The Illyrian Adventure Read online

  Nilo, for once, turned out to be right. Zalik's men did not trouble us. The bimbashi had either lost track of our whereabouts or had lost interest in harassing us. The next couple of days were quiet. The goats and I came to friendly terms. Vesper continued poking here and there around the village. I did not see Milan again. Nilo did not mention him, so I assumed that worthy had gone elsewhere.

  We still had no word of our firman and equipment. Distasteful though the prospect was, I thought I should ride to Vitora and speak with Colonel Zalik.

  "Let sleeping whales lie," said Vesper. "Stir him up and he'll start on us again. We have something better to do. Matrona Mira can see us tonight. It isn't far. Nilo's coming along to show us the way."

  That evening, I was prepared to meet an old hag full of folkish superstitions and humbug, doddering in a hovel, mumbling incantations and old Illyrian proverbs.

  Her dwelling was no hovel, nor was the matrona a hag. Though undoubtedly old, her face a spiderweb of wrinkles, she was a vigorous, bright-eyed little woman. She did not dodder, she bustled. After Nilo made all the properly ceremonious introductions, she popped in and out of one of the curtained alcoves off the main room to fetch cups of herb tea, then popped in and out of another little chamber, attending to some unfinished household task.

  Vesper and Matrona Mira struck it off well from the first moment. Vesper sat beside her on a bench near the fireplace. The bunches of dried herbs hanging from the rafters gave the room a pleasant fragrance. The matrona listened closely while Vesper explained the purpose of our journey.

  "That is Zentan lore, not Illyrian," the matrona said when Vesper asked for information about Ahmad's magical army. "We have many tales of Vartan, but few dealing with his enemies.

  "There is one I remember, but I fear it has nothing to do with what you seek."

  "Even so," said Vesper, "I'd like to hear it."

  The matrona made a gesture with her hand—a graceful, sweeping movement, giving me the odd sensation that she was wiping away the present moment and reaching back into a distant past. She spoke in a low but clear voice, occasionally using antiquated words which Nilo translated.

  "In Vartan's day, a day which will come again," the matrona began, "three Zentan princes sought to learn the secret of his strength.

  "Bearing a chest of treasure, hoping that offering riches would sway him, they journeyed to Vartan's Castle.

  "Before they reached it, wolves barred their way through Vanan's Woods. The first Zentan led the creatures astray so the others might go on.

  "When those two halted to quench their thirst from Vartan's Well, the second remained there, enchanted by the songs of the water sprites. The third pressed on alone, bearing the treasure chest.

  "At last, he reached the castle. King Vartan welcomed him, gave him food and drink, and treated him with every courtesy. But when Vartan heard what the Zentan sought, he laughed and scorned the treasure.

  " 'The secret of my strength has already been revealed to you,' said Vartan. 'It lies in my wolves and in all other beasts and birds in my forest. It lies in my well, as it does in all other springs and rivers. It lies in the stones of my castle, as it does in all hills and mountains.'

  "At this, the Zentan understood that Vartan's strength could never be taken from him by mortal being. Honoring Vartan as the greatest king, the Zentan remained there and never journeyed home again.

  "This was in Vartan's day, a day which will come again."

  The tale, I found, was not very exciting or interesting, and more inscrutable than some of Nilo's proverbs.

  Vesper held the opposite opinion. She thought the tale was fascinating. What intrigued her, though, was not the business of wolves and water sprites.

  "Part of it reminds me of the Illyriad, " Vesper said.

  "Ahmad wanted to give Vartan a treasure. And here's a story about a Zentan bringing Vartan a treasure chest. The tales are different, but they both start with the same idea. Are they both telling about something that really happened.”

  "What about Vartan's Castle?" Vesper went on. "Was there ever such a thing?"

  "Yes," the matrona said. "By Vartan's Well—as we call Lake Lara. It stands no longer. The tale goes that Vartan stirred in his sleep, the earth rumbled, the stones split, and the castle toppled into ruins."

  Vesper would gladly have listened to more tales, but the matrona indicated that our visit was over and invited us to return some other day.

  Vesper tried to help the old woman carry the cups and kettle into the alcove. The matrona, quite abruptly and firmly, steered Vesper away, thanked her nonetheless, and wished us a hasty good-night.

  "That Zentan treasure sticks in my mind," said Vesper, as we made our way to our goat-ridden lodgings. "Not much of a clue, but the only clue we have. Nilo can take us to Lake Lara. We'll have a look at the castle."

  "Lincilla, " put in Nilo, "I can tell you what you will find. Nothing. It is a waste of your time. Besides, it is difficult country. No one goes there."

  "So much the better," said Vesper. "We'll be the first."

  The prospect of actually doing some work must have alarmed Nilo. Before Vesper extracted a promise from him, he mumbled something about an errand and hurried off, leaving us to ourselves and the goats.

  "I like the matrona," Vesper said. "We'll visit her again. But—it's puzzling."

  I agreed. The matrona 's tale had likely been originally an old nature myth, but now so changed that it was incomprehensible.

  "I don't mean the story was puzzling," Vesper said. "Something else was odd. When I started into that alcove, I caught a glimpse of somebody. I think it was Silvia."

  CHAPTER 9

  "Silvia was friendly enough, the time we met," Vesper said. "Why would she hide from us? Why didn't the matrona want me to see her?"

  For one thing, I replied, Vesper was not sure it had been Silvia. For another, Silvia had every right to be where she pleased. For still another, there were a dozen good reasons for her to be in the matrona's cottage.

  "Name one," said Vesper.

  That, I said, was beside the point. The principle remained the same.

  Vesper did not pursue the question. She turned her thoughts to Lake Lara. We would, she decided, go exploring as soon as Nilo could pack all we needed.

  Nilo, however, did not return to the stable. Next morning, we went looking for him in the village, expecting to find him loafing around the kaffenion. He was not there.

  The proprietor could tell us nothing. He had been busy carrying chairs and tables indoors, clearing a space on the walkway. The festival would take place that evening.

  The villagers had already begun hanging garlands and bunches of evergreens at the house fronts. A crew of men and women piled kindling in the middle of the square.

  Vesper observed these activities with curiosity. "Nile said it would only be a little bonfire."

  Nilo's sense of dimension, I told her, matched his sense of direction. Large or small, the bonfire did not concern us. Not only were we uninvited, Nilo had made it plain that we were unwelcome.

  "That was when we first got here," said Vesper. "The villagers didn't know us then. We're friends now. They'd want us to join in."

  I advised against it. In the holy city of Mecca, when our presence was discovered, her father and I had to run for our lives. Locals can be touchy about their privacy.

  "The festival could be important. It's something we have to see," replied Vesper. "I'll talk to Nilo."

  The elusive Nilo was nowhere to be found, though Vesper spent much of the day looking for him. The dear girl appeared noticeably distressed, not a customary state for her. She began her search again, still to no avail.

  The simple fact was Nilo had vanished.

  I assured Vesper he would pop up again when we needed him least. Meantime, heeding his caution against intruding, I looked forward to a quiet evening with the goats.
Vesper had no such intention.

  "We're going," she declared. "This isn't Mecca, it's Alba-Collia. They won't run us out of town."

  I could not convince her otherwise. However, I did insist on keeping well in the background, calling no attention to ourselves, and staying only briefly.

  We waited until after dark, when we heard a babble of voices and the twanging of dombras. The bonfire already blazed, flames rising nearly to the rooftops, turning the square bright as day.

  As for keeping in the background, Vesper decided we should be in the front rank.

  "If we can't see anything, Brinnie, what's the use?"

  Accordingly, Vesper led me sidling and squeezing through the crowd. The spectators laughed and called out to her, and in no way objected. The audience was large, including not only Alba-Collians but also throngs from the nearby hamlets.

  "Zalik wasn't invited, I'm sure," said Vesper, "but he's sent a lot of his tin soldiers." She called my attention to the troops posted along the fringes of the crowd. "Most all of j his constables, too."

  The presence of the officers did not dampen the Illyrians' spirit. If anything, it produced the opposite effect. The locals joked among themselves, passing around leather flasks and taking hearty swigs of the contents, whistling, stamping their feet. But then, a few moments later, they fell absolutely silent.

  A curious procession entered the square. In a way, it looked much like a school pageant, with some dozen villagers decked out in colorful but obviously homemade costumes. Masks painted with strange symbols covered their faces. They carried farm tools, sheaves of grain, pine boughs, or bunches of flowers. Some wore fur capes; others were only lightly clad.

  Beyond an impression of something quite ancient, the significance of the procession escaped me.

  Vesper carefully studied the participants. "Twelve people, twelve different emblems. The twelve months of the year."

  "Dear girl, that's wonderful! Of course they are." It had never occurred to me, but Vesper's admirable intelligence had grasped the meaning immediately. I beamed at her.

  Now, three women wearing flowing robes were borne in on something like a carnival float, which also served as a platform from which they observed the doings in the square.

  "There's Matrona Mira." Vesper pointed to the eldest of the three. "Isn't she splendid? And that's the baker's daughter and the landlord's little girl."

  The dozen villagers, meantime, had formed a circle around the fire. While the dombras twanged louder, with the added rattle and jingle of tambourines, the twelve began a graceful, intertwining dance. The steps were complex but, all in all, nicely executed.

  The dancers withdrew after a while. The music grew wilder, and some of the bolder men and women broke from the crowd and raced back and forth through the flames of the bonfire. This I had no difficulty recognizing as a custom older than the Illyrians probably realized. From what I knew of similar pagan rites, I wondered if it were proper for Vesper to stay and watch them. Perhaps that was what Nilo had meant.

  Cheers burst from the crowd. Vesper pointed to the far side of the square.

  "Brinnie—there! Vartan's horse!"

  A young girl, crowned with flowers, led in the spirited animal, unsaddled, with garlands around the neck and blossoms woven into mane and tail. Vesper clapped her hands, delighted. Girl and horse made a circuit, while the onlookers eagerly reached out, trying to touch the prancing steed.

  Those moments were strangely and quite deeply moving. Otherwise, the festival was generally similar to many that Holly and I had witnessed, a harmless rustic celebration.

  "It's charming," said Vesper. "I don't see why Zalik sent so many troops. What's he worried about?"

  We understood all too soon.

  From the crowd rose shouts of "Vartan! Vartan!" Voice after voice took up the cry.

  "Vartan! Freedom! Vartan has come back!"

  The shouts swelled to a furious tide. The charming rustic ritual was turning into open defiance, if not insurrection. Had the villagers gone mad? Did they expect the Zentan authorities to wink at such rebelliousness?

  The police, indeed, did not intend to wink. Colonel Zalik must have foreseen the happening. In addition to the constables and soldiers, a large cavalry detachment had been stationed at the edge of the village. These reinforcements now came galloping toward the crowd.

  The constables, at the same time, drove like a wedge through the mass of onlookers. The villagers, surely, would break and fall back. Instead, they rashly chose to make a fight of it. The dancers banded together, fending off the onslaught with their pageant implements. Elsewhere, knots of Illyrians engaged the Zentans with makeshift weapons— chairs and tables from the kaffenion and even a few dombras.

  Vesper and I, by weight of numbers, had been flung close to the bonfire. Contemplating the possibility of our ending up amid the flames, I cast around for an escape. But a number of officers had begun seizing whatever Illyrians they could lay hands on. We were not exempt.

  As the officers set upon us, I politely explained that we were innocent bystanders, farenkis on a scholarly expedition. I emphasized our friendship with King Osman and assured the constables we had no part in the disturbance.

  If my words were unconvincing, no doubt it was because Vesper, at that very moment, snatched a burning brand from the fire and began swinging away at any approaching Zentan, stoutly defending Matrona Mira beside her.

  The officers swarmed over us, seizing Vesper and the matrona, collaring me as well. Along with a number of Illyrians, we were half dragged, half carried from the square. Vesper struggling all the while.

  As the fighting behind us sharpened, we were manhandled into a wagon and borne off under guard in the direction of Vitora.

  "Dear girl," I cried, "what's happening to us?"

  "If I had to guess," replied Vesper, "I'd say we've been arrested."

  CHAPTER 10

  "I hope Nile's all right," Vesper said. "Lucky thing he wasn't in the village."

  Master Nilo, I replied, was undoubtedly loafing in some quiet corner. Wherever he was, he was better off than we were. Our feckless dragoman must have sniffed trouble in the wind and made himself scarce.

  "He told us not to go," Vesper reminded me.

  For that, I had no answer. My immediate concern, in any case, was for Vesper and how to deal with the regrettable fix we had fallen into so unwittingly. I tried to look on the brighter side. As I told Vesper, considering the turmoil in Alba-Collia, we were safer out of there.

  "And into Zalik's lockup?" returned Vesper. "Don't count on a gracious welcome."

  I disagreed. Whatever my personal opinion of him, Colonel Zalik was a military officer of high rank, with a strong sense of duty. I was confident he would do everything he could.

  "I'm sure he will," said Vesper.

  She turned her attention to the matrona. Squeezed though we were in this jolting Zentan equivalent of a police van, and possibly facing criminal charges, Vesper took the occasion to inquire about Silvia.

  "Didn't I see her that night in your cottage?"

  The matrona nodded. "Yes. She had suffered an injury. I treated her and gave her a place to rest."

  "Silvia had an accident? Was she badly hurt?"

  "She is well recovered," said the matrona. "She left soon after you."

  "What happened?" Vesper pressed on. "What kind of accident? Did she come to Alba-Collia with Milan?"

  The matrona gave only the vaguest answers. Vesper would have kept on nosing into an obviously private matter, but by then, we had reached Vitora and were heading toward the center of town, and the conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion.

  The driver halted instantly. There were sharp volleys of rifle fire. The cavalry escort galloped for Colonel Zalik's headquarters, which seemed to be the source of the shooting. The driver and the guards seized their weapons, leaped from the wagon, and raced a
fter the horsemen.

  The Illyrian prisoners snatched the opportunity to scramble down and scatter in all directions. Two of them had picked up the matrona and, between them, were practically carrying her bodily away.

  Vesper, too, had jumped out. I clambered after her. She began pulling my arm, urging me to follow the escaping Illyrians.

  That, I tried to explain, was the last thing in the world we should do. We were in trouble enough without becoming fugitives from justice, declared criminals, hunted by Zalik's police.

  "I'd rather be hunted than caught." Vesper tugged all the harder.

  We had no time to continue our discussion. A band of horsemen came dashing straight at us. Some brandished rifles, others led pack animals loaded with boxes and sacks, and all of them whooped and hallooed like madmen, yelling ferociously in Illyrian, which made their war cries all the more bloodcurdling.

  On their heels galloped a detachment of Zalik's cavalry —not a great number, since most had been dispatched to Alba-Collia. Nevertheless, they sharply engaged the Illyrians, who wheeled their mounts to confront them.

  These Illyrians must be the rebels whom Zalik had warned against.

  Shouts of "Vartan! Vartan!" rose around us. Despite Vesper's reluctance, I tried to remove her from the fray. By now, unfortunately, we were caught in the midst of plunging hooves and of Illyrians and Zentans grappling each other, firing in complete disregard for innocent bystanders —namely, Vesper and me—or slashing furiously with sabers or wicked-looking Illyrian blades.

  I tried to gain the attention of a Zen tan rider, hoping he might get us clear of our predicament. Without so much as pausing to ask who I was, he brought up a long-barreled pistol and aimed straight at me.

  Vesper sprang forward in a flash. She seized the fellow by one leg, heaved with all her might, and toppled him out of the saddle. His shot went astray while he himself pitched headlong to the ground, a foot entangled in the stirrup. His mount bolted away, dragging him cursing and struggling down the street.