by Brian Daley
One wall and part of the ceiling had been adjusted for transparency. Floyt gazed up for a moment at Epiphany's larger moon, Guileless Giles, and its smaller companion, the Thieving Magpie, with its bright flecks and shadow shapes. The Strewn couldn't be seen, due to the luminosity of Frostpile itself.
Alacrity became aware of low, melodious background sounds. He glanced at the terrace. There he saw what looked like a churning, glimmering nebula hanging stationary in midair a meter off the mosaic floor.
It was a five-meter-high mass of phase portraits and whirling brume, eddies and hazy adumbrations. It gave off tonalities and a deep, nearly subsonic hum.
"That is a Causality Harp, Master Fitzhugh," he heard Dame Tiajo say. "It is rather like wind chimes."
Causality? Can she be serious? He boggled. At another time, the Causality Harp would've captured Alacrity's gaze and locked the breath in his chest, but not then, wronged and resentful as he felt.
Tiajo sat in a floating pillow-lounge to one side of Weir's enormous bed and its medical appurtenances. Invincibles were stationed around the room.
Dorraine was perched charmingly on one corner of a slab-bench with her father, First Councillor Inst, standing by her side. Redlock, hands clasped behind his back, was standing near a gargantuan black iron fireplace cast in the shape of a conch shell. In it, coffeewood logs burned, giving off a rich pungency.
The Earther stopped and made a half bow, not sure that the Earthservice would approve of obeisance to an off-worlder but sensing that some courtesy was in order-particularly in view of the looks he was getting from the old woman and the governor. Either through truculence or because no demonstration would be expected of him, Alacrity merely halted and stood.
With a sweep of her hand, Tiajo asked Floyt, "You are familiar with that?"
For the first time his gaze went to the Weir family tree, which filled the entire bowl of the room behind him, where Halidome's light would shine on it in the morning, and through it and the translucent wall in the evening. Floyt had to remind himself where he was and what he was about; otherwise, he'd have been lost in the immense grandeur of the tree's detailed mosaic.
It was wrought of exotic gemstones and nodes of varicolored light, the most intricate and gorgeous thing he'd ever seen. He'd heard that it was linked to a data bank, but saw no peripherals. Weir had only undertaken research into his origins and construction of the tree in the final years of his life; Floyt wondered what it might have become if Weir had had more time.
He found his voice answering, "I know of it, ma'am. But this is the first time I've ever actually—"
"Of course, of course," she snapped. "That's what I meant. How could you ever have seen it before?" Her inflection rankled Floyt, but he was used to holding his peace in the presence of authority. He thought, If I had the wealth to build it, my own tree would be a dozen times the size of this one, old woman!
"What I wish to know is what information my brother drew from your"—she made a deprecating gesture with the baton she still carried, which now gave off a softer glow—"your pastime."
Floyt looked at the tree again, skimming, reading greedily. Grandam Tiajo did something with the baton; a pencil of light sprang from it, to touch a node in the tree at random. The node lit up, and a gentle female voice filled the chamber.
"Casimir Weir, born approximately 4-2-2806 Standard. Raised on Shaitan and captured during the Agate Incursion." There were projections of Shaitan, the armies and machines that had fought during the Incursion, and of Casimir himself, an intense young man in ill-fitting uniform. "Prisoner-of-war status commuted to—"
Tiajo cut it off, then set the baton aside, waiting for Floyt's reply.
"Some of my findings have been published offworld—off Terra, that is. Parts of it touched on the late Bloodthrone Autocracy, but there's only a little about that here. Some dealt with the imported genetic material used in the development of the ruling house of Valhalla. One monograph touched on the royalty of Agora; they were a very purebred line. And certain of Duke Redlock's ancestors."
Floyt didn't add that Earthservice had used that kind of research as another example of how Earth's descendants had abandoned her.
"But in the main, I would say, my work made it easier for offworlders to trace their Terran roots; to discover how they're linked to the Homeworld."
"And for that my brother included you in his will and brought you these many light-years?"
Floyt spread his hands. "I can't think of anything else, ma'am."
"Hmph! I suppose you're aware, citizen, that not even I know the nature of some of my brother's bequests? Have you any idea what he might have left you in his will?"
The question was somewhat improper, Floyt knew, but he had no intention of crossing this old harpy if he could avoid it. "None whatsoever. It came as a total surprise, believe me."
"Very well. Thank you for your time, young man."
He realized he'd been dismissed. He was headed for the door with a still-silent Alacrity at his heels when she called after him. "Oh, by the way, Master Fitzhugh."
They stopped and looked back. She said icily, "You will observe decorum henceforth, is that understood? The High Truce is not to be violated. Anyone who doesn't comport himself properly will suffer for it. The games, the Hunt, the Willreading, and the drinking of the Thorn Cup—they'll all be shown unfailing respect. That's my solemn promise on the matter."
"I understand, Dame Tiajo." Alacrity sounded enervated and resigned.
As they trudged off looking for a corridor tram, Floyt asked, "What's a Thorn Cup?"
* * * *
"It's a custom of the Severeemish," Sintilla elucidated the next morning as they headed for the outdoor sportsfest. "And Weir had to abide by it. Now his heirs have to too, or the Severeemish'll consider their fealty and their treaty void."
"Which they're itching to do," Floyt recalled.
Sintilla nodded vigorously. "And they'd be awfully tough enemies, at a time when Redlock and Tiajo don't need any more." She pursed her lips in thought, then confessed, "I really can't blame the Severeemish too much, though; they've fought wars for Weir's realm ever since the original treaty. They guard almost a quarter of it against all comers."
"But the Thorn Cup?" Alacrity, bringing up the rear, persisted. He seemed to have forgotten or put aside the incident of the preceding evening; no one else made any mention of it. But Floyt wondered if the issue could really have been set aside so easily.
"The Severeemish upper-uppers take the blossom of a beaker plant and wind a rider vine on it," she told them. "And when it's time, they yank it up and drink a toast to the departed."
"Is that all?" Alacrity rapped. "What's all the commotion about?"
"Riders are a sort of parasite, Bright Eyes," Sintilla told him. "They mimic whatever plants they contact, so there's never any telling what you're getting into when you drink a Thorn Cup—especially since the Severeemish spend a lot of time breeding new herbs and teas and developing drugs and mucking about with pollens and molds in their gardens."
"Poison?" Alacrity frowned.
"Not anymore, the way I heard it. But allergic reactions, even anaphylaxis; in old-time Desideratum there were fatalities, but the doctors'll be standing right there for the Cup, and there're no toxins. The toast might be unpleasant, but all the Inheritors will have to drink—you too, Hobart."
They'd come out onto the largest of the areas set aside for the day's activities. Not yet adapted to Epiphany's day-night cycle, the Terran stared about tiredly. Alacrity had already adjusted.
Whether or not Dame Tiajo felt the Severeemish Observances a proper tribute to her late brother, she had no intention of giving provocation. By her decree, therefore, a spirited gymkhana was in progress. The meteorological engineers had provided a perfect day of cloudless, yellow-blue sky and light, warm breezes. Frostpile was decked out grandly with all sorts of banners and flags; Severeemish weren't much for mourning.
Though Floyt still wore
his Inheritor's belt, he'd selected what he'd hoped would be an inconspicuous outfit from among those offered him. He wore a loose sweatsuit and thick-soled running shoes, both in muted brown. The day's Sintillan rompers were very sporty. Alacrity had on a pair of exercise shorts and light track shoes.
Before them lay buzzball tanks, track and field events, and an archery range. And Frostpile's staff had provided for everything else from weightlifting to jet-luge racing, farracko to volleyball. To ensure that appearances were maintained, many members of the household had been pressed into service as participants.
There were variable-gee gymnastics, martial arts competitions, and a battle-paddle tournament. Overhead, air-bikes, gossamer combinations of muscle-powered aircraft and sailplane, circled and swooped, their crews pedaling furiously. They drew Floyt's rapt gaze every now and again, and the others would wait for him to catch up.
The three passed trampolines, rings, parallel bars, and balance beams. Trapeze enthusiasts flew and swung above them. A heated, competition-size swimming pool had been set up. Those who were so inclined could try their skill at ring-toss or duckjack. Tiajo had drawn the line at diversions like fangster-baiting and slash-dodge, however; the Severeemish hadn't pressed the point, much as they adored sports involving danger, injury, and bloodshed.
A man approached Floyt. Remembering the triggermen at the Sockwallet lashup, Alacrity was watchful.
"Citizen Floyt? Hello, I'm the Presbyter Kuss, Church of the Universal Light."
The presbyter was about Floyt's age. He wore his plentiful brown locks in a windswept hairstyle and had a Vandyke beard. He was dressed in copper-colored shorts, running soleskins, and an Inheritor's belt.
When Sintilla had pointed the man out the night before, he'd looked more the churchman, arrayed in a gilt cassock and filigreed pectoral with its gem-set Tudor flower, the symbol of his faith. Now, beaded with perspiration, a towel around his shoulders, he was the picture of rugged good health.
"How do you do, Presbyter?" Floyt accepted the preferred grip.
"Oh, please, call me Kuss." The cleric grinned. "Look, I don't want to distract you from the, er, Observance here, but I'd like to get a few minutes of your time, if you can spare them, in the near future. I'd just like to fill you in on what the church has been doing—sort of between us Inheritors, if you see what I mean."
"Oh. I—I suppose so," answered Floyt, who shared the common, automatic deference toward clergy.
"Thank you, friend!" Presbyter Kuss dipped his head to the trio, passing his spread-fingered hand through the air in a kind of benediction. Then he jogged briskly on his way.
"Wants to get you alone for a little chat, hm?" Alacrity pondered. "Now why would that be, d'you suppose?"
"The Church of the Universal Light is very political," Sintilla supplied. "Weir secretly gave them money and assistance—so the rumors ran. He never actually confirmed it. The Universals worked against his enemies in a number of places, though."
"What would that have to do with me?"
"Nobody knows what your inheritance is, Ho," Alacrity reminded him. "With Weir gone, Kuss probably wants to make sure the gravy boat doesn't set sail."
"He's going to be disappointed if—" Floyt began, about to mention Resources Reclamation, forgetting that Sintilla was standing there.
"Anyway, he's not getting you off alone for some one-on-one conversion," Alacrity broke in hurriedly.
"That's fine with me."
"It's this Hunt that's still got me vapored," the breakabout continued.
"Why?" Sintilla asked.
"I don't like sport hunting, just for starters. But mainly, the idea of all those people stumbling around with all those guns has me skittish." Floyt voiced agreement; Sintilla looked at them uncomprehendingly.
They didn't elaborate, continuing their way instead. At least Inheritors weren't actually required to perform any formal acts of athletics. The three tossed a few tuck-sticks at targets and tried their skill on the jounce pads. All the while, Sintilla gently, genially pumped the companions for more information about their backgrounds. Alacrity finally asked why she was so interested.
"I'm planning to write a feature about this whole whoop-up, remember? You two are part of the story. I'm just earning a living, boys."
"Well earn it someplace else; we're bystanders," Alacrity shot back.
"Sorry, but that's not the way my readers would see it," she answered.
They came to a spot where Stare Skill and Brother Grimm had been accosted by the two Severeemish bodyguards, the Corporeals.
The woman had made little pretense of dressing for the day's nominal purpose, wearing a loose shift and thongs.
The Djinn stood at her elbow and stared daggers at the Corporeals.
Up close, the guards were particularly impressive, towering over the woman and the humanoid. Their crimson mouths and tongues made a startling contrast with their putty-gray skin; their muscles bulged. One of them was addressing Stare Skill.
"But you do not even put on the appearance of participating in the games." Seeing the approaching trio, he indicated them. "At least these ones make some effort to be part of things, feeble as those are."
"Just leave us out of it, Bulk Shipment," Alacrity said.
The other Corporeal toed a heavy barbell. "Why don't you show your sincerity and exercise with this, old female?" They chuckled coarsely.
That apparently offended Brother Grimm. "She cannot," he snarled at the Corporeals. "The equipment is broken—"
Waddling over to the barbell, he hoisted it easily. Showing his fearsome teeth, hands trembling, the heavy-gee native bent the bar across his knee.
"—as you can both plainly see," he finished, tossing it aside.
If anything happens, I want him on our side, Alacrity decided at once.
Sintilla drew Stare Skill and Grimm away, leaving the Corporeals to contemplate the mangled barbell.
"It seems that Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf are so eager for an unfortunate occurrence that they've decided to create one if necessary," Stare Skill commented.
"If so, you'd have a difficult time proving it," Floyt pointed out.
"The situation here is so very peculiar," Brother Grimm declared, once more the mild-mannered companion. "It reminds me of the story of the wolf and the fox … "
While the Djinn drew his parallel, they made their way to the buzzball tanks. There were three, of which only one was in operation. The tanks' controls and those of other equipment nearby were linked to a games computer, a field unit. Close by the unit was an area for maintaining mitts, helmets, and other protective and playing gear. Tools, tubes of adhesive, and bottles of spray insulation littered the place, along with odds and ends of padding and webbing.
The five stopped by the first tank, inside which Admiral Maska was playing against Dincrist. Floyt stared, intrigued. It was the first such game he'd ever seen. He felt bad about what had happened the previous evening, and did his best to keep his aversion to aliens from coming to the fore.
Maska was a strong competitor. He and Dincrist bounced off the walls, ceiling, and floor of the tank, turning in midair as the gravity field was rotated, tumbling and landing neatly, rebounding from the resilient, transparent panes. They hurled and batted with their bulky, insulated mitts, throwing the charged, cracking white ball of energy at the black scoring ring. The ring disappeared from the center of a wall or other surface, to reappear elsewhere, whenever the gravity shifted. The two wore safety helmets and assorted pads.
The tank's field was set at one-quarter gee. Srillan gravity was close enough to Standard that neither player had an advantage in that respect. Dincrist, smiling and tanned, wearing white shorts, his silver hair waving and flashing, was the image of the aristocratic sportsman. He was also a pretty good buzzball player.
Alacrity had found out a little more about the man and his daughter. For one thing, Dincrist's claim to the rank of captain was based on a mere two voyages made as figurehead commander
of one of his family's luxury cruise ships while a real skipper actually ran things. Alacrity himself had considerably more command time than that, if in vessels of less prestige.
The Nonpareil had been raised in a protective, almost cloistered atmosphere until her mother's death. An only child, she now supervised the running of her father's numerous large homes, acted as hostess, and aided Dincrist in the family business. Dincrist's company and Weir had had many dealings over the years, and it was said that in recent years the Director had sometimes solicited Dincrist's advice.
Now Dincrist pressed hard for a final goal, the score standing at eight-all, the winning point available to either player. Random changes generated by the field unit kept both contenders cautious. Dincrist propelled himself upward and hurled the spitting, glowing sphere with one mitted hand, just as the gravity shifted.
The floor under him became a wall. He spun, to land well, while Maska made the change with an agile hop. The buzzball arced from its intended course, its ballistics changed by the gee shift. The target circle had moved to the center of what had been the ceiling but was now, to those inside the tank, a wall. To those watching from outside, it was still the ceiling, and the players were standing on the wall, the soles of their shoes presented to the onlookers. Maska leapt and caught the buzzball.
Dincrist moved for a blocking jump, but the Srillan kicked off a wall and changed directions. He hurled with both mitts, overhand.
Somehow, Dincrist was suddenly there, canny as an old pro. He caught the flaring globe in midair, coming dangerously close to receiving a painful shock from the scoring ring. Then he whirled, with impetus built up on his leap, released the energy ball neatly, and scored.
The stroboscopic Scoreboard flashed Dincrist's victory. Maska relaxed languidly. The gravity gently returned to normal, drawing the contestants to the true floor. Sideliners entered the tank to hand Dincrist a towel and Maska a scent cloth, congratulating both on a good game. Several tried to claim a match against the winner.
Alacrity saw the Nonpareil standing nearby, taking it all in proudly. She wore a daringly cut exercise maillot of clinging, glistening opalescent fabric.
