Despite himself Navarre felt a sense of pity for the defeated-looking monarch. Evidently Kausirn had usurped more of the Overlord’s power than Navarre had suspected.
“A year has passed since I was last here,” Navarre said. “In that time—”
“In that time,” Joroiran said mournfully, “Kausirn has taken increasing responsibility upon himself. About my only remaining official duty is to hold the Threeday audiences—and if he didn’t fear the force of public opinion he’d soon be doing that himself.”
Navarre’s face took on an expression of shock. “You mean that while I’ve been gone he’s seized some of the regal power?”
“I’m little more than a prisoner in the palace these days, Navarre.”
“He said you spent your time meditating, in serious contemplation,” Navarre began.
“I?” Joroiran pointed to the endless rows of books lining the walls. “You know as well as I, Navarre, that I never touch these books. I stare at them day after day. They haunt me with their memories of the past—of Overlords who ruled, instead of being ruled themselves.” Joroiran flushed. “But I talk on too much. I sent you on a mission. What of it?”
Anticipation gleamed in the Overlord’s sallow face.
“Failed,” Navarre said bluntly, at once.
“Failed?”
“The Chalice is a hoax, a legend, a will-o’-the-wisp. For a year I pursued it, searching trail after trail, always finding nothing but dreams and phantasms at the end. After a year of such pursuit I decided I could be of better use to Your Majesty back here on Jorus. I returned—and found this.”
Joroiran’s face was bleak. Disappointment was evident. “I had hoped you might find the Chalice. But to live forever? Why? For what, now that—” He shook his head. “But you have come back. Perhaps things will change.”
Impulsively Navarre seized the Overlord’s hand. “I feared Kausirn’s encroachments, but there was no way of pointing out the pattern of things to Your Majesty a year ago. Now that I have returned—and the shape of events is clearer to all—I can help you. You let Kausirn poison your mind against me.”
“A fool’s error,” Joroiran said bitterly.
“But not of permanent harm. The Lyrellan will certainly not be able to defy you openly once you restore me—”
The sudden sound of clicking relays made the Earthman whirl. He spun to see the Overlord’s door fly open. Kausirn stepped into the chamber.
“Away from that traitor, Sire!”
Navarre stared into the snout of a sturdy blaster held firmly in the Lyrellan’s polydactyl hand.
Kausirn strode swiftly to the center of the room and ordered Navarre to one side with a brusque gesture. The Earthman obeyed; it was obvious that Kausirn would relish an opportunity to use that blaster.
Suddenly Joroiran drew himself up with a pale semblance of regality and said, “Why the gun, Kausirn? This is most unseemly. I have reinstated Navarre. As of this moment he is your fellow Adviser. I won’t tolerate your uncivil behavior in here.”
Good for him, Navarre thought, smiling inwardly. At least he had succeeded in winning Joroiran over, then. But would it matter, with Kausirn armed?
Turning, the Lyrellan chuckled gravely. “I mean no disrespect, Sire, but I took the liberty of listening outside Your Majesty’s door for some moments. He told you, did he not, that he had failed to find the Chalice?”
“He told me that,” the Overlord admitted. “What of it? The Chalice is only a legend. It was foolish of me to send him chasing it. If I hadn’t listened to you—”
“The Chalice exists,” the Lyrellan said tightly. “And Navarre would use it as a weapon against you!”
“He’s insane,” Navarre snapped. “I spent a year tracing the Chalice and found nothing but false trails. It was all a trick of his to get me from Jorus, Sire, but—”
“Silence,” Kausirn ordered. “Majesty, the Chalice is a crypt, located on the ancient planet Earth. It contained ten thousand sleepers—men and women of Earth, suspended since the days of Earth’s empire. I tell you Navarre has wakened these sleepers and plans to make them the nucleus of a re-established Terran empire. He intends the destruction of Jorus and all other worlds that stand in his way.”
Dumbstruck, Navarre had to fight to keep his mouth from sagging open in astonishment. How could Kausirn possibly know?
“This is incredible,” Navarre protested. “Sleepers, indeed! Sire, I ask you—”
“There is no need for discussion,” said Kausirn. “I have the proof with me.”
He drew a gleaming plastic message-cube from his tunic pocket and handed it to the Overlord. “Play this, Sire. Then judge which one of us betrays you and which seeks your welfare.”
Taking the cube, Joroiran stepped to one side and converted it to playback. Navarre strained his ears but was unable to pick up more than faint murmurs. When the message had run its course, the ruler returned, glaring bitterly at Navarre.
“I hardly know which of you to trust less,” he said somberly. “You, Kausirn, who has made a figurehead of me—or you, Navarre.” He scowled. “Earthman, you came in here with sweet words, but this cube tells me that every word was a lie. You would help overthrow Kausirn only to place yourself in command. I never expected treachery from you, Navarre.”
He turned to Kausirn. “Take him away,” he ordered. “Have him killed. And do something about these ten thousand awakened Earthmen. Send a fleet to Earth to destroy them.” Joroiran sounded near tears; he seemed to be choking back bitter sobs before each words. “And leave me alone. I don’t want to see you any more today, Kausirn. Go run Jorus, and let me weep.”
The little monarch looked from Kausirn to the stunned Earthman. “You are both betrayers. But at least Kausirn will allow me the pretense of ruling. Go. Away!”
“At once, Sire,” said the Lyrellan unctuously.
He jabbed the blaster in Navarre’s ribs. “Come with me, Earthman. The Overlord wishes privacy.”
Chapter Eight
The lower depths of the Overlord’s palace were damp and musty—intentionally so, to increase a prisoner’s discomfort. Navarre huddled moodily in a cell crusted with wall-lichens, listening to the steady pacing of the bulky Daborian guard outside.
Not even Kausirn had cared to kill him in cold blood. Navarre had not expected mercy from the Lyrellan, but evidently Kausirn was anxious to observe the legal formalities. There would be a public trial, its outcome carefully predetermined and its course well rehearsed, followed by Navarre’s degradation and execution.
It made sense. A less devious planner than Kausirn might have gunned Navarre down in a dark alcove of the palace and thereby rid himself of one dangerous enemy. But by the public exposure of Navarre’s infamy, Kausirn would not only achieve the same end but would also cast discredit on the entire line of Earthmen.
Navarre cradled his head in his hands, feeling the tiny stubbles of upshooting hair. For a year, he had let his hair grow; the year he had spent in the distant galaxy that held Earth and Procyon. But at the end of the year, when the seeding of Procyon was done and already half a thousand new Earthmen had been born, Helna and Domrik Carso and Navarre had come together, and they had decided the time had come for them to return to the main starways.
“It’s best,” Carso had growled. “You stay away too long and it’s possible Joroiran may decide to trace you. You never can tell. If we remain here, we may draw suspicion to the project. I vote that we go back.”
Helna had agreed. “I’ll return to Kariad, you to Jorus,” she told Navarre. “We can enter once again the confidences of our masters. Perhaps we can turn that to some use in the days to come.”
Now, trapped in a cell, Navarre wondered how Kausirn had found out his plans, how the Lyrellan had known that a new race of Earthmen was rising in Galaxy RGC18347. It was too accurate to be a mere guess. Had they been followed this past year?
Navarre frowned. Somehow his defenseless ten thousand would have to be warned. But
first—escape.
He squinted through the murk at the Daborian guard who paced without. Daborians were fierce warriors, thought Navarre, but the species was not overlong on brains. He eyed the tusked one’s seven-foot bulk appreciatively.
“Holla, old one, your teeth rot in your head!”
“Quiet, Sir Earthman. You are not to speak.”
“Am I to take orders from a moldering corpse of a warrior?” Navarre snapped waspishly. “Fie, old one. You frighten me not.”
“I am ordered not to speak with you.”
“For fear I’d befuddle your slender brain and escape, eh? Milord Kausirn has a low opinion of your kind, I fear. I remember him saying of old that a Daborian’s usefulness begins below the neck. Not so, moldy one?”
The Daborian whirled and peered angrily into Navarre’s cell. His polished tusks glinted brightly. Navarre put a hand between the bars and tugged at the alien’s painstakingly combed beard. The Daborian howled.
“It surprises me the beard did not come off in my hand,” Navarre said.
The Daborian grunted a curse and jabbed his fist through the bars; Navarre laughed, dancing lightly back. Mockingly he offered three choice oaths, from the safety of the rear of his cell.
The Daborian, he knew, could rend him into four quivering chunks if he ever got close enough. But that was not going to happen. Navarre stationed himself perhaps a yard from the bars and continued to rail at the guard.
Maddened, the Daborian reversed his gun and hammered at Navarre with the butt. The first wild swing came within an inch of laying open the Earthman’s skull; on the second, Navarre managed to seize the slashing butt. He tugged with sudden strength. He dragged the rifle halfway from the guard’s grasp, just enough to get his own hands on the firing stud.
The bewildered Daborian yelled just once before Navarre dissolved his face. A second blast finished off the electronic lock that sealed shut the cell.
Fifteen minutes later Navarre returned to the warm sunlight, a free man, in the garb of a Daborian guard.
Verru, the wigmaker of Dombril Street, was a pale, wizened little old Joran who blinked seven or eight times as the stranger slipped into his shop, locking the door behind him and holding a finger to his lips for silence.
Wordlessly, Navarre slipped behind the counter, grasped the wigmaker’s scrawny arm, and drew him back through the arras into his stockroom. There he said, “Sorry for the mystery, wigmaker. I feel the need for your services.”
“You are not a Daborian!”
“The face belies the uniform,” Navarre said. He grinned, showing neat, even teeth. “My tusks don’t quite meet the qualifications. Nor my scalp.” He lifted his borrowed cap. Verru’s eyes widened. “An Earthman?”
“Indeed. I’m looking for a wig for—ah—a masquerade. Have you anything in Kariadi style?”
The trembling wigmaker said, “One moment.”
He bustled through a score or more of boxes before producing a glossy black headpiece.
“Here!”
“Affix it for me,” Navarre said.
Sighing, the wigmaker led him to a mirrored alcove and sealed the wig to his scalp. Navarre examined his reflection approvingly. In all but color, he might pass for a man of Kariad.
“Well done,” he said. Reaching below his uniform for his money-pouch, he produced two green bills of Imperial scrip. One he handed to the wigmaker, saying, “This is for you. As for the other—go into the street and wait there until a Kariadi about my size comes past. Then somehow manage to entice him into your store, making use of the money.”
“This is very irregular. Why must I do these things, Sir Earthman?”
“Because otherwise I’ll have you flayed. Now go!”
The wigmaker went.
Navarre took up a station behind the shopkeeper’s door, clutching his gun tightly, and waited. Five minutes passed.
Then he heard the wigmaker’s voice outside, tremulous, unhappy.
“I beg you, friend. Step within my shop a while.”
“Sorry, wigmaker. No need for your trade have I.”
“Good sir, I ask it as a favor. I have an order for a wig styled in your fashion. No, don’t leave. I can make it worth your while. Here. This will be yours if you’ll let me sketch your hair style. It will be but a moment’s work …”
Navarre grinned. The wigmaker was shrewd.
“Well, if it’s only a moment, then. I guess it’s worth a hundred units to me if you like my hair style.”
The door opened. Navarre drew back and let the wigmaker enter. Behind him came a Kariadi of about Navarre’s general size and build.
Navarre brought his gun butt down with stunning force on the back of the Kariadi’s head, and caught him as he fell.
“These crimes in my shop, Sir Earthman—”
“Are in the name of the Overlord,” Navarre told the quivering wigmaker. He knelt over the unconscious Kariadi and began to strip away his clothing.
“Lock your door,” he ordered. “And get out your blue dyes. I have more work for you.”
The job was done in thirty minutes. The Kariadi, by this time awake and furious, lay bound and gagged in the wigmaker’s stockroom, clad in the oversize uniform of Joroiran’s Daborian guard. Navarre, a fine Kariadi blue in color from forehead to toes, and topped with a shining mop of black Kariadi hair, grinned at the grunting prisoner.
“You serve a noble cause, my friend. It was too bad you had to be treated so basely.”
“Mmph! Mgggl!”
“Hush,” Navarre whispered. He examined his image in the wigmaker’s mirror. Resplendent in a tight-fitting Kariadi tunic, he scarcely recognized himself. He drew forth the Kariadi’s wallet and extracted his money, including the hundred-unit Joran note the wigmaker had given him.
“Here,” he said, stuffing the wad of bills under the Kariadi’s leg. “I seek only your identity, not your cash.” He added another hundred-unit note to the wad, gave yet another to the wigmaker, and said, “You’ll be watched. If you free him before an hour has elapsed, I’ll have you flayed in Central Plaza.”
“I’ll keep him a month, Sir Earthman, if you command it.” The wigmaker was green with fright.
“An hour will be sufficient, Verru. And a thousand thanks for your help in this matter.” Giving the panicky old man a noble salute, Navarre adjusted his cape, unlocked the shop door, and stepped out into the street.
He hailed a passing jetcab.
“Take me to the spaceport,” he said, in a guttural Kariadi accent.
As he had suspected, Kausirn had posted guards at the spaceport. He was stopped by a pair of sleek Joran secret-service men—he recognized the tiny emblem at their throats, having designed it himself at a time when he was more in favor on Jorus—and was asked to produce his papers.
He offered the passport he had taken from the Kariadi. They gave it a routine look-through and handed it back.
“How come the look-through?” he asked. “Somebody back there said you were looking for a prisoner who escaped from the Overlord’s jail. There any truth in that?”
“Where’d you hear that story?”
Navarre shrugged innocently. “He was standing near the refreshment dials. Curious-looking fellow—he wore a hood, and kept his face turned away from me. Said the Overlord had captured some hot-shot criminal, or maybe it was an assassin. But he got away. Say, are Jorus’ dungeons so easily unsealed?”
The secret-service men exchanged troubled glances. “What color was this fellow?”
“Why, he was pink—like you Jorans. Or maybe he was an Earthman. I couldn’t see under that hood, of course, but he might very well have been shaven, y’know. And I couldn’t see his eyes. But he may still be there, if you’re interested.”
“We are. Thanks.”
Navarre grinned wryly and moved on toward the ticket booths as the secret-service men dashed down toward the direction of the refreshment dials. He hoped they would have a merry time searching through the crowd.
But the fact that he was effecting a successful escape afforded him little actual joy. The Lyrellan knew of his plans, now, and the fledgling colonies of Earthmen in Galaxy RGC18347 were in great danger.
He boarded the liner, cradled in, and awaited blast-off impatiently, consuming time by silently parsing the irregular Kariadi verbs.
Chapter Nine
Customs-check was swift and simple on Kariad. The Kariadi customs officers paid little attention to their own nationals; it was outworlders they kept watch for. Navarre merely handed over his passport, made out in the name of Melwod Finst, and nodded to the customs official’s two or three brief questions. Since he had no baggage, he obviously had nothing to declare.
He moved on, into the spaceport. The money-changing booths lay straight ahead and he joined the line, reaching the slot twenty minutes later. He drew forth his remaining Joran money, some six hundred units in all, and fed it to the machine.
Conversion was automatic; the changer clicked twice and spewed eight hundred and three Kariadi credit-bills back at him. He folded them into his pocket and continued on. There was no sign of pursuit, this time.
Deliberately he walked on through the crowded arcades for ten minutes more. Then, all seeming clear, he stepped into a public communicator booth, inserted a coin, and requested Information.
The directory-robot grinned impersonally at him. “Yours to serve, good sir.”
“I want the number of Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Marhaill.”
His coins came clicking back. The robot said, after the moment’s pause necessary to fish the data from its sponge-platinum memory banks, “Four-oh-three-oh-six K Red.”
Quickly Navarre punched out the number. On the screen appeared a diamond-shaped insignia framing an elaborate scrollwork M. A female voice said, “Lord Marhaill’s. With whom would you speak?”
“Helna Winstin. The Earthman to the Court.”
“And who calls her?”
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