The Star Magicians

4. BAZAAR OF A HUNDRED WORLDS

FROM THE TOWER OF NINE GODS, the fourth trumpet rang, marking the hour. Aloft, both of the twin suns were ablaze in the morning sky … the fierce, yellow glare of Havory 36A mingling with the lesser pallor of 36B, her White Dwarf companion. A dark fleck against the vault of searing blue, a long horn-hawk circled tirelessly.

Below, in the bustling bazaar of Argion City, the foods and luxuries of a hundred worlds were for sale to any passerby whose pocket-pouch bore the weight of a few iridium dahlers. Here, fetched hither by green-robed Desert Pirates of the great mid-continental desert called The Central Sands, in long caravans of slow-pacing slidars with little iron bells woven in their golden manes to ward off desert goblins, were rich casks of Godilian musk-wine … superbly worked scimitars of ion-bathed steel from Zha the Jungle Planet, with green diamonds hewn from the airless rocks of The Dead Worlds set in their glittering hilts … rare idols of carven, scented wood from distant Clesh, the world the witches rule.

The vast bazaar was one stupendous visual feast, blazing in the terrific glare, mirror-bright blades and helms and gems shattering the sunlight into a thousand twinkling stars. Gorgeous bales of crystal-cloth, spun by the intelligent Arachnidae of Algol IV, shimmered like iridescent mist. From the distant Mnom, the Dark World, whose ebon coast never knew the benison of solar radiance but dwelt forever in the eternal shadow of the planet’s companion, came bundles of weirdly glowing flowers, phosphor-roses burning gold and green, fire-lilies of pallid cream and milky blue flame.

As Perion strolled at his ease through the crowded, noisy bustle of the great bazaar, he seemed without a care in the world. Hands tucked carelessly in his girdle, the little piper swaggered about, whistling cheerfully, doffing his cap to an occasional Star Rover, and tossing a copper or two of the Warlord’s bounty to leprous, persistent beggars who crouched in the shade like ragged, whining bundles of living filth.

He was very much the cock of the walk, this scrawny turncoat, basking in the full noon of Drask’s regal favor. And he looked much more prosperous today. The ingrained filth was gone from face and hands … in fact, those who passed near him discovered with wonder that the little beggar walked in a perfumed cloud of expensive oils and unguents. His tattered rags were gone, replaced by glowing fabrics whose rich hues clashed absurdly, glittering with gemmed amulets and charms.

Behind him, as he strolled with princely insouciance and scattered his largess in an orgy of shopping, plodded a patient little mule to whose plump back was strapped an enormous wicker hamper.

As ever, the most popular corner of the bazaar was the slave-block. A fat, perspiring Spican with plum-purple skin and weird white eyes presided there, displaying his captive lovelies to a gaping throng. Tonguth, stout and bristle-bearded, a horned helm and fur cloak adorning his burly form, stood with fat placid Abdekiel in the forefront of the crowd as Perion approached. The Rover chieftain was running a gleaming and appreciative eye over the naked limbs of an Amazon-breasted Dorovan maid of truly heroic proportions, as the Spican auctioneer was loudly bawling a descriptive recommendation of her charms (presumably aimed at those unfortunates in the rear who could not see, as few of the Dorovan’s features were obscured from sight by her translucent veil). The oily shaman looked on with cold distaste.

“Have you ever seen such a bosom, my masters? Behold!—like the Twin Moons of Urnadon. And flesh of such texture?—like white velvet, stroked to living warmth with a rod of fire-crystal!” He ran a plum-colored hand down one generously-curved flank, like a fat purple spider, and rolled his white eyeballs in simulated ecstasy. “Smooth as finest marble, but soft as a zephyr’s kiss. Nay, my masters, Cynomome of Spica guarantees your hands have never fondled such womanflesh in all your days. Come! Who will start the bidding—at three hundred dahlers?”

The spectators jostled nearer, ogling the woman’s Junoesque form lasciviously. Abdekiel eyed them with chill loathing.

“Revolting,” he hissed. “Men should control their lusts— not be controlled by them.”

Tonguth grunted, licking his lips as his hot eyes explored the naked slave lingeringly. Then he caught Abdekiel’s contemptuous glare of icy disgust—and snorted with sudden mirth.

“If yonder spectacle revolts your tender soul, shaman, why then do you linger, gawking with the rest? Take yourself off—go mumble your devotions over a rotting scroll, or burn a snake’s guts before some idol—and leave men to the pleasures of men!”

The shaman’s fat lips writhed in a sneering smile.

“I am not here to lust over this sickening display of animal appetites, but to find the missing dancing-slut your men let slip through their stupid fingers. And surely it has occurred to even your thick wits, my Lord Tonguth, that the least obtrusive means of smuggling a girl from this trader’s city—would be among a consignment of slaves?”

The burly Chieftain scratched his stubbled jowls, reflectively. “Clever,” he said in reluctant admiration. “Yes, it might work at that… .”

“Work? Certainly it would work. A touch of paint to change the wench’s coloring—dye for her ash-silver hair— and any spy, disguised as merchant or noble, could bear her from this city hidden amongst a few other human purchases, right past your very gaze, without a chance of detection.”

Tonguth’s roving eye, sliding over the throng, suddenly brightened. “Hai!” He grinned. “There’s our lank-limbed new jester, the piper, ogling the womanflesh … Piper! Ho! Hither—stir your skinny legs when your betters call!

Perion slid through the thinning crowd, his mule in tow.

“Good morn unto my Lord Tonguth!” he crowed merrily. “And to his Reverence, the shaman—cheerful-eyed as ever, by my soul!”

Abdekiel eyed the grinning little minstrel coldly, slitted black eyes glinting wickedly in his bald, bitter-yellow face, but disdained to return the greeting. Tonguth chuckled expansively.

“Up with the dawn, I see, eh, piper?” He glanced at the wicker basket strapped to the beast. “You could not wait to begin spending the Warlord’s bounty, eh? And are you here to add a juicy morsel of female flesh to your tonnage of new purchases, which is already about to break yonder mule’s spine?”

Perion simpered coyly, spreading his bony hands. “A man can look, lord! But I fear yonder beauties are too expensive for my purse, which is as slender as my shanks… .”

“Aye, scrawny, a man can look—but a capering goggler like you would better seek a fat aska for bedmate,” the Chieftain said, cocking a thumb at a mangy specimen of the Argionid domestic pet, sunning itself at the nearby alley-mouth. He boomed a heavy laugh, heartily amused at his own wit, and an obsequious cackle from Perion joined in the jest.

Abdekiel, placidly ignoring these drolleries, was engaged in looking over the wickerwork hamper with a coldly speculating eye. He cut in.

“What is in yonder basket?”

Perion beamed, thrusting out his small chest and rocking on his heels with pride.

“My purchases, lord shaman! A few trinkets to brighten my quarters. For, now that the royal sun allows me to bask in its glow, I needs must live up to my new station… .”

“A few trinkets?” Tonguth exclaimed. “That basket’s fulsome enough to carry half the loot of Argion!”

“What is in the hamper?” Abdekiel repeated.

“A fine green-and-scarlet Faraz carpet,” Perion began, ticking his treasures off on beringed fingers, one by one, “and a brass lamp from Shimar that burns perfumed oils … a flagon or two of almond liqueur from my native Hillis … a new cloak of scarlet, lined with the transparent silver-silk the one-eyed weavers of Pel-Tharma loom from their metallic trees … but no! My lord!”

His boasting broke suddenly into a squawk of dismay, as the shaman strode past him with a step remarkably swift for one of his bulk, and, drawing a sickle-curved steel blade from the depths of his dull gray robes, slashed through the binding and uncovered the basket.

“Now, Piper-by the Scarlet Heart of Hell!

Crouched in the otherwise completely empty hamper, Lurn the dancing girl stared up at them with wide, frightened eyes.

There was a long interval of silence.

It would be difficult to say who, of the four, looked most astonished. They gasped with bugging eyes at the girl’s white, oval face, pale beneath the mop of ash-silver hair. Tonguth’s jaw dropped ludicrously. The shaman smiled a slow, placid smile, his cold slitted eyes disappearing in his fat yellow face.

Perion howled.

“My goods! My gorgeous Faraz carpet! My scarlet cloak! My lovely, lovely goods! Oh, you wicked girl, what have you done with them?” Dancing from one foot to another, face incandescent with rage and fury, the Piper seized the hamper violently and rudely dumped the dazed and frightened young girl out on the cobbled street. He paid no attention to the dancer, but thrust both arms into the empty basket, rummaging about vainly.

He lifted tragic eyes in a woebegone face to Tonguth and the shaman, who were watching him intently.

“Gone … all gone. All my lovely goods! Aiee! My little brass lamp that burns the sweet, sweet oil … my pretty carpet! What did you do with them, you—you thieving slut?”

A mute huddle on the cobbles, the girl looked back at him with huge fawn eyes of dimmest purple.

“How did you get in my basket? Where are all my goods? Aieee … my flagons of sweet Hollis liqueur!”

He rocked back and forth, moaning his woe. Tonguth and the fat shaman exchanged a puzzled, suspicious glance. Abdekiel bent over the girl, addressing her softly, his oily voice purring.

“A good question. How did you get in the basket, girl? Did yonder scrawny clown conceal you—or did you hide yourself?”

She stared up at him, tears of terror trembling on her sooty lashes, but made no answer. With one fat hand he tenderly picked up her slim arm, and repeated his question once again in a soft, caressing voice. When she did not reply, but only stared with wide, frightened eyes, he exerted a subtle pressure with his fingertips on the nerve-centers at her elbow. Lurn winced and bit her lip, but said nothing.

The shaman increased the pressure. “Answer me!”

“Ah!” she gasped. “Ill speak—touch me not!”

Abdekiel smiled, and released the girl’s elbow. She staggered to her feet, panting.

“I—hid myself—I do not know this little man. I was— hiding yonder, in an alley. He—this man—came past to bargain with a wine-peddler of Shazar. His mule was blocking the mouth of the alley. I saw the great basket on its back—and I—emptied out his things and hid myself inside. In the bustling of the crowd, no one noticed… .”

Abdekiel lifted a protesting hand.

“I do not believe you,” he said gently. “But, to go along with your absurd story for a moment, if you escaped by yourself and without the aid of our little juggler here—how did you do it?”

Tonguth shouldered near, rumbling angrily.

“Yes, speak up, girl!” he said gruffly.

“But I never said I escaped all by myself!” she protested. “Nor did I. I only said I climbed in this man’s basket without his knowledge or complicity.”

“Then—who helped you?”

Her white brow clouded, as she struggled to express herself.

“I—don’t know. I was asleep—and then—”

“Yes?”

She shrugged, biting her lip. “It was all so confused. A shadowy figure in the darkness of the cell. A sweetish smoke—some vapor-drug, I think. I slept, and woke—here. In the alley, just before dawn. I was frightened—I hid. Until this little man came along with the mule …”

The shaman leaned close to her, his eyes narrowing to slits of icy jet, burning coldly into her own. With one subtle hand he touched her, brow and breast—and smiled.

“You lie. It was the Piper.”

Perion, who had confusedly been trying to follow this rapid crossfire of question and counter-question, woke up suddenly with a cry of astonished outrage.

“I? Help her?” he shrilled unbelievingly. “Lord Shaman, can a man believe his ears? I steal the Warlord’s precious prisoner? What would I want with her? Who am I to meddle with such high affairs? … assassins and shadowy figures in the night, and … Nay, by the Brazen Bowels of Onolk! I am Lord Drask’s humblest but most devoted servant. The gods are my witnesses!” he concluded, stoutly, folding his broomstick arms.

Slow-witted Tonguth regarded him with puzzlement … staring next at the white-faced girl, then at the cold, impassive face of the shaman.

“Warlock—is this possible? I mean, could he have rescued the girl? How? Is he a magician—this scrawny little pippin of a man? Do you mistake him for … the White One?”

For a moment, baffled fury blazed like hellfire from the fat yellow face of the shaman … then his features closed to their habitual placidity.

“I … am … not … sure.”

Tonguth scratched one hairy jowl uneasily, not accustomed to such intellectual exercises. He shook his head doggedly.

“It just does not follow. This is the man who saved the Master’s life but yesternight. If he’s an enemy, a spy, or an agent of Cal—of Him—why prevent the Master from being murdered one moment … then steal his prisoner the next?”

Abdekiel’s cold reptilian eyes clouded at this thought, and he wavered, indecision written across his impassive features. Then noticing a brawny Star Rover shouldering roughly through the circle of gaping onlookers, he rapped sharply:

“Those questions, Chieftain, I cannot answer … now. But we shall see. There are ways to find the gem of truth even in a swamp of falsehood such as we have here. Ho— you there—Shangkar!”

The Rover chopped his way through the crowd, using the flat of his axe and cursing sulphurously. The crowd scattered before him. He came before the Chieftain and Abdekiel, saluting casually.

“What’s afoot here, Lords?” he demanded harshly.

Perion’s keen eye shrewdly raked him from helm to heel. Where Drask was a lean brown hawk of a man, and Tonguth a burly bull, Shangkar was a lithe, fierce-eyed panther, all sliding sinewy muscle and tough whipcord. Hot eyes burned beneath a heavy brow crowned with a winged helm of plain bronze. A rich blue cloak swung from broad, naked shoulders. His lean face was cleanshaven, with cruel, thin lips. Naked save for a rude harness of leather and iron, his long body was burnt brown-orange by the sun, tawny as a range-lion.

Abdekiel gave swift, terse commands. A grinning band of Rovers closed about the frightened girl and the little Piper. Shangkar’s iron hand clamped down on the whimpering juggler’s thin arm.

Abdekiel surveyed the group with an oily smirk of self-satisfaction.

“Take them before the Warlord, who sits this hour, I doubt not, in the Hall of Zargon, Lord of Punishments and Rewards, dispensing justice!”

Whimpering, Perion lifted an imploring hand.

“But what have I done, Lord Shaman, that I should be treated so? First my goods—ah, my little brass lamp!— are stolen from me by this thieving wench! Then am I seized up by these great grinning men and borne off as if I, myself, were a thief! I am innocent, Lord—innocent!”

Abdekiel shrugged elaborately, but doubt still glittered in his small, slitted eyes.

“Between appearances and words I cannot choose—as yet. But we shall see, small fool, what tunes you play when you stand in the place of judgment and face the wrath of Drask of the Varkonna …”

They made their way through the crowded, silent bazaar of a hundred worlds, past scores of dirty, gawking faces, towards the great palace that had been home to the Argion-Princes and now was camp of the Warlord of the Star Rovers.

Above, against a burning sky of fierce acetylene-blue, the long horn-hawk still circled. Its small, rapacious brain knew only hunger and mating-lust, and was never disturbed by the strange medley of emotions that boiled in the blood of men far below its lofty realm… .