Part 25 (1/2)
Ochal said: The ramas. Those who have not died have fled into the wilderness. It is a result of the fighting the mental strife the turmoil attending the Craftsmaster's takeover. Ramas are peaceloving creatures with sensitive and fragile minds. Wearing torcs they react to manifestations of extreme emotionality in adverse ways fleeing the malign aetheric vibrations if possible and suffering acute psychosomatic disorders if restrained. Not only Calamosk but my own lamented Bardelask and even Goriah itself have experienced this flight of the ramas. The High King has naturally ordered that replacement apes be sent to the capital. But Calamosk has had to initiate a complete new breeding program.
Basil said: Hard luck for the local n.o.bs needing domestics.
Ochal said: Many grey-torc humans are still faithful nay eager to serve ... and even numbers of barenecks.
Basil: Those who were too timid or too prudent to go the Lowlife route-or too wise to rush up to Goriah hoping the King would give them golden torcs!
Ochal: [Laughter.] That has been a problem in more cities than Calamosk. King Aiken-Lugonn has had to depart considerably from his original hope of offering instant citizens.h.i.+p to any human who requested it.
Basil: Mm. His instincts were generousOchal: But fortunately for the good order of the High Kingdom they were overruled by his innate pragmatism. Ah!
... We arrive at last.
The caravan came into the forecourt of the central citadel, where there were numerous torced humans of every station as well as civilian and fully armed Tanu. None of the neglect evident in the city's outer purlieus affected the castle environs.
Human servitors ran up to a.s.sist the dismounting of the new arrivals, and Basil and his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were attended every bit as solicitously as their escort. The Elite Guard of human golds stood by, however, their Milieu-style weapons at the ready.
Ochal said to Basil, ”Here's a great honour for you-the CityLord himself comes down to bid you welcome.”
Basil inclined his head respectfully as a Tanu creator wearing a short tunic and aquamarine half-armour came sweeping up.
”Parthol Swiftfoot,” said he, by way of introduction. He briefly tapped the pleasure-circuitry of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's grey torcs, precipitating a startled reaction among those who were metapsychically unsophisticated. ”My personal felicitations! King's most anxious to meet you.”
”And we, him,” said Basil.
Calm, he told his friends.
Keep calm!
”Suppose we clean you up a bit first, eh?” Parthol winked.
”Old Celo's dungeon-not exactly a health resort.”
Basil managed a dry laugh. ”You're very considerate, Lord Parthol.”
”Follow me! Nice surprise waiting!” And the Tanu was off, with Basil and the others tumbling along in his wake (for a Tanu stalwart can easily cover two metres at a stride). He pointed out noteworthy improvements in the citadel defences inst.i.tuted by his predecessor, the late Aluteyn, as he led them through the barbican, across the inner ward, and up an ornate white marble ramp into the palatial keep.
”You were ... one of the Craftsmaster's companions in adversity?” Basil said breathlessly.
Parthol chortled. ”Fellow jailbird, you mean! Quite right. Old Thagdal slung me into the Retort for murder. Decapitated my mother-in-law, Coventone Petrifactrix, on a Royal Hunt up in the Dark Mountains. No one would believe I mistook her for a Firvulag. Can't think why.”
They pa.s.sed down a series of marble staircases into the bowels of the castle, where torches in silver holders illuminated corridors paved in pink and black tiles. A certain anxiety radiated from Basil and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at this descent. ”Not the dungeon this time!” Parthol rea.s.sured them. They came to a huge black door with silver fittings, guarded by statuesque human females in silver-l.u.s.tre armour. Grinning expectantly, the City-Lord of Calamosk gestured, causing the portal to open, and motioned for the visitors to follow him inside.
The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds began whispering and elbowing one another.
Somebody unloosed an incredulous whistle. They had come into a complex of vaulted and pillared connecting chambers that seemed to combine features of a sumptuous Turkish bath with the decor of a fin-de-siecle Hungarian wh.o.r.ehouse. There were dripping crystal chandeliers, baroque divans in veil-curtained alcoves, and a fantastic gilt-and-jasper steam room, the walls of which were adorned with Paphian mosaics.
”Amusing, isn't it?” Parthol remarked to Basil. ”Your lamented compatriot Sullivan-Tonn had it installed during his brief tenure and we decided to keep it. Ingenious race, you humans-if those depictions are a fair sampling of your Old World s.e.xual mores.”
Basil cleared his throat diffidently. ”Some of the mosaics have-uh-a folkloric derivation. The centaurs and the mermaids, for example, and the-uh-more heroically proportioned individuals.”