SITAB'S MISTAKE
As the sound of knocking rang through Vokal's private apartment, Dylara,
crouching on the small balcony off the central room, felt her spirits
plummet to a new low. Given another few minutes of grace and she would
have been out of this cul-de-sac and on her way to freedom.
Again came the knock, louder this time. She heard a muttered exclamation
from the bedroom, then Vokal, tying the belt of his tunic, crossed
quickly to the corridor door.
"What do you want? Who is it?" he called, impatience strong in his
usually calm voice.
"Your pardon, Most-High," said a humble-sounding voice, "but a visitor,
bearing your personal talisman, insists on seeing you at once."
"It must be that fool Sitab," Dylara heard the nobleman mutter. He threw
open the door, then stepped back suddenly as the cloaked form of a woman
pushed her way into the room.
"Rhoa!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"I want to talk to you. Send the guard away and close the door." Her
voice, deep for a woman, sounded muffled through the folds of cloak
shielding her face.
Vokal obeyed, and when the door was shut she slipped from the wrap and
dropped it across the back of a nearby chair.
She was a woman past thirty, taller than average and beautifully formed.
Her hair was a dull black and she wore it long, framing the delicate
features of her olive-skinned face. Her eyes were large and very black
and at this moment there was anger in them.
"What are you doing here?" Vokal said again.
"It is fairly simple," she said imperiously. "I am tired of waiting,
Vokal. For half a moon now old Heglar has been missing. I do not doubt
for a moment but that he is dead. Why should we delay this thing any
longer. You promised me that once the old fool was dead I could take my
rightful place as your mate. I say the time for that is now!"
"But you don't understand, Rhoa. To acknowledge our love now would play
directly into Jaltor's hands. Once our names are linked together he will
realize Heglar attempted to assassinate him because I hired him to do
so."
"I have given this a great deal of thought," Rhoa said coldly, "and I
think you're being overly cautious. Let the good people of Ammad talk;
the mere fact that we take no trouble to conceal our love will prove to
them you had no hand in old Heglar's disappearance."
"You're not making sense!" Vokal cried. "The minute Jaltor hears we are
together he will put enough of the threads in place to see the real
picture. He will guess that it was I who hired Heglar to attempt that
mock assassination in an effort to usurp Garlud's position in Ammad."
He threw his hands wide in a gesture of despair. "In the name of the
God," he pleaded, "don't upset everything this short of success! Go back
to your home, Rhoa. Give me a few suns--seven; no more than seven--and
I promise you I will have things worked out the way we both want them.
Do this for me because I love you and you love me and we can be together
without fear of Jaltor."
"How can you know seven days will be time enough?" she asked doubtfully.
"In a few minutes I am expecting a visit from Sitab, a high-ranking
guard of Jaltor's court," he explained. "He is in my employ, secretly,
and will do as I wish. I shall instruct him to learn if Heglar and
Garlud are held in the pits beneath Jaltor's palace. If they are, he
will arrange the deaths of both; if they are not there we can assume
both are already dead and act accordingly. But first I must _know_,
Rhoa."
* * * * *
She stood there, erect and beautiful in the shimmering radiance of
candle light, indecision plain in her face. "When will this man Sitab
get the information for you?"
"Tonight! Between the hour I discuss the problem with him and the hour
of dawn. You will do this my way, Rhoa?"
A discreet knock at the door interrupted her reply. Vokal, sudden alarm
plain in his face, stiffened. "Who is there?"
"The guard, Most-High," said a voice, muffled by the planks. "A second
visitor, who refused to give his name, awaits your pleasure."
"It is Sitab," Vokal told the woman, whispering. "Will you give me those
seven suns, Rhoa? Will you go now, and be patient for that long? What is
your answer?"
Abruptly she nodded. "Seven suns, Vokal. But no more than seven."
His breath of relief was clearly audible. "Good!" He went to the door
and drew the bar. "Hide your face so that none may know who you are.
Goodbye."
He drew open the heavy door and the woman, her face concealed by the
folds of her heavy cloak, swept regally through, past the staring guard
and a short, barrel-chested man in the tunic of a guard of Jaltor's
court.
Vokal, his handsome face completely without expression, crooked a finger
at the latter. "Enter, my friend," he said cordially. "You have arrived
at exactly the right time."
* * * * *
Shortly after arriving at the palace of his father, following the
surprising interview with Jaltor, ruler of Ammad, Tamar had gone to his
room and his bed.
But not to sleep. His thoughts were of his friend Jotan and the trouble
that had befallen the young Ammadian noble. Tamar never doubted Garlud's
innocence and he longed to take some action that would clear both father
and son. In keeping with Jaltor's instructions he had told his own
father nothing of what had taken place, letting him think Jotan had died
beneath the claws and fangs of Sadu, the lion.
After more than two hours of fitful tossing, Tamar rose from his bed and
entered the living room of his suite. He was standing at one of the
windows overlooking sleeping Ammad, when a discreet knock at the door
startled him out of his reverie.
"Who is there?" he called.
"The corridor guard," said an apologetic voice. "A young woman wishes to
speak with you, noble Tamar. Upon an urgent matter, she says."
Tamar crossed the room quickly and unbarred the door. Beyond the
stalwart figure of the guard was the softly curved form of a woman whose
hair was very black and who, despite the folds of a cloak held to shadow
her face, seemed young and beautiful....
"Alurna!" Tamar gasped incredulously. "What are you doing here?"
She shook her head warningly, entered and waited until Tamar had closed
the door. The nobleman helped her remove the cloak and she sank down on
a nearby stool.
"I thought you would be sleeping," she said, smiling a little.
Trouble clouded his fine eyes. "I could not sleep," he said huskily. "I
tried. But I keep thinking...."
"Of Jotan," the girl finished. "And his father. We must help them,
Tamar. We must not leave them to rot in the pits of Ammad."
"But what can we do?"
"Do you know how to reach the pits without being seen?"
He stared at her. "What difference would that make?"
"Why can't we free them, Tamar? Give them a chance to learn who is
behind the plot against them." She leaned toward him, her face set with
determined lines. "My uncle, it seems, is content to let them suffer
until time works out the problem of who is guilty. I say Jotan and his
father should be allowed to do something themselves to hurry matters!"
"But there's no way----"
"Are you sure? Have you thought about it before this?"
He hesitated. "No-o. But it could mean imprisonment for us if we fail,
Alurna. Jaltor can be completely ruthless; if he learned we were
attempting to interfere with his way of doing things ... well it could
be too bad for us."
Color crept into her cheeks but she met his eyes resolutely. "Jotan
means enough to me to risk that," she said flatly. "Do _you_ feel that
way?"
He rose and began to pace the floor. "You're right. Let me think. There
is an entrance to the corridors housing the pits of Jaltor's palace, an
entrance supposedly secret, which Jotan himself once pointed out to me."
He wheeled suddenly and entered his sleeping quarters, returning a
moment later with a flint knife in a sheath at his belt and there was
the light of battle in his eyes.
"Return to your room, Alurna," he said grimly. "I will go to free Jotan
and his men."
She shook her head. "This was my idea and I'm going with you."
"But--but this is dangerous! If I am caught I shall be thrown in the
pits myself--perhaps killed. This is no venture for a woman!"
"It is a venture for _this_ woman," she replied doggedly. "Jotan is to
be my mate ... even though he may not realize that yet. He must find me
beside you when we rescue him."
For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes--then Tamar's
shoulder rose and fell in surrender.
"As you wish," he said.
* * * * *
Sitab, warrior of the palace of Jaltor, moved stealthily down a steep
ramp. About him was darkness more intense than that of a tomb, forcing
him to feel his way with infinite slowness lest a misstep make a noise
loud enough to rouse one or more of the guards in the arms-rooms here
and there among the subterranean corridors.
From one of his hands trailed a heavy spear; in the other was a
keen-edged knife of flint ready for the first man who should find him
where Sitab had no right to be.
For whoever he came across now must die. It would not do for word to
reach Jaltor on the morrow that Sitab, a trusted guard, had been seen on
his way to the pits.
A miasmic odor of damp decay seemed to increase in strength the further
below the earth's surface he progressed. Now and then a water rat would
rustle across his path, its passage marked only by the rasp of claws on
rock. Damp stretches of slippery surface proved difficult to negotiate
and on several occasions he saved himself from falling only by a quick
movement of his feet. Now and then he would step into ankle-deep pools
of chill water, bringing an involuntary gasp to his lips.
At long last his feet found no ramp where one should have been and he
realized he now stood at the beginning of the deepest corridor beneath
the palace. For a long moment he stood there, his ears straining to
catch some sound of life. As from a great distance he caught the muffled
snores of sleeping men, the faint murmurings of troubled words from a
mind dreaming of the horrors to which it awakened after each sleep.
Grasping his spear tighter, Sitab inched his way cautiously along the
corridor until his ears told him he was standing between twin rows of
cells. From the belt of his robe he drew a small length of tinder-like
wood and from a pouch in the same belt came a small ball-like bit of
stone, its interior hollowed to hold a supply of moss in the center of
which glowed a single coal of fire. Drawing the perforated bit of wood
serving as a cork, Sitab let the bit of fire roll out onto the miniature
torch. It rested there, glowing redly as he breathed against it. When a
minute of this had gone by a tiny tongue of fire rose to life and within
seconds the torch was fully lighted, dispelling the ink-like gloom about
him.
On silent feet Sitab moved from door to door of the cells. At each
barred opening he let the rays of light seep into the tiny interior of
the room beyond while his eyes sought to identify the sleeping men.
Some he saw were hardly recognizable as human, so long had they lain
prisoner in this awful hole. Matted hair hung over faces so thin and
emaciated as hardly to be human at all. Others he saw were still in
excellent physical condition: these had been here only a little while.
But none was familiar to him until he was well down the first row. As he
peered into this particular cell, he saw a man lying asleep on the bare
stone platform which served this cell, as in others, as a crude bunk.
The sleeper's face was turned toward the wall, shadowed by a raised arm,
so that Sitab was unable to make out the features. But something was
familiar about the man's general build and the shape of his head, and
for several minutes Sitab stood there waiting for the man to stir in his
sleep sufficiently for his face to be seen.
When full five minutes had passed without this taking place, Sitab broke
a small piece of the rotting wood from his torch and flipped it
unerringly through the barred grating of the door. It struck lightly
against the bare arm of the sleeper, and he sighed heavily, stirred,
then turned his face toward the light.
Sitab stiffened, waiting for the man to awake and cry out in alarm at
the glare of the torch. But the eyes did not open and the prisoner
lapsed back into complete slumber. Only then did Sitab see who lay
sleeping there.
It was Jotan.
* * * * *
A slight gasp escaped the guard's lips. Jotan _here_! But Jotan was
dead! Vokal himself had said as much.
Sitab smiled. No matter that Vokal had been misinformed; Jotan would be
dead within seconds. Vokal would reward him well for killing both Jotan
_and_ Garlud--if the latter were imprisoned here as well.
How best to kill him? Open the door, creep to the side of the sleeping
man and plunge the spearhead into his heart? That would be the quietest
way ... and also the most dangerous. What if Jotan were in reality
awake--lying there waiting for this unknown visitor to enter the cell,
then jumping upon him in a bid for freedom.
A glance at those muscles, even though apparently relaxed in sleep, was
enough to give him his decision. Lifting his spear, he thrust its point
between the bars of the door, aimed it squarely at Jotan's exposed
chest--and tensed his muscles to launch the heavy weapon.