Fires of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers Page B

enormous.
    The three of us — the Lady Pompina, Pompino, and me — sat each at a small separate table facing three long mirrors. We sat side by side, and could see one another in the mirrors. Ashti had been sent to a comfortable bed along with the two sets of twins, who were growing apace.
    This custom does have advantages; it is also diabolically inconvenient. But Pompina insisted on high culture. Everything had to be done perfectly and by the strictest code of etiquette. Pompino looked fed up.
    The greeting between the two Khibils had been casual to the point of exiguity.
    Satisfied that his wife was safe, and his pairs of twins still whole, Pompino seemed — to me at least — to lapse into a private world of his own. He acted the host as the strict etiquette demanded by Pompina dictated. Beyond that he spoke only when spoken to, and shortly. He drank sparingly. So that wasn’t the problem. The servants served a fine meal. That one of the cooks had been killed, that the place had been reeking with blood, that the mistress had nearly been murdered, could not be allowed to interfere with the proper entertainment of an honored guest.
    That I was an honored guest followed in the nature of the events. Being a crusty old shellback, I could handle that kind of attention, and keep a hand over my goblet when the flagons came around.
    Pompina did not so much become drunk — and I would be the last to blame her had she done so — as merry. To use a technical word known to the sorority, she became sloshed. She uttered fervent thanks to a variety of gods and spirits, and Beng Dikkane, the patron saint of all the ale drinkers of Paz, got in there along with Pandrite and Opaz and Shenorveul the Sceptered Scourge.
    Pompino caught my eye in the mirror opposite.
    He made a face.
    “My wife is happy, Jak. I must—”
    “Don’t, Pompino.”
    “Yes. You are probably right. I think the Star Lords picked me for my last mission because of my familiarity with this little problem in life’s rich armpit.”
    “Oh?”
    “Later.”
    I nodded, and allowed a charming Fristle fifi — all the servants, after the death of the woman in the cellars, had been locked in the woodshed in the yard — to fill my goblet.
    The wine was not Jholaix, from the northeast corner of Pandahem. It was a clear golden Markan and highly prized.
    “Captain Logan brought it in from his last cruise,” Pompino told me. He twirled his goblet, looking at the clear golden liquid. “A successful captain, Logan. He commands
Tuscur Castle
.”
    My ears pricked up. If Pompino knew someone connected with shipping I’d put in for a passage out. That would be far faster than riding or walking around the coast. Already I envisaged myself back with Seg and my comrades.
    “You did not seem particularly surprised to see me, Pompino.”
    “Palando the Berry told me a hulking great brute of an apim, with a little golden child, sought me. I’d an idea, from his description, that hairy apim brute must be you.”
    “I have a confession—”
    “Yes. You did not just happen to be here and thought to look up a fellow kregoinye.”
    “The Everoinye sent me on a mission along the coast.” I outlined what I’d been up to, from a more professional angle this time and in more detail. Pompina hiccoughed and her head touched her breast. She started erect, and then stood up. We mere men rose also.
    “I shall now retire, Pompino. Good night, Jak. I am in your debt. Please partake of my hospitality for as long as you wish.”
    “You are very kind, my lady. I do crave a boon—”
    “Ask.”
    “Ashti. You have heard how she came into my care. I do not relish taking her with me into danger—”
    “Of course. She has a home here for as long as the gods allow. I like her.” Pompina chuckled and tears squeezed from her beautiful foxy eyes. “I loved the way she bit that stinking Rapa.”
    “Again, my thanks.”
    When she had gone, Pompino walked across to a lounging chair and