by Brian Daley
He was small, a good deal shorter than Floyt, and lean into the bargain. He'd accepted natural aging; his face was networked with lines of care and years. The hairs on his head were white, few, and threadlike. His hands, clasped across his middle, were in embroidered military gauntlets, but their gnarled frailty could still be seen.
"He looks so tired," was what Floyt found himself saying. "So very used up. Doesn't he, Alacrity?"
Alacrity agreed. He bade the old man in a murmur, "Sleep well, old-timer."
"And thanks," Floyt blurted.
Alacrity turned to him. "Thanks for what, Ho?"
Floyt shrugged, trying to pin it down for himself. For being compelled to leave his homeworld, practically thrown out? For being placed in lethal danger? For an inheritance that was still an enigma? But there'd been star travel, too, and the Sockwallet Outfit; the grandeur of Frostpile and the exhilaration when Thistle showed her prop to Feather.
"For everything," Floyt decided.
Another of the deep tones echoed through Frostpile. Minister Seven Wars moved to a large, hand-carved planter in the center of the garden. Its decorations were the grotesque battle symbols and gargoyle masks of the Severeemish. Seven Wars began working at the base of the Thorn Cup.
In keeping with the Usages, the Cup was one of those nurtured in the innermost courts at the Holy Bastion on Desideratum, which was also called Severeem Prime. It had begun life as a beautiful beaker plant, with scalloped, bell-shaped blossom upturned, veined and tinted with every color imaginable.
It had been wound with a rider vine. The parasitic vine had become one with the beaker plant and had begun feeding off and ingeniously mimicking other plants, seeds, and spores it contacted.
Once the Severeemish had drunk the Thorn Cup as a test of sincere grief and bravery, and the worthiness to inherit or succeed. The Cup had often been lethal. Nowadays, drinking a Thorn Cup entailed only a certain unpleasantness. But the gardens of the Severeemish were always abundant with the herbs and flowers, molds and other vegetation they bred; an individual's reaction to any particular Thorn Cup was unpredictable.
Seven Wars parted the beaker plant's stem and the rider vine wrapped round it with fingers like metal talons. He ignored the dappling and bright warning colorations, and the triangular, oily blue leaves imitative of a keepaway.
From the vine dangled small pods containing spores copied by the rider from cloudscrub. Wheeze-moss clung to it too, and ersatz chokebemes. Sortie-Wolf handed his father a large, highly polished flask made from a jet-black tusk and crowned with a cuspstone cap and stopper of translucent beige. Even though the flask and its contents had been minutely examined, a detector drone, like a miniature mantaray, closed in overhead, aromatics sampler and optical surveillance pickup extended. The Severeemish were neither surprised nor offended; their hierarchy, too, had its intrigues and assassins.
Seven Wars held the flowering chalice without concern, unmindful of contact with the molds and leaves. He charged it with a full measure of syrupy green liquid. The minister raised the Cup to Weir and, as pourer, took the first sip.
The rest of the Inheritors were gathering around. Seven Wars held the Cup out to Tiajo, ignoring the oily blue keepaway leaves that brushed his knuckles and the back of his leathery paw.
The old woman took it carefully and held it in trembling hands. She raised the vessel to her late brother, then sipped. She sneezed and spilled a few drops as she moved it away from herself.
Redlock was quick to take the Cup from her as Tiajo sneezed again and her eyes brimmed over. But Floyt saw that they weren't simply allergy tears; her shoulders shook, and Redlock motioned aside for the moment a physician who would have offered her an eye-mist dispenser.
Redlock's breath rasped a little as he lifted the Cup to Weir; his skin wasn't as thick or leathery as that of a Severeemish; the keepaways immediately raised white welts. Dorraine was still off to one side, watching. Maska held out his hand; the governor passed the Cup to the admiral.
Maska's sensitive snout began to sniffle and run, and he too sneezed. His Srillan physiology was sufficiently like a human's that his eyes began to water and swell shut.
Dincrist, whose turn was next, held the Cup with elaborate wariness and a distinct lack of reverence. He took a deep breath and held it while he stole a quick sip. It was an ignominious performance, and Floyt thought he detected scorn on Tiajo's face between sneezes, but Dincrist showed no adverse effects.
The Cup continued its round. Household physicians moved in to attend those who'd already drunk. Two showed signs of anaphylaxis, requiring antishock and adrenaline injections. Hives were treated, and abrupt lymphatic swelling, agonizingly itchy eyes, and nasal passages were soothed and sneezing stopped.
Stare Skill's draught had her short of breath, the air making noise in her chest. Brother Grimm helped insure that the Cup didn't fall; no one took exception. Stare Skill finished the ritual, and Seven Wars refilled the chalice. Grimm supported Stare Skill as the xenologist inhaled a dilator-decongestant-antihistamine. The Observance went on.
When the Cup reached Floyt, all eyes were still with it as Dorraine was the only other Inheritor who had yet to drink. With a mental shrug, Floyt took the Cup in both hands and raised it to the funeral bier and its burden. The draught was bitter and sour and thick, but somehow invigorating, quickening.
Dorraine walked to Floyt, taking the Cup without caution. After lifting it to Weie, she drank deeply, inhaling the pollen afterward, running her hands over leaves and mold.
She handed the drained Cup back to Seven Wars. She showed no allergic reaction of any kind.
Floyt supposed that the immunization treatments she'd received over the years, plus her own natural immunities, had protected her. That was the rational explanation. But he found himself thinking, Who knows? Maybe she's got Agoran royal blood in her. Wouldn't that be a good joke on all of us?
A hand on his shoulder drew his attention to a grinning Alacrity. "Better let him give you an inhaler," the breakabout said, indicating a doctor with a jerk of his thumb.
"By head's a bit clogged," Floyt admitted stuffily, "but I dod't doe that I really deed a—"
Alacrity was chuckling. "Good God in the Void, man, your head's swelling up like a vacuum tent. Better do it."
Floyt did it. Alacrity wondered if a complete cure for allergies wasn't out there someplace already, like so many other things waiting to surface in or already filtering through the Third Breath.
Seven Wars made a deep bow to Dorraine. Tiajo held her hand up to the bier. "Until we're together again, Caspahr."
A noise began to build in the machinery under the crystal bier. Tiajo moved away, motioning the rest to follow. They did, Seven Wars bearing the Thorn Cup. The entire group entered the shelter of an enclosure of broad, transparent panes.
A glow had started in the projector under Weir's body. It became brighter as the sound indicated a power buildup. It was becoming difficult to look directly at the bier.
Tiajo's voice nearly broke, and she had to strain to be heard. "We're richer for your having lived, poorer for your passing!"
The light was blinding, and the noise reached an eerie, verging pitch. The enclosure's panes polarized.
From the projector a beam of energy shot straight up into the air like an impossibly intense searchlight, roaring and humming. The planes had polarized almost completely, but the glare was still intense. Every plant in the garden was ablaze.
The searing incandescence lasted for a second or two. When it was gone they smelled ozone, even through the closed doors. The panes were too hot to touch. The walls and planters in the garden were scorched and blackened; nothing but ash remained of the plants Weir had tended so carefully. The onlookers blinked.
The bier was empty, Weir's body gone without a trace.
The machinery beneath it was silent again, though Floyt could see that parts of it still glowed white-hot, and little coils of smoke ascended lazily from it.
The panes cleared once more. Stars were appearing in the night sky of Epiphany. Tiajo was staring upward into the infinity that her brother had illuminated for a moment in time.
The doctors withdrew. The old woman shook herself loose from her contemplation. "If you'll follow me to the trams, we'll have the Willreading."
* * * *
Still dressed in their ceremonial robes, they repaired to Weir's suite. Serving robos and catering automata labored around the antechamber under lavish cargoes of food, drink, and other amenities. As they made themselves comfortable on the sumptuous furniture, Tiajo called for their attention.
"The various endowments and delegations of authority have been made public or will be later this evening. You individual Inheritors will be ushered, one at a time, into my brother's private chamber. There you'll hear his bequest to you. This is as Caspahr wished it to be. Escorts may accompany you if you so desire." She retired to the bedroom with Redlock and Dorraine.
Endwraithe was first. As Floyt and Alacrity slouched on an air-rest sofa, the Earther plucked a cold, scented cloth from a passing service robo and draped it across his eyes and forehead. He tried to collect his thoughts.
The breakabout beckoned to a catering machine for a chilly bottle of the wonderful cream ale brewed on Cindy Lou, and a nasal inhaler of Perkup, for morale's sake. Others were availing themselves of snacks, delicacies, beverages, smokes, and other things.
Maska took up a finger cap soaked with fragrant essences and inhaled it delicately, eyes closed in bliss. Brother Grimm was sipping contentedly on a cup of herbal tea. Stare Skill drank a domestic champagne from an elegant fluted glass.
The Perkup made Alacrity more alert, setting aside part of the sadness of the funeral. He spotted Dincrist on the other side of the antechamber, engaged in earnest conversation with Sir John over steaming cups of chocolate. The breakabout considered asking after Heart, but concluded that it was no time to start anything, especially with Invincibles and Celestials stationed in the room and drones overhead.
Instead he leaned back again. "What do you think they'll do with Inst's inheritance?" Floyt asked. Of course, on Earth, the Earthservice got most of any estate, except that upper bureaucrats seemed to know ways to get around the inheritance regulations.
"Depends on the provisions of the will, Ho. Tiajo's probably got a lot of leeway as executrix. It'll probably go to Dorraine."
"I can't help feeling sorry for him."
"Chin up. This'll be over soon, and we'll be on our way back to Earth." He had to see the Nonpareil soon.
Endwraithe emerged from the bedchamber and left without another word or a sideways glance, but he was smiling. Stare Skill and Brother Grimm were called next.
Alacrity took another breath of Perkup and another deep, grateful swallow of cream ale. Had it only been that morning that Thistle had slid down the launcher?
Floyt, thinking about Alacrity's reply, supposed that he'd be a Functionary 3rd Class again soon. There'd be no time to examine Weir's fabulous family tree, or look for a bicycle engineered with the technology that had built Thistle, or …
Stare Skill and Grimm emerged laughing, arms around one another, in a transport of delight. "He gave us Ifurin! The whole planet! Made it a protectorate!" the Djinn rejoiced. "Wait until my family hears this!"
"He provided development funds, a self-help program," Stare Skill added, "which I am to administer." She was beaming. Floyt thought her very lovely in that moment.
Sir John was next, and so it went. Sometimes Inheritors revealed their legacies. Maska, for example, had been left an island estate deep within Weir territory and the hard copy of the message he'd sent Weir so long ago. He and Alacrity traded a few nose-sung gibes over that.
Others kept their own counsel, like the Severeemish. Nevertheless, Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf were plainly elated. Floyt deemed war unlikely.
Billy Risk, who'd withheld any reaction to Stare Skill's news, left the bedchamber with a face-creasing grin. "The nervy old bastard named me to be in charge of the Djinn's defense forces until they get on their feet." He shook his head, chuckling at himself and Weir and life. Then he went to find Brother Grimm and Stare Skill.
Dincrist entered the bedchamber and came out again in a very short time, looking content. He ignored Alacrity and Floyt. It gradually dawned on them that Floyt was being left until last.
When his name was called he crossed to the door with Alacrity hanging back uncertainly. A captain of Invincibles was on guard. "You'll be going in alone, Citizen Floyt?"
"Hm? No, my … my friend's coming with me," Floyt found himself answering automatically. The captain inclined his head to them politely and stepped aside. Alacrity joined Floyt; they entered.
The scene in Weir's bedroom was much as it had been the first time, except that First Councillor Inst was absent and the Weir family tree was fully activated. Every tiny point of light gleamed and flashed.
They halted before Tiajo, Alacrity a pace or so behind Floyt.
"Citizen," the old woman said tiredly, "it came as something of a surprise to me, to all of us, that my brother saw fit to include you in his will at the last moment. I still wonder if he had any idea how much trouble he was starting. It gives me pause, how events here might have resolved themselves, absent Hobart Floyt and Alacrity Fitzhugh."
Everyone was watching him now, but Floyt made no comment.
"Ah, well. You weren't consulted on the matter either, I know," she resumed. "I thought that the nature of your inheritance might shed some light on the subject, but it hasn't."
More formally, she proclaimed, "Citizen Hobart Floyt of Terra, you've been bequeathed the full and unencumbered title of ownership of the starship Astrea Imprimatur and all that she contains."
If Floyt was stunned, Alacrity was faint. The breakabout's conditioning immediately locked in mortal combat with a primeval instinct that welled up inside him chanting, A starship! A starship! A STARSHIP! He knew an unquenchable desire to claim her and use her for his own ends, making Floyt fabulously wealthy in the process. Terra, Earthservice, and Supervisor Bear could go twirl themselves. The idea sent sharp pains lancing through his head.
"She's a refitted military vessel of the old Jaguar class, a privateer taken as a prize of war near the end of the Turmoils," Tiajo went on, consulting a data readout. "I know very little else about her. Apparently, my brother kept most of the information pertaining to this vessel in his head."
"Let's take a look at her!" Alacrity winced at the throbbing in his skull.
"According to my data," Tiajo told them, "Astrea Imprimatur has been grounded, for the last Standard year or so, on a planet called Blackguard, an independent kleptocracy. At last report, a captain and crew were still with her. I know nothing else about her and am enjoined by the will to make no inquiries."
"What's a kleptocracy?" Alacrity asked.
"Government by theft," Tiajo answered.
"Redundancy," he muttered to himself, unaware of the withering glare it drew. Lost in thought, he stared at the floor. Grounded? For a year? That might mean mutiny, breakdown, quarantine, impoundment, or any of a dozen other extremely unpleasant things. The pain in his head lessened.
"If you wish, Citizen Floyt," Tiajo was saying, "I can facilitate your inquiries. You and Master Fitzhugh are welcome to stay here until such time as you know more about your situation."
Floyt felt an urge to accept, so powerful in him that it very nearly overcame his conditioning. But he knew what the impatient Earthservice bureaucrats would expect of him, and he knew that the conditioning would eat away any temporary impulse or resolve. "I don't think that's possible, Dame Tiajo. Alacrity and I must go to Blackguard."
Her expression told that Tiajo wasn't used to having her invitations rebuffed. Dorraine spoke for the first time. "Hobart, why don't you stay? Weir the Defender hated the Earthservice; surely he meant the ship for you! If you take her to Terra, they'll confiscate her, and that's the last thing Dame Tiajo's brother would
've wanted."
"It is indeed," the old woman said darkly.
"You'll be stuck on Earth for the balance of your life," Redlock added. "That can't be what you want, can it?"
Floyt and Alacrity were locked in a titanic battle with their conditioning. But one of the primary dictates of that conditioning, one of its strongest compulsions, was against their revealing that they'd undergone it.
"We … must go," Floyt got out at last.
Tiajo's mouth might have been drawn with a straightedge. "Very well; as you will." She touched a sensitized bead set in the arm of her chair. The door opened almost at once. Dincrist entered, wearing a smug grin.
"Citizen Floyt, I will now impose my judgment of penalty upon you, as loser of the airbike race," Tiajo announced.
The Earther's mouth was agape. Alacrity yelled, "But Inst sabotaged our ship—no offense. This isn't fair!"
"It is under Severeemish Usages. Captain Dincrist had nothing to do with the tampering," the grandam told them.
"Now wait just a—"
"Silence!" There was. She resumed, "Discretionary funds are provided by the will. No doubt some of these were intended for your expenses in locating and taking possession of your inheritance."
Floyt noticed this last, that she had been careful not to mention Astrea Imprimatur.
"As penalty, however," she went on, "I am going to withhold those monies, leaving you both to your own resources." Her nostrils flared disdainfully. "Such as they may be."
"Hardly a penalty at all, under Severeemish Usages," Dincrist squawked.
"I doubt Minister Seven Wars would support you in that," Redlock commented mildly. "He is too good an ally."
"Hey, how're we supposed to get halfway across creation, or whatever?" Alacrity demanded. "Sex appeal?"
The breakabout just might be able to deadhead in the general direction of Blackguard, wherever that was, with an understanding skipper, but Floyt had only the voucher for a return trip to Earth from Epiphany.
