She paused for breath, finally said: That’s it, the planet and its peoples in one. There’s only one thing I’ve left out – that I can think of at the moment, anyway – because I’m not sure of it myself. But you can be certain it’s something monstrous.’
‘Monstrous?’ Jazz repeated her. ‘Most of what I’ve heard is that! Let’s have it anyway, and then I’ve got some more questions for you.’
‘Well,’ she frowned, ‘there’s supposed to be something called “Arbiteri Ingertos Westweich”. That’s from a Wamphyri phrase and it means – ‘
‘Him in His Western Garden?’ Jazz tried it for himself.
She smiled a half-smile, slowly nodded. ‘Arlek was wrong about you,’ she said. ‘And so was I. You do learn fast. It’s The-Dweller-in-His-Garden-in-the-West.’
‘Same difference,’ Jazz shrugged, and then it was his turn to frown. ‘But that sounds sort of placid to me. Hardly monstrous!’
‘That’s as it may be,’ she answered, ‘but the Wamphyri fear it or him or whatever mightily. Now, I’ve told you how they’re forever squabbling, warring with each other? Well, in one circumstance – to one extent – they’re entirely united. All the Wamphyri. They’d give a lot to be rid of The Dweller. He’s legended to be a fabulous magician whose home is said to lie in a green valley somewhere in the central peaks to the west. I say “legended’, but that might give the wrong impression. In fact it’s a very recent legend, maybe as little as a dozen Earth years. That’s when the stories started, apparently. Since then he’s been said to have lived there, marked out his own territory, guards it jealously and deals ruthlessly with would-be invaders.’
‘Even the Wamphyri?’
‘Especially the Wamphyri, as far as is known. The Wamphyri tell horror stories about him you wouldn’t believe. Which, considering their nature, is really saying something!’
As she finished speaking, so there was movement northward in the pass. Arlek and his men sprang immediately alert; they called forward their wolves, took up their arms. Jazz saw that they had torches smeared in a black, tarry liquid ready for lighting. Others stood ready with flints.
Arlek hurried over, hauled Jazz to his feet. ‘This could be Jasef,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘and it could be something else. The sun is almost down.’
To Zek, Jazz said: ‘Are those flints of theirs reliable? There’s a book of matches in my top pocket. And cigarettes, too. Seems they didn’t want them, only the heavy stuff.’ He’d spoken in Russian and Arlek hadn’t caught his meaning. The Gypsy turned his leathery face enquiringly in Zek’s direction.
She sneered at him, said something that Jazz didn’t catch. Then she unbuttoned Jazz’s pocket, took out the matches. She showed them to Arlek, struck one. It flared at once and the Gypsy cursed, gave a great start, struck it aside out of her hand. The look on his face was one of shock, total disbelief.
Zek quickly snarled something at him, and this time Jazz caught the word ‘coward!’ He wished she wouldn’t be so free with that word, not with Arlek. Then, very slowly and deliberately, as if she talked to a dull child, she hissed: ‘For the torches, you fool, in case this is not Jasef!’
He gawped at her, blinked his brown eyes nervously, but finally he nodded his understanding.
In any case, it was Jasef. An old man with a staff, assisted by two younger Gypsies, came hobbling gratefully into the last few feeble rays of sunlight. He made his way straight to Arlek, said: ‘There was a watcher, a trog. But the trog’s master, the Lord Shaithis, had given him the power to speak over great distances. He saw the man -this one, Jazz – come through the pass, and he reported it to Shaithis. Shaithis would have come at once, but the sun-‘
‘Yes, yes – get on with it,’ Arlek snapped.
Jasef shrugged his frail shoulders. ‘I did not speak to this Szgany trog face to face, you understand. Worse things might have been lurking in the keep. I stayed outside and spoke to him in my head, in the manner of the Wamphyri.’
‘Of course, that’s understood!’ Arlek was almost beside himself.