The Virgin of Zesh and the Tower of Zanid by Camp L. Sprague de

Author:Camp, L. Sprague de [Camp, L. Sprague de]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy
ISBN: 9780441864959
Amazon: 0441864953
Goodreads: 2870930
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 1983-02-01T08:00:00+00:00

V

Out in the street, Qais hailed a khizun—an aya-drawn Balhibou hackney-carriage—and got in. Fallon’s spirits rose. It had been some time since he had been able to afford a ride, and Kastambang’s office lay in the commercial Kharju District, over on the far side of the city.

First they wound through the odorous alleys of the A’vaz; then through the section of the northern part of the Izandu. They emerged from this region to pass between the glitter of the theaters of the Sahi on their left and the somber bustle of the industrial Izandu on their right. Smoke arose from busy forges, and the racket of hammers, drills, files, saws, and other tools mingled in a pervasive susurration. Then they clop-clopped along a series of broad avenues which carried them through a little park, across which the wind from the steppes sent little whirls of dust dancing.

At last they plunged into the teeming magnificence of the Kharju with its shops and houses of commerce. As they angled toward the southeast, the city’s one hill, crowned by the ancient castle of the kings of Balhib, rose ahead of them.

“Kastambang’s,” said Qais, pointing with his stick.

Fallon cheerfully let Qais pay the driver—after all, the master spy was merely dipping into the bottomless purse of Ghuur of Uriiq—and followed Qais into the building. There were the usual gatekeeper and the usual central court, variegated with tinkling fountains and statues from far Katai-Jhogorai.

Kastambang, whom Fallon had never met, proved to be an enormous Krishnan with green hair faded to pale jade, his big jowly face furrowed by sharp lines. His tun of a body was swathed in a vermilion toga in the style of Suruskand. Qais, after ceremonious introductions, said: “Sir, we would speak privily.”

“Oh,” said Kastambang. “We can manage, we can manage.”

Without any change of expression he struck a small gong on the desk. A tailed man from the Koloft Swamps of Mikardand stuck his hairy head into the conference room.

“Prepare the lair,” said the banker, then to Fallon: “Will you have a cigar, Earthman? The place will soon be ready.”

The cigar proved excellent. The banker said: “Have you enjoyed our city fair on this visit, Master Turanj?”

“Aye, sir. I went to a play last night: the third of my life.”

“Which one?”

“Saqqiz’s Woeful Tragedy of Queen Dejanai of Qirib, in fourteen acts.”

“Found you it effective?”

“Up till about the tenth act. After that the playwright seemed to repeat himself. Moreover, his stage was so littered with corpses that the actors playing quick characters had much ado to avoid stumbling over ’em.” Qais yawned.

Kastambang made a contemptuous gesture. “Sir, this Saqqiz of Ruz is but one of these ultra-clever moderns who, having nought to say, conceal the fact by saying it in the most eccentric manner possible. You’d do better to stick to revivals of the classics, such as Harian’s Conspirators, which opens tomorrow night.”

At that moment, the Koloftu reappeared, saying: “ ’Tis ready, master.”

“Come sirs,” said Kastambang, heaving himself to his feet.

He proved less

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