That being hulked forward. Ella leaped up with a yell of raw terror—and rage, rage. The creature snatched for her. She dodged and drove a kick at his midriff. He grunted and stepped back, unharmed. She plunged for the door. As it opened, the rough hands closed on her arm. Whirling, she jabbed fingers at his eyes. He ululated and backed away.
"Ah-h-h," breathed Sarlish. He drew a stunner and took judicious aim.
"Not recommended, comrade," said a voice from the doorway.
Sarlish jumped from his seat and whirled about, to confront a blaster. The guards who lay at the newcomer's feet had quietly been stunned. "Bargen!" shrilled Sarlish, and dropped his weapon. Then, slowly: "No. Captain Flandry, is it not?"
"In person, and right in the traditional nick of time." The injured being lurched toward the Terran. Flandry slew him with a narrow beam. Sarlish scuttled forward at fantastic speed, between the man's legs, and brought him down. Ella bounded over him and caught the gnome with a flying tackle. Sarlish hissed and clawed. She struck him on the jaw with her fist, in sheer self-defense. The thin neck twisted back with a snapping noise. Sarlish kicked once and was still.
"Good show, girl!" Flandry scrambled to his feet. In a sweeping motion, he peeled off his face mask. "Too hot in this flinkin' thing. All right, did you find our princess?"
"This way." A far-off part of Ella watched, surprised, the swiftness and gladness with which she responded. She bent and took up a guardsman's blaster. "I'll show you. But can we—?"
"Not by ourselves. I got at a phone a few minutes ago and gave Chives a radio buzz. Though how he's going to locate us exactly in this warren, I don't know. Couldn't say much, you realize, necessarily using code. I simply had to assume you'd succeeded—" Flandry swerved around a bevy of screaming girls. "Hoo-ee! No wonder the harem attendants are nonhuman!"
Ella pointed to a blank wall. "She must be behind there. No other possibility, as far as I could learn. We'll have to go around, into the next hall—"
"And get shot on the way? No, thanks!" Flandry began assembling scattered furniture into a rough barricade before the wall. "Cut our way through, will you?"
Plastic bubbled and smoked as Ella's flame attacked it. Flandry went on: "I bluffed my way into this quarter by saying I had to fetch someone. One of the ladies told me where you'd been taken. Doubtless the only reason I made it this far is that no man would dare come in unless he had orders from Alfred himself. But now there's hell to pay and no pitch hot. I only hope Chives can track us before he gets blown out of the sky." He looked along the barrel of his blaster, down the arched length of the corridor to the chamber beyond. "Hang on, here we go."
A squad of guards had burst into sight. Flandry set his weapon to needle beam. That gave maximum range, provided you had the skill to hit a target at such a distance. A man toppled. A curtain of fire raged in response. The heat of it scorched his face through the gaps in his defense. He picked off another man, and another. But the rest were zigzagging, belly-flopping, coming into wide-beam range, where a single shot could fry him. "Get that wall open, will you?" he cried.
"Done!" Ella dodged as the circle she had cut collapsed outward. Droplets of molten plastic seared her skin. The barricade burst into flame. She tumbled through the hole, heedless of its hot edges. Flandry followed.
Beyond, a young woman crouched against the opposite wall. Terror contorted her features. She was dark and rather pretty, but a resemblance to the Imperial grandfather was in her bones. "Lady Megan?" snapped Flandry.
"Yes, yes," she whimpered. "Who are you?"
"At your service, your Highness—I hope." Flandry sent a wide beam through the hole. A man screamed forth his agony. The Terran had a moment to wonder how many brave folk—probably including Ella and himself—would be dead because a spoiled darling had wanted an excursion.
The door swung open. Ella let loose a blast. More screams followed, and horrible smoke. Flandry heaved a divan up against the door. That was cut-rate protection, good only for minutes.
Sweating, blackened, blistered, his countenance turned back to the princess. "I take it you know the Duke had you kidnapped, your Highness?" he asked.
"Yes, but he wasn't going to hurt me," she wailed.
"So you think. I happen to know he intended to kill you." That was less than true, but served Flandry's purpose. In the unlikely event that he survived, Megan wouldn't get him in trouble for endangering her life. In fact, she began to babble about a reward. He hoped she would remember afterward, if there was an afterward.
He had one advantage. The Duke could not use heavy stuff without losing his hostage and, incidentally, creating a sensation throughout Gloriana. But—he passed out three gas masks.
The outer wall glowed. Blasters were cutting a fresh circle from it, big enough to let through a dozen men at a time. Doubtless they'd wear armor.
The air was thick and bitter, hot and stinking. Flandry grinned lopsidedly and laid an arm about Ella's waist. "Well, sweetheart," he said, "it was a fairly spectacular try." Her hand reached briefly up to stroke his hair.
Something bellowed. Walls and floor trembled. He heard the rumble and crash of falling masonry. A storm of gunfire awoke.
"Chives!" whooped Flandry.
"Wha-what?" gasped Megan.
"We're getting what we ordered, salade d'Alfred au Chives," burbled Flandry. "You must meet Chives, your Highness. One of nature's noblemen. He—how in this especial hell did he do it?"
A volcano growl came, and silence.
Flandry removed the divan and risked a glance into the corridor. Daylight poured through its ruined walls. The place had taken the full impact of a Naval blaster cannon, and the attacking troopers had ceased to exist. Hovering alongside was the speedster.
"Chives," said Flandry in awe, "merely swooped up to the fortress under full drive, blew his way past the defenses, and opened up on the Duke's men here."
The airlock swung wide. A green head looked out. "I would recommend haste, sir," said the Shalmuan. "The alarm is out, and they do have warcraft."
Flandry helped the women cross over. The airlock hissed shut behind them. Chives had already returned to the pilot room. The boat took off with a thunderbolt of cloven air for her wake.
Flandry sought his valet. "How did you find us?" he mumbled. "I didn't even know where the harem was myself when I called you."
"Why, sir, you must be in great need of rest and tea, if you do not see the obvious," Chives replied. "I assumed there would be some objection to the removal of her Highness and combat would ensue. Energy beams ionize the air. I employed the radiation detectors."
Flandry nodded and turned his attention to the viewscreens and instruments. A light cruiser showed against the receding brilliance of the planet. "That chap," he fretted; and then: "No. The vectors and distances... we're leaving him and his missiles behind. This can has legs. We'll make it back to Varrak all right."
"In that case, sir," Chives said, "I will turn control over to the autopilot."
He departed for the galley. Flandry sought the main cabin, where Ella strove to soothe a hysterical Megan. For a moment, as the blonde woman looked up at him, he saw utter glory.
He found a cigarette, lighted it and drew deep. "Relax," he advised, "and bathe—all of us bathe." A scowl crossed his brow. "We'll worry later about the possibility that Alfred, now he's exposed, will try to rebel anyway. He couldn't succeed, but it might prove expensive for us—give Merseia an opening, or—"
Chives appeared, a loaded tray in his hands. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "As I approached the castle, I monitored the bands of individually worn radio transceivers, and learned that the Duke was personally directing the assault on you. I fear I took the liberty of disintegrating his Grace. Does her Highness take sugar or lemon in her tea?"
A
KNIGHT OF
GHOSTS
AND
SHADOWS
—————————
———————————
———
To my lady Dorothea of Paravel
and Hal Ravn her lord
(Dorothy and Wilson Heydt)
——————————————
A KNIGHT OF GHOSTS
AND SHADOWS
How shall we tell it, brothers, the tale of Bodin's raid? Whence can we draw the words of wrath and sorrow, the words of valor and vengeance? Who today is a poet such as Andrei Simich, singer of heroes?
For Andrei, words ran to command, baying and belling like a pack of hounds in pursuit through mountains where echoes fly. The words of Andrei thundered like tundra beneath a herd of gromatz, shrieked like wind around the wings of the orlik as it stoops upon its prey, roared like a dyavo hunting—then sounded low and sweet, whether deadly as the call of a vilya or innocent as the song of a guslar in springtime.
Human and zmay together thrilled at the lays of Andrei when he celebrated the olden heroes, Yovan Matavuly who led the Founders the long lightless way to this our Morning Star, Toman Obilich who slew wild Vladimir on the crown of the Glacier, Gwyth who dared the storms of the Black Ocean, Stefan Miyatovich—great ancestor of Gospodar Bodin—who in the depths of the Night Years cast back the reavers from our very homes. Ah, well could Andrei Simich have sung the deeds of Bodin!
But his voice is departed. That the glory of Bodin Miyatovich go not from memory, let us find what poor plain words we may.
***
I
Every planet in the story is cold—even Terra, though Flandry came home on a warm evening of northern summer. There the chill was in the spirit.
He felt a breath of it as he neared. Somehow, talk between him and his son had drifted to matters Imperial. They had avoided all such during their holiday.
Terra itself had not likely reminded them. The globe hung beautiful in starry darkness, revealed by a viewscreen in the cabin where they sat. It was almost full, because they were accelerating with the sun behind them and were not yet close enough to start on an approach curve. At this remove it shone white-swirled blue, unutterably pure, near dewdrop Luna. Nothing was visible of the scars that man had made upon it.
And the saloon was good to be in, bulkheads nacreous gray, benches padded in maroon velvyl, table of authentic teak whereon stood Scotch whisky and everything needed for the use thereof, warm and flawlessly recycled air through which gamboled a dance tune and drifted an odor of lilacs. The Hooligan, private speedster of Captain Sir Dominic Flandry, was faster, better armed, and generally more versatile than any vessel of her class had a moral right to be; but her living quarters reflected her owner's philosophy that, if one is born into an era of decadence, one may as well enjoy it while it lasts.
He leaned back, inhaled deeply of his cigarette, took more smokiness in a sip from his glass, and regarded Dominic Hazeltine with some concern. If the frontier was truly that close to exploding—and the boy must go there again... "Are you sure?" he asked. "What proved facts have you got—proved by yourself, not somebody else? Why wouldn't I have heard more?"
His companion returned a steady look. "I don't want to make you feel old," he said; and the knowledge passed through Flandry that a lieutenant commander of Naval Intelligence, twenty-seven standard years of age, wasn't really a boy, nor was his father any longer the boy who had begotten him. Then Hazeltine smiled and took the curse off: "Well, I might want to, just so I can hope that at your age I'll have acquired, let alone kept, your capacity for the three basic things in life."
"Three?" Flandry raised his brows.
"Feasting, fighting, and—Wait; of course I haven't been along when you were in a fight. But I've no doubt you perform as well as ever in that department too. Still, you told me for the last three years you've stayed in the Solar System, taking life easy. If the whole word about Dennitza hasn't reached the Emperor—and apparently it's barely starting to—why should it have come to a pampered pet of his?"
"Hm. I'm not really. He pampers with a heavy hand. So I avoid the court as much as politeness allows. This indefinite furlough I'm on—nobody but him would dare call me back to duty, unless I grow bored and request assignment—that's the only important privilege I've taken. Aside from the outrageous amount of talent, capability, and charm with which I was born; and I do my best to share those chromosomes."
Flandry had spoken lightly in half a hope of getting a similar response. They had bantered throughout their month-long jaunt, whether on a breakneck hike in the Great Rift of Mars or gambling in a miners' dive in Low Venusberg, running the rings of Saturn or dining in elegance beneath its loveliness on Iapetus with two ladies expert and expensive. Must they already return to realities? They'd been more friends than father and son. The difference in age hardly showed. They bore well-muscled height in common, supple movement, gray eyes, baritone voice. Flandry's face stood out in a perhaps overly handsome combination of straight nose, high cheekbones, cleft chin—the result of a biosculp job many years past, which he had never bothered to change again—and trim mustache. His sleek seal-brown hair was frosted at the temples; when Hazeltine accused him of bringing this about by artifice, he had grinned and not denied it. Though both wore civilian garb, Flandry's iridescent puff-sleeved blouse, scarlet cummerbund, flared blue trousers, and curly-toed beefleather slippers opposed the other's plain coverall.
Broader features, curved nose, full mouth, crow's-wing locks recalled Persis d'Io as she had been when she and Flandry said farewell on a planet now destroyed, he not knowing she bore his child. The tan of strange suns, the lines creased by squinting into strange weathers, had not altogether gone from Hazeltine in the six weeks since he reached Terra. But his unsophisticated ways meant only that he had spent his life on the fringes of the Empire. He had caroused with a gusto to match his father's. He had shown the same taste in speech—
("—an itchy position for me, my own admiral looking for a nice lethal job he could order me to do," Flandry reminisced. "Fenross hated my guts. He didn't like the rest of me very much, either. I saw I'd better produce a stratagem, and fast."
("Did you?" Hazeltine inquired.
("Of course. You see me here, don't you? It's practically a sine qua non of a field agent staying alive, that he be able to outthink not just the opposition, but his superiors."
("No doubt you were inspired by the fact that ‘stratagem' spelled backwards is ‘megatarts.' The prospect of counting your loose women by millions should give plenty of incentive."
(Flandry stared. "Now I'm certain you're my bairn! Though to be frank, that awesomely pleasant notion escaped me. Instead, having developed my scheme, I confronted a rather ghastly idea which has haunted me ever afterward: that maybe there's no one alive more intelligent than I.")
—and yet, and yet, an underlying earnestness always remained with him.
Perhaps he had that from his mother: that, and pride. She'd let the infant beneath her heart live, abandoned her titled official lover, resumed her birthname, gone from Terra to Sassania and started anew as a dancer, at last married reasonably well, but kept young Dominic by her till he enlisted. Never had she sent word back from her frontier home, not when Flandry well-nigh singlehanded put down the barbarians of Scotha and was knighted for it, not when Flandry well-nigh singlehanded rescued the new Emperor's favorite granddaughter—and headed off a provincial rebellion and was summoned Home to be rewarded. Nor had her son, who always knew his father's name, called on him until lately, when far enough along in his own career that nepotism could not be thought necessary.
Thus Dominic Hazeltine refused the offer of merry chitchat and said in his burred un-Terran version of Anglic, "Well, if you've been taking what amounts to a long vacation, the more reason why you wouldn't have kept trace of developments. Maybe his Majesty simply hasn't been bothering you about them, and has been quite concerned himself for quite some while. Regardless, I've been yonder and I know."
Flandry dropped the remnant of his cigarette in an ash-taker. "You wound my vanity, which is no mean accomplishment,"
he replied. "Remember, for three or four years earlier—between the time I came to his notice and the time we could figure he was planted on the throne too firmly to have a great chance of being uprooted—I was one of his several right hands. Field and staff work both, specializing in the problem of making the marches decide they'd really rather keep Hans for their Emperor than revolt all over again. Do you think, if he sees fresh trouble where I can help, he won't consult me? Or do you think, because I've been utilizing a little of the hedonism I fought so hard to preserve, I've lost interest in my old circuits? No, I've followed the news, and an occasional secret report."
He stirred, tossed off his drink, and added, "Besides, you claim the Gospodar of Dennitza is our latest problem child. But you've also said you were working Sector Arcturus: almost diametrically opposite, and well inside those vaguenesses we are pleased to call the borders of the Empire. Tell me, then—you've been almighty unspecific about your operations, and I supposed that was because you were under security, and didn't pry—tell me, as far as you're allowed, what does the space around Arcturus have to do with Dennitza? With anything in the Taurian Sector?"
"I stayed mum because I didn't want to spoil this occasion," Hazeltine said. "From what Mother told me, I expected fun, when I could get a leave long enough to justify the trip to join you; but you've opened whole universes to me that I never guessed existed." He flushed. "If I ever gave any thought to such things, I self-righteously labeled them ‘vice.'"
"Which they are," Flandry put in. "What you bucolic types don't realize is that worthwhile vice doesn't mean lolling around on cushions eating drugged custard. How dismal! I'd rather be virtuous. Decadence requires application. But go on."
Sir Dominic Flandry: The Last Knight of Terra Page 28
