by Brian Daley
Maska had made it a point to broadcast his message in cleartext. Floyt now bent down to read the hard copy.
SIR:
UNLESS YOU AND YOUR FORCES WITHDRAW IMMEDIATELY UPON RECEIPT OF THIS COMMUNICATION, I SHALL CERTAINLY KICK YOUR ASS ALL OVER SEVERAL CONSTELLATIONS.
Weir had indeed withdrawn, one of his few reversals. He and Maska had later become friends. The Earther scowled at the reference to the beings who'd done so much damage to his homeworld.
"Dame Tiajo set all this up," Sintilla commented as they strolled along the glowing guidance strip on the floor. "The old man was never much for parading his accomplishments."
They stopped by another case. On black velvet rested a crude-looking little handgun. Alacrity could see at a glance that its primitive sights weren't very accurate. It lacked safety, trigger guard, and adjustment controls of any kind.
The placard next to it gleamed:
THE EMANCIPATOR PISTOL. THIS MASS-PRODUCED WEAPON WAS AIRDROPPED IN GREAT NUMBERS THROUGHOUT THE GRAND PRESIDIUM BY THE OPPOSITION LEAGUE INTELLIGENCE CORPS FOR USE BY REVOLUTIONARY GROUPS AND SYMPATHIZERS. THIS PARTICULAR UNIT IS THAT FOUND BY CASPAHR WEIR AT (STANDARD) AGE SIXTEEN YEARS.
"Never saw one before," Alacrity commented as they gazed down, faces reflected like ghosts in the crystal pane.
"The Opposition League seeded them on lots of planets, with instruction-beads. Weir found one early on."
Floyt listened to her then regarded the Emancipator dubiously. "It doesn't look very impressive."
"It was one-shot, short-range," the little woman answered.
"And with it, Weir made his first kill. See, the idea was, you found one on the ground someplace, stuck it in your shirt, and waited. It was for killing a sentry or whoever. Then you took his weapons and ammo and equipment.
"But those little gizmos are built to take it. You can recharge them from almost any energy source. The propulsion unit will shoot just about anything you can fit into the firing chamber: slugs, pebbles, pellets—practically anything."
As they moved on, Floyt inquired, "How is it that you know so much about the Emancipator?"
"Weir told me."
They halted. "You knew him?" Alacrity demanded. The peppy little extrovert in rompers didn't look like the type to hobnob with interstellar rulers.
"Sort of. He let me interview him, from time to time, the last few years. I'm the only correspondent who's been permitted to cover the funeral, didn't you know?" She winked merrily. "It was Weir's stated wish, so there wasn't much Tiajo could do about it except stick me out in Riffraff Alley."
"Who're you working for?" Alacrity asked tersely.
"Oh, I free-lance," she informed him brightly.
Floyt was listening with only half an ear, still thinking about the Emancipator. Of the vast number dropped, of the fraction of those found and the percentage of those actually used, only one had fallen into the hands of a Caspahr Weir. But that had been sufficient. The truth was more astounding than anything in the penny dreadfuls.
"What was he like, Weir?"
Sintilla turned to Floyt. Alacrity waited for the answer as she pondered for a moment. "Y'know, Hobart, damn it, I've never been able to answer that one in a few words. If at all. A very complex man who always made simplicity work for him. Lots of inner conflicts, but a great sense of humor. Everything they called him was at least a little bit true: savior and opportunist, ruthless and compassionate. See what I'm driving at?"
"I'll have to think about it."
Much of Frostpile was closed in preparation for the various devotional services and rites or off-limits for security reasons.
"Which is too bad," Sintilla remarked, "because the palace would actually remind you of a lively little community. There's the Frostpile All Volunteer Light Opera Company, and the Invincibles' joints, like the Hazardous Duty Rathskeller, sports clubs—"
"What about gambling?" Alacrity was quick to inquire, with an avaricious gleam in his eyes. "Cribbage? Two-ups? Marbles?"
She chuckled, "Uh-huh! Also dice, egg jousting, and, I suppose, pillow fights. But you might as well forget 'em; Tiajo doesn't want guests mingling with the hired help."
Alacrity's face fell.
Floyt tut-tutted. "Oh, cheer up; you can always cheat yourself at solitaire."
"It's not the same thing, Ho."
Sintilla, who appeared to be on familiar terms with many of the people in the place, led the two to a high tower shaped like a shark's fin. They found an empty exedra, and the woman showed no hesitation in ordering refreshments.
They looked out over the palace stronghold. Frostpile was being readied for many diverse activities. Complex, highly technical sporting apparatus was being tested; in an enormous open area, Invincibles and Celestials were drilling. In another—Floyt couldn't tell what was going on there.
"They're gearing up for the Hunt," Sintilla said.
"Hunt?" It was a sport long unpracticed on Earth. "Disgusting. I'm surprised anyone would have anything to do with it."
"Fine, because we're not going to," Alacrity put in. "Too many chances for, ah, mishaps."
"You'll be there if you want your inheritance, Hobart," Sintilla informed him. "Those Severeemish'll make sure of that; even Tiajo won't cross them."
The two wasted a few seconds in protestation, then Sintilla elaborated. When Weir had accepted the fealty of the Severeemish, he'd also accepted the obligation to live up to their Observances and the Usages thereof. Most of those involved what amounted to lip service. Others, like those surrounding the death of a liege lord, were different.
For the Inheritors, there must be proof of respect and custom, in the form of games, a Hunt, and the drinking of something called the Thorn Cup. If Weir's successors failed to keep to that, the Severeemish would have, by their lights, just cause to consider their obligations and fealty at an end.
"And Redlock and Tiajo can't afford that," Sintilla finished. "The Severeemish are too valuable as allies, and too dangerous as potential enemies. Hobart will have to participate or be disinherited."
"Dandy," Alacrity groaned. Down below, he could see preparations for the Hunt being made, where she'd pointed them out. Invincibles were inspecting weapons, portable shooting blinds, vehicles and aircraft of assorted types, and hunting beasts.
"Wait a minute, Sintilla," Floyt began.
"Why don't you call me Tilla? Most people do."
"Tilla, then. I have to participate. Does that mean I don't necessarily have to win anything? Or kill anything?"
She nodded perkily. "That's the way I understand it."
"Listen, that's not so bad, Alacrity." Certainly, it wasn't enough to interfere with his compelling urge to see his mission through.
Alacrity rubbed his chin. "What's this Thorn Cup?"
"Nothing, really. And there's the formal dinner tonight, but that's—"
"Nothing, really," Alacrity predicted. "How formal?"
"To tell you the truth, it's an overdone get-acquainted bash. They won't go in for speeches or anything, if that's what you're worried about. Or for lamentations and mourning, either; that's considered bad taste. And, of course, the residents of Riffraff Alley will probably be thoroughly snubbed. Anyway, we've got some time before then."
"For what, Tilla?" Floyt wondered.
"This." She pulled off her expensive little proteus and set it for sound recording, placing it on the table between them.
"Now, Hobart, what can you tell my readers about the decadent sexual practices of Old Terra?"
Chapter 11
Heterodyning
When Sintilla showed up at their suite to collect them for dinner, they were a little logy, having transferred from Bruja's evening, via the short voyage inboard King's Ransom, to the early afternoon of Epiphany's twenty-hour day. A brief nap hadn't helped much.
Soon they had found themselves in early evening again. The suite door bloomed for them, and they went forth.
If Frostpile by day was an enchantment, by
night it was very nearly overpowering. It glowed like gauzy daylight, sending rainbow rays dancing and patterning in the sky. Free-floating lightshapes—hoops and polygons, globes and spirals—roamed, throwing bright, colorful rays. Other illuminations flared throughout the place, things resembling gemstone candle flames, darting firewisps, and intricate whorls; some were stationary in nooks or sconces, while others gave the impression of being capriciously and joyously alive. The great corridors radiated a milky luminescence.
The bouyant little freelancer literally took them in hand, walking between the two as they entered the cyclopean dining hall.
The Inheritors were few, but there were hundreds of family friends, escorts, consorts, cohorts, representatives, acquaintances, and observers. As regarded attire, the gathering made the merriment at the Sockwallet lashup drab by comparison. It resembled a combination Mardi Gras, costume ball, and saturnalia, in dress if not in behavior.
Though many were no taller than he himself, Floyt was again impressed with the extreme height so common among non-Earthers. Even Alacrity was far from being a standout in that crowd.
One young couple apparently felt completely proper in the nude and depilated except for dramatized brows and lashes, and emitting glowing auras, he in red and she in blue. Alacrity suspected that the generators were hidden in their abundant jewelry.
A resident of Harvest Home lumbered by in his segmented, artificial carapace. A Konigswold grandee swaggered past, bereft of his traditional weapons harness for the duration of the High Truce.
Thanks to the Earthservice psychprop planners, though, Floyt drew attention from all quarters. He wore white tie and black tails, batwing collar, dancing pumps, starched shirt, vest, and pearl studs. He also wore a watch chain, without a watch, but with his wonderment for a fob. His Inheritor's belt somehow managed not to look incongruous with his formal attire. Floyt couldn't have been more a figure out of legend if he'd worn the Regalia of Pharaoh.
Alacrity somehow felt proud when he saw all those O-shaped mouths aimed their way as he, Floyt, and Sintilla wound toward their table. The breakabout was wearing a dress shipsuit, a tight-fitting garment that made him look like a jetskate racer. Sintilla wore a riotously multicolored variation on her trademark rompers.
The hall was a looming, endless-seeming place warmed by every manner of light effect: free-floating and circulating, reflected and directed. They were of all colors, ranging from muted to dazzling. Alacrity spotted drones sailing lazily overhead, roving inconspicuously.
Tables and seating, eating and drinking utensils, and place settings had been painstakingly arranged, individualized for the outlandish assortment of guests. Some tables floated; one, for the Overseer of Wayward, looked very much like a well-anchored trough. Around the room, stemware glittered and alloys shone; rich fabrics vouched for Tiajo's hospitality.
Gently luminescent seating holos hovered over the crowd, descending and rising in a stately cycle to indicate tables. Some of the tables had been constructed for nonhuman diners, a few of whom were in environmental containers of various types; their gathering at one particular table put Alacrity in mind of a space station with wildly different vessels moored around it.
Floyt noticed that, unlike the Bruja and the sealed habitats of Luna, Frostpile permitted smoking; a bewildering intermixture of fumes drifted to him. Just then he was approached by a portly man with a carefully tended white beard and an engaging smile. The man wore fine robes and a sort of surplice and an Inheritor's belt. He offered his hand, Earth style.
"Citizen Floyt? I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance, sir! Allow me to introduce m'self; Endwraithe, board member, Bank of Spica."
Alacrity was watching carefully. The Central Bank of Spica was the closest thing humanity had to a common banking house. Floyt's own travel voucher had been drawn against it, and its notes were the most reliable medium of exchange there was. And here was one of its senior officers buttonholing Functionary 3rd Class Hobart Floyt.
"This isn't the time or place for it, but I'd just like to talk to you at some point in the near future. The bank is always interested in opportunities for proper placement of its venture capital, or in discussing matters with a prospective major investor."
The Earther stammered a reply. The banker patted his arm. "I'll be talking to you, m'boy." He departed through the crowd.
Sintilla said, "Hobart, I don't know if you realize this, but there're whole mercantile dynasties that'd cheerfully sacrifice their firstborn for an offer like that."
"I haven't really felt normal since I climbed off that bicycle," Floyt sighed. "Alacrity, what did you—"
But the breakabout wasn't listening. A woman was wending her way in their general direction. Sintilla followed Alacrity's gaze and clucked disappointedly. "Is that your taste? An ice sculptor's wet dream?"
She looked to be about Alacrity's age. Certainly she was close to his height, slim-waisted, with ample breasts and hips. Weighty ringlets of chalk-blond hair framed her face and tumbled around athlete's shoulders.
She wore sandals of strung cornelian, their color matching her lips, and what looked like a strategic black fog, which drifted in slow migration around her body without ever quite making complete revelations. Her skin was a taut, almost gleaming white with little flesh tone to it.
"Probably gene-engineered." Sintilla humphed.
Alacrity, eyeing the woman's wide, mobile mouth, discovered that his own lips had parted. It took him only an instant to conclude that her high-cheekboned face was perfect.
"Don't you ever think about anything but your libido?" Floyt reproved.
"I'm at that awkward stage: adulthood," Alacrity threw back over his shoulder as he moved off to intercept her.
She took in the working spacer's outfit, the wide, oblique eyes that might almost be an animal's, and the wavy, silver-in-gray banner of hair. Her expression was all good-natured weariness, Oh, go ahead and try, then, if you really must. All in the midst of his infatuation, he was irked.
Long-necked, she held her squarish chin low, so that her big hazel eyes gazed up at him through sooty lashes.
"Is she really?" Floyt asked Sintilla. "Gene-engineered, I mean."
The journalist shrugged. "That's one rumor. She's the Nonpareil, Dincrist's daughter." When she saw the Terran's blank look, she amplified, "Another Inheritor, a very important man in interstellar shipping. She's his only child."
Floyt plunged after his escort with a feeling of dread, drawing near just in time to hear him introduce himself.
"Good evening; my name is Alacrity," he said with a lopsided fleer. "I'm with the athletic certification board. When will it be convenient for me to try out your recreational equipment?" He was counting on the idiotic look to make it work.
Arriving at the breakabout's side, Floyt smothered a groan. But the Nonpareil burst out in a full-throated laugh, managing, "Well, the name fits you!"
"Fitzhugh is right. Oh, er, this is Hobart Floyt."
She saw the Inheritor's belt and took in the swank formal outfit as she extended her hand. "A pleasure."
Floyt took it, not sure what to do with it. Just then a man appeared at the Nonpareil's side. He was taller than Alacrity, very fit-looking in a patrician way, middle-aged, with hair the color of his daughter's. He had the handsome tan of a titled outdoorsman, though, and wore an Inheritor's belt over his stylish dalmatica. He looked apoplectic.
"Oh dear me," Sintilla said softly from where she'd brought up the rear behind Floyt.
The Terran inserted himself into the situation with a confidence he didn't feel.
"Ah, Citizen Dincrist and, ah, Nonpareil, good evening. I am Hobart Floyt, of Terra." Without turning aside, he told his companion, "Our table is this way, Alacrity."
Dincrist seemed puzzled by Floyt's origin and the matchless white tie and tails. He said, "Nice to have met you, sir. In the future, please be kind enough to remember that I am Captain Dincrist. Come, my dear."
She incli
ned her head to them, one white curl bobbing across her eye, making her look mischievous. Then the Nonpareil went off on her father's arm.
"Alacrity, you have all the subtlety of an equivalent mass of falling masonry."
"Just being sociable, Tilla."
"You should've ignored her, Alacrity," Floyt put in. "Our mission, remember?" He didn't see Sintilla's eyes shift from one to the other.
Alacrity sighed in the Nonpareil's wake. "There isn't that much conditioning in the entire galaxy, rig."
The journalist took him by the elbow. "Feeding time, Fitzhugh."
* * * *
Sintilla had filled them in on those other least welcome mourners and Inheritors who infested Riffraff Alley. They began to show up as the trio was getting seated at a table set as far to one side as it was possible to be.
There was a woman known as Stare Skill, a naturalist and xenologist, wearing her belt. A sad-eyed, lean woman in her fifties, she was famous for her work among the native sapients of a planet humans called Ifurin, which lay within the late Weir's realm. She wore no makeup, and her hair was short, for easy tending. She was dressed in a simple frock and low-heeled, comfortable shoes.
She arrived with her traveling companion, a member of the species she'd spent most of her adult life studying. Most humans found their language extremely difficult to pronounce. Weir's task-force commander, upon making regrettably warlike first contact with them on their home-world, had called them Djinn. The name had endured.
This one was typical of the breed. If a satyr had evolved under more than one and a half gravities, developing the rolling gait and intermittent knuckles-walking of an ape, he might resemble a Djinn. This one was shorter than Sintilla while walking erect, and a good deal more so now. He was a being of enormous cross section, with amazing musculature bulging on his long arms and bandy legs. He had jaws like a rock crusher, and jutting tusks.
