltor as the most powerful man in all Ammad. With him
out of the way, you, as the next in line among Ammad's noblemen, will
take Garlud's place and all the benefits that go with it. I congratulate
you, noble Vokal, on your shrewdness."
They filled their earthen goblets and drank. After a moment Heglar said,
"There is one drawback to your plan, my friend. I hesitate to mention
it, for a man as thorough as you has doubtless anticipated that flaw and
taken steps to overcome it."
"No man is perfect," Vokal said equably. "To what do you refer?"
"Garlud has a son. As is our custom he will inherit his father's
position and estate even though Garlud is executed for treason."
"And if the son is dead also?" Vokal said silkily.
"So you _have_ thought of it! I might have known. In that case, since
Garlud's mate died over a moon ago, his wealth returns to the State,
except for the palace which is given to the next nobleman in line."
"Precisely."
"Uh-hunh. Do you know for sure that Garlud's son--let's see: his name is
... ah--"
"Jotan."
"Of course. A fine young man too--as I remember him. You're sure he's
dead?"
"If not, he soon will be."
"But he is not in Ammad, I understand. Didn't he make a trip to Sephar,
Vokal?"
"He is due back within half a moon at the earliest."
"How will you handle the matter when he arrives at Ammad's gates?"
Vokal smiled his dreamy smile. "He will not arrive at Ammad's gates, O
Heglar! The day you attempt Jaltor's assassination a party of my most
trusted guards will leave Ammad to intercept Jotan and his men. Their
orders will be to leave not one of them alive."
"It is clear that you have thought of everything!" The old man gulped
down his wine and stood up. "It is late, and at my age I need a great
deal of sleep--especially if I am to be tortured by Jaltor's experts in
that line! So, if you will pay me my thousand tals, noble Vokal, I shall
leave you."
"Of course." Vokal rose smoothly to his feet, went to the door and
summoned a guard outside. "Arouse Yodak and instruct him to bring a
thousand tals to me here."
"At once, Most-High." The guard saluted and went quickly down the hall.
Heglar was shaking his head admiringly. "You take some long chances,
Vokal!"
The gray-haired nobleman glanced sharply at him. "What do you mean?"
"This matter of your guards calling you 'Most-High'. That is a mark of
respect given only to kings, you know. I doubt if Jaltor would approve
of your appropriating it to your own use."
* * * * *
The other's blue-gray eyes seemed to film over. "Kings have been known
to die, noble Heglar--and at times the ranking nobleman takes his place.
One must prepare for every possibility."
"Even to having one's guards form the habit of saying Most-High, eh?"
The arrival of a small frail-bodied old man in hastily donned tunic
ended the conversation. He was bearing a small cloth bag which gave off
the sounds of clinking metal.
"The thousand tals, Most-High," he quavered, holding out the bag.
Vokal took it and dismissed the man. "... Would you care to count them?"
he said upon placing the bag in Heglar's hands.
"It is not necessary," the old man said, then smiling, added: "You need
my specialized services too badly to cheat me!"
Vokal summoned a guard and instructed him to appoint several warriors to
escort the old man safely to his home, as robbery under cover of night
was far from unusual on Ammad's numerous streets.
When the door had closed and Vokal was alone once more, he returned to
his chair and filled his wine cup. "A thousand tals," he mused.
"Heglar's assistance comes high indeed. But let him fondle them for a
little while before they come back to me--along with the lovely Rhoa. I
wonder what the old man would say if he knew his mate has been my
mistress these past three moons!"