Aplicación de una central de Reservas en el área de estudio

CHAPTER FIVE

El Khabbath, the Pirate Coast, Araby 10th Day of Pflugheit, 2522

Captain Roth brushed aside the pennants hiding the koffe tent’s interior from the bustling marketplace and ventured inside.

The City-port of the Eight Winds, they called it, but Roth knew of only one—the stinging sirocco that blew in great whirling sand devils from Araby’s endless desert.

The Heldenhammer had only been docked for half a day, but Roth was already thoroughly sick of this place. There was sand in his beard, in his collar, in his mouth, between the delicate mechanisms of his eye lenses, clogging the cogs of his sickle, even in the crack of his arse. It almost made him long for the lifeless crystal waters of Nehekhara.

Uncomfortably vivid memories of lightless pyramidal tombs, bloodstained sand and the relentless pursuit of Zandrian war galleys rose unbidden in Roth’s mind.

Well, perhaps not.

The koffe tent was thick with narcotic smoke. Lounging upon fat cushions of silk and leather were indolent gourmets drawing upon elaborate wyrdroot hookahs. The gurgle of their tainted smokewater ebbed and flowed under a babble of lazy conversation. Above Roth’s head, the tent’s thick canvas ceiling was artfully folded to allow light to fall through patches of gauze whilst keeping the sand-devils out.

Veiled dancing girls wound their rounded hips to the lilting flow of ethereal pipe music, their luscious bodies passing in and out of shafts of light with hypnotic slowness. A pair of blue, three-eyed cobras danced upright with them, lathing the air to taste Roth’s sweat. Behind them, a gibbon in a tiny suit of spiked armour tapped out a complex rhythm on a tambour fashioned from an elephant’s skull. The wiry simian caught Roth’s gaze and smiled at him, exposing rows of sharp gold teeth.

Without warning, a tall man with a wrestler’s physique and remarkable earlobes appeared by the captain’s side. Roth’s dagger was out in an instant, but the man just smiled broadly.

“Go ahead, sea-sword,” said the newcomer in a thin, girlish voice. “I’ve nothing to lose. Alternatively, come this way, if you’d prefer to live till sunset.”

Earlobes raised a pierced eyebrow and padded toward the rear of the tent. He stepped deftly between the lounging figures scattered across the floor and disappeared into the narcotic smoke. Light-headed and blinking, Roth followed as best he could. Lolling merchants and princelings giggled at his discomfort as Roth picked his way through them. One of the dusky-skinned dancers brushed his neck with a languid hand as he walked past, pursing her full red lips in an exaggerated kiss.

Roth gave her a wink. “Next time, perhaps.”

The captain followed the guard into a canvas-walled antechamber. The heavy flap behind Roth fell into place, plunging them into darkness. A strange sensation of movement disoriented Roth for a second, making his stomach lurch. Light flooded back into the antechamber as the guard pushed open a thick velvet curtain that led into a large circular chamber.

Roth emerged into a large vaulted room that was twice the size of the koffe house he had entered. Its walls were hung with priceless silken prints depicting the monarchs of the elements ascendant. Every inch of the floor was awash with cushions, each different from the next. Roth gagged on the bittersweet air. It tasted like burnt sugar cane mixed with spice and fresh sweat.

Directly ahead of Roth was a generously built man swathed in half an acre of pearlescent silk. His arms and legs were flung wide as he lounged against a cushion that could have consumed an ogre. Hookah smoke plumed above his curling black moustache, momentarily forming a pair of curvaceous women locked in a lover’s embrace before dissipating in the silken folds of the tent. His skin glittered as gold as the serried rings jammed onto his thick fingers and though one of his eyes was hidden behind a stylised eyepatch, the other stared out with frightening intensity.

Entwined around him were five harem girls, each tattooed with exotic serpents and fire-symbols, their languid limbs snaking over each other. The man wound a tiny clockwork dancer in his right hand, releasing it onto the koffe tray beside him so that it spun with a metallic purr.

The Golden Magus, as proud and strange as ever.

“Captain Roth. You could at least show us the courtesy of removing those awful boots, my filthy old friend. Those cushions are Ulthuan silk.”

The harem girls tittered and pawed at the Magus appreciatively while he adjusted his crotch with a contented smile.

“Magus. May the desert winds bless you,” said Roth through a forced smile.

“Though I have a feeling you’ve still got enough hot air to go round.”

“O-ho, very good! A pun, and a topical one, no less! Very good, Jaego. The years have not dulled your cudgel-like wit. Instead it appears they have concentrated their efforts upon your face, and not without a considerable measure of success, it has to be said.”

Roth scowled. “Perhaps my demeanour suffered with the recent death of my family.”

“Ah. Most… unfortunate,” said the Magus with a heavy sigh. “I am truly sorry to hear that. A great loss. Your father was a good man and your wife had marvellous thighs.”

A muscle twitched under Roth’s eyelid.

“Yes. A loss I intend to avenge.”

The sorcerer steepled a pair of heavily-ringed fingers in front of his lips before shooing his harem girls away. “Move, move. The Magus must speak now of matters grim. Leave us, and keep those pretty heads unsullied by talk of violence and revenge.”

The harem girls made a great show of dismay, cooing and moaning, but nonetheless melted away into the dark antechamber behind Roth.

The Magus hefted his great bulk from the silken cushions and padded over to a boiling glass urn at the back of the room. A long sword with a curved blade and astonishingly complex workmanship was sheathed within the glass chamber, twitching and jerking as bubbles flew madly from its red-tinged blade. The Golden Magus turned a tap at the bottom of the urn, filling what looked like a bronze lamp from its ornate fish-headed spout. The thick aroma of Lustrian koffebeans mingled with the omnipresent sugar-cane stench. It was not entirely unpleasant.

“Something to drink? If I remember correctly, the charms of koffe are wasted upon you, but I believe I have some strong Estalian brandy around here somewhere…” The Magus made a show of turning over at least three cushions before growing bored and daintily filling a tiny porcelain cup from the bronze koffe lamp.

“With all respect, old friend, I did not come here to drink.”

“Of course. You came here to engage my services upon a vengeful crusade.”

“You are a perceptive man, Magus.”

“That I am. And might I ask who, or what, is the target of this little adventure?”

“Count Noctilus, and the captains of the Dreadfleet.”

“O-ho-ho!” The Magus slapped his legs in delight. “Oh, jest without price! You sly old jackal, you had me like a mackerel on a hook. Ha! I’m glad my girls did not see that one, they’d never have let me live it down. Oh, how I have missed you, Jaego, old friend, old knave, old scoundrel. Ah, me. Such fun.”

The Magus wiped a tear from his eye, leaving a thin smear of kohl across his cheek.

The mirth fell from his face as he saw Roth’s thunderous expression.

“Ah. You do not jest at all.”

The Golden Magus took a long slurp from his koffe, catching his clockwork dancer just as it began to wobble. He wound its spring back up, a pensive expression on his face.

“And I presume you have brought me the crown jewels of not only Karl Franz but also the entire line of the Griffon Emperors in return for my assistance on this—

shall we be kind and say brave little foray - that you propose?”

“Lead me to the Flaming Scimitar,” said Roth, quietly, “and I will show you.”

“Ah!” cried the Magus, almost spilling his koffe. “The Flaming Scimitar, he says.” The Magus pointed an immaculate fingernail at the curved blade inside the boiling urn. “That is the Flaming Scimitar, my dear fellow. My humble and frequently waterborne palace merely happens to be named after it. And now you play upon my curiosity, knowing that I am a sphinx at heart! Truly, you are a virtuoso of the conversational art, Jaego, to goad me so with implications of wealth unimaginable by a mere merchant prince such as I.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Roth. “Now are we going to your bloody warship or not?”

“Well, so be it, so be it,” huffed the Magus, making a wounded face. “No need to be rude about it. Let us visit the Scimitar. In fact, Jaego, on that account I rather think I am one step ahead of you. Walk this way, and do try not to befoul the cushions.”

The Magus drifted imperiously past Roth into the pitch-black antechamber behind him. The captain followed, secretly hoping to catch the eye of the dancing girl

from his earlier encounter. The light was blotted out for a second, and Roth’s stomach lurched once more.

The captain nearly choked when he emerged into bright sunshine and inhaled a lungful of fresh sea air.

Instead of passing back into the cramped confines of the koffe house, Roth had emerged onto the deck of a massive pleasure barge. The golden-brown palmwood of its construction was so spotless that it practically glowed. Directly ahead of him were two purple-walled minarets the size of castle keeps, one tall, one broad, their elaborately swirled roofs lustrous in the evening sun.

Roth spun round in confusion, expecting to find the large canvas tent behind him.

Instead he was confronted by a burnished banqueting hall. Its metal walls were pierced with tessellating designs in the style of the Arabyan courts. Above it flew two vast triangular sails of enchanted silk, their edges rippling with stylised flames that fluttered in the breeze. At the pleasure barge’s prow was a golden statue that was almost as large as Sigmar’s Wrath, a gilded djinn in a posture of attention, the blade of its downward-pointing falchion forming the prow of the ship. Roth blinked, completely nonplussed by what had just happened.

The Flaming Scimitar, inexplicably, had come to him.

Recovering his composure, Roth strode to the gunwales and looked down on El Khabbath’s dockside. Sure enough, his men were waiting there, canvas sheets covering the sea-chests filled with Nehekharan treasure. The Golden Magus’ crew had already extended a boarding ramp towards the dock and the sorcerer was striding towards Roth’s men, flanked by bald, bare-chested ogres with more piercings than a Stirlander’s dartboard. His arms were flung wide in a gesture of magnanimous welcome. Roth whistled hard and sharp, attracting the gaze of Ghow Southman and Old Ruger, and motioned them to bring the sea-chests aboard.

Five minutes later, the sea-chests had been lugged on board the top deck of Flaming Scimitar. The Magus was just about managing not to jump up and down with excitement as Roth’s men jimmied open the outer casings.

“It’s Lustrian gold, is it not? Lustrian? It’s heavy enough. We all know you have been there, Jaego. They say the lizards value gold less than pig iron, but they will kill a whole nation just to retrieve a stone plaque. There are not any stone plaques in there, are there, Jaego? Just gold, eh? Ha ha! Ah, and so very much of it, by the look of things. I count fourteen… no, sixteen chests. Oh, Jaego, this better not be one of our little jests, or it will be the plank for you. O-ho, the plank for a prank. Ha ha!”

Ghow Southman shook his head in barely concealed scorn, piercings jangling, and ordered his men to open the sea-chests. They did indeed contain crown jewels.

They also contained more gold than any of the crew had seen in their lifetime.

“Nehekharan, actually,” said Roth, staring out at the horizon. “Zandrian, to be precise. I lost two hundred and twenty men securing it. I don’t think the King of Zandri was very happy about it. He sent half a legion to get it back.”

For once, the Magus was lost for words.

“Thank Manann we outdistanced them,” continued Roth. “The dead tend to be rather possessive, after all, especially those Nehekharan kings. Mad as scarabs, the

lot of them. They’ll hunt a man to the ends of the earth just for looking at their grave-treasures, let alone harbouring them on a ship.”

Beneath his golden body paint, the Magus paled. He plucked nervously at his rings, pulling them off and putting them back on again one after the other.

“Zandrian gold. Zandrian gold eh? Fresh from Zandri, no less. Here on my lovely floating palace.” He clasped his fat fingers together and did a strange little dance.

“Amanhotep’s hoard, then, it must be. King Amenhotep the Intolerant; let us give the desiccated old prune his proper title. I’m not afraid to name him, as profound a miser in death as he was in life.” The fact that the Magus’ jowls were shaking put the lie to his words.

“Well I never, this is an interesting turn of events,” said the sorcerer. “That makes my decision a good deal simpler, eh? I’m in this to the bitter end, am I not?”

The Magus frowned, then grimaced, then smiled like a crocodile. “Like it or not. Kill or be killed. Clever, Jaego. Very clever indeed.”