by Anthology
The old man who walked by was carrying a folder and looked serenely and patiently preoccupied.
Jon waited without breathing the space of three ordinary breaths. Then he ducked out and sprinted down the hall. At last he stopped before a group of doors. "Which one?" he demanded.
This time he must have gotten an answer, because he went to one, opened it, and slipped in.
Uske had pulled the silken sheet over his head. He heard several small clicks and tiny brushing noises, but they came through the fog of sleep that had been washing back over him since Chargill's departure. The first sound definite enough to wake him was water against tile. He listened to it for nearly two minutes through the languid veil of fatigue. It was only when it stopped that he frowned, pushed back the sheet, and sat up. The door to his private bath was open. The light was off, but someone, or thing, was apparently finishing a shower. The windows of his room were covered with thick drapes, but he hesitated to push the button that would reel them back from the sun.
He heard the rings of the shower curtain sliding along the shower rod; the rattle of the towel rack; silence; a few whistled notes. Suddenly he saw that dark spots were forming on the great fur rug that sprawled across the black stone floor. One after another—footprints! Incorporeal footprints were coming toward him slowly.
When they were about four feet away from his bed, he slammed the flat of his palm on the button that drew back the curtains. Sunlight filled the room like bright water.
And standing in the last pair of footprints was the sudden, naked figure of a man. He leaped at Uske as the King threw himself face down into the mound of pillows and tried to scream at the same time. Immediately he was caught, pulled up, and the edge of a hand was thrust into his open mouth so that when he bit down, he chomped the inside of his cheeks.
"Will you keep still, stupid?" a voice whispered behind him. The King went limp.
"There, now just a second."
A hand reached past Uske's shoulder, pressed the button on the night table by the bed, and the curtains swept across the window. The hand went out as if it had been a flame.
"Now you keep still and be quiet."
The pressure released and the King felt the bed give as the weight lifted. He held still for a moment. Then he whirled around. There wasn't anyone there.
"Where do you keep your clothes, huh? You always were about my size."
"Over there … there in that closet."
The bodiless footprints padded over the fur rug, and the closet door opened. Hangers slid along the rack. The bureau at the back of the closet was opened. "This'll do fine. I didn't think I was ever going to get into decent clothes again. Just a second."
There was the sound of tearing thread.
"This jacket will fit me all right, once I get these shoulder pads out of it."
Something came out of the closet, dressed now: a human form, only without head or hands.
"Now that I'm decent, open up those curtains and throw some light around the place." The standing suit of clothes waited. "Well, come on, open the curtains."
Slowly Uske reached for the button. A freshly shaven young man with black hair stood in the sunlight, examining his cuffs. An open brocade jacket with metal-work filigree covered a white silk shirt that laced over a wide V-neck. The tight gray trousers were belted with a broad strip of black leather and fastened with a gold disk. The black boots, opened at the toe and the heel, were topped with similar disks. Jon Koshar looked around. "It's good to be back."
"Who … what are you?" whispered Uske.
"Loyal subject of the crown," said Jon, "you squid-brained clam."
Uske sputtered.
"Think back about five years to when you and I were in school together."
A flicker of recognition showed in the blond face.
"You remember a kid who was a couple of years ahead of you, and got you out of a beating when the kids in the mechanics class were going to gang up on you because you'd smashed a high-frequency coil, on purpose. And remember you dared that same kid to break into the castle and steal the royal Herald from the throne room? In fact, you gave him the fire-blade to do it, too. Only that wasn't mentioned in the trial. Did you also alert the guards that I was coming? I was never quite sure of that part."
"Look …" began Uske. "You're crazy."
"I might have been a little crazy then. But five years out in the tetron mines has brought me pretty close to my senses."
"You're a murderer…."
"It was in self-defense, and you know it. Those guards that converged on me weren't kidding. I didn't kill him on purpose. I just didn't want to get my head seared off."
"So you seared one of their heads off first. Jon Koshar, I think you're crazy. What are you doing here anyway?"
"It would take too long to explain. But believe me, the last thing I came back for was to see you again."
"So you come in, steal my clothing" Suddenly he laughed. "Oh, of course. I'm dreaming all this. How silly of me. I must be dreaming."
Jon frowned.
Uske went on. "I must be feeling guilty about that whole business when we were kids. You keep on disappearing and appearing. You can't possibly be more than a figment of my imagination. Koshar! The name! Of course. That's the name of the people who are giving the party that I'm going to once I wake up. That's the reason for the whole thing."
"What party?" Jon demanded.
"Your father is giving it for your sister. Yes, that's right. You had quite a pretty sister. I'm going back to sleep now. And when I wake up, you're to be gone, do you understand? What a silly dream."
"Just a moment. Why are you going?"
Uske snuggled his head into the pillow. "Apparently your father has managed to amass quite a fortune. Chargill says I have to treat him kindly so we can borrow money from him later on. Unless I'm dreaming that up too."
"You're not dreaming."
Uske opened one eye, closed it again. And rolled over onto the pillow. "Tell that to my cousin, the Duchess of Petra. She was dragged all the way from her island estate to come to this thing. The only people who are getting out of it are mother and my kid brother. Lucky starfish."
"Go back to sleep," said Jon.
"Go away," said Uske. He opened his eyes once more to see Jon push the button that pulled the curtains. And then the headless, handless figure went to the door and out. Uske shivered and pulled the covers up again.
Jon walked down the hall.
Behind the door to one room that he did not enter, the red-headed Duchess of Petra was standing by the window of her apartment, gazing over the roofs of the city, the great houses of the wealthy merchants and manufacturers, over the hive-like buildings which housed the city's doctors, clerks, secretaries, and storekeepers, down to the reeking clapboard and stone alleys of the Devil's Pot.
The early sun lay flame in her hair and whitened her pale face. She pushed the window open a bit, and the breeze waved her blue robe as she absently fingered a smoky crystal set in a silver chain around her neck.
Jon continued down the hall.
Three doors away, the old queen lay on the heap of over-stuffed mattresses, nestled in the center of an immense four-poster bed. Her white hair was coiled in two buns on either side of her head, her mouth was slightly open and a faint breath hissed across the white lips. On the wall above the bed hung the portrait of the late King Alsen, sceptered, official, and benevolent.
In a set of rooms just beside the queen mother's chamber, Let, Prince of the Royal Blood, Heir Apparent to the Empire of Toromon, and half a dozen more, was sitting in just his pajama top on the edge of his bed, knuckling his eyes.
The thin limbs of the thirteen-year-old were still slightly akimbo with natural awkwardness and sleep. Like his brother, he was blond and slight.
Still blinking, he slipped into his underwear and trousers, pausing a moment to check his watch. He fastened the three snaps on his shirt, turned to the palace intercom, and pressed a button.
"You must learn to be on time. Remember, you are heir to the throne of Toromon. You mustn't forget that."
"Sometimes I wish I could," replied Let. "Sometimes."
"Never say that again," came the sudden command through the tiny intercom. "Do you hear me? Never even let yourself think that for a moment."
"I'm sorry, Petra," Let said. His cousin, the Duchess, had been acting strangely since her arrival two days ago. Fifteen years his senior, she was still the member of the family to whom he felt closest. Usually, with her, he could forget the crown that was always being pointed to as it dangled above his head. His brother was not very healthy, nor even—as some rumored—all in his proper mind. Yet now it was Petra herself who was pointing out the gold circlet of Toromon's kingship. It seemed a betrayal. "Anyway," he went on. "Here I am. What did you want?"
"To say good morning." The smile in the voice brought a smile to Let's face too. "Do you remember that story I told you last night, about the prisoners in the tetron mines?"
"Sure," said Let, who had fallen asleep thinking about it. "The ones who were planning an escape." She had sat in the garden with him for an hour after dark, regaling him with the harrowing details of three prisoners' attempt to escape the penal mines. She had terminated it at the height of suspense with the three men crouching by the steps in the darkness and the drizzling rain, waiting to make their dash into the forest. "You said you were going to go on with it this morning."
"Do you really want to hear the end of the story?"
"Of course I do. I couldn't get to sleep for hours thinking about it."
"Well," said Petra, "when the guard changed, and the rope tripped him up when he was coming down the steps, the rear guard ran around to see what had happened, as planned, and they dashed through the searchlight beam, into the forest, and …" She paused. "Anyway, one of them made it. The other two were caught and killed."
"Huh?" said Let. "Is that all?"
"That's about it," said Petra.
"What do you mean?" Let demanded. Last night's version had contained detail upon detail of the prisoners' treatment, their efforts to dig a tunnel, the precautions they took, along with an uncannily vivid description of the scenery that had made him shiver as though he had been in the leaky, rotten-walled shacks. "You can't just finish it up like that," he exclaimed. "How did they get caught? Which one got away? Was it the chubby one with the freckles? How did they die?"
"Unpleasantly," Petra answered. "No, the chubby one with the freckles didn't make it. They brought him, and the one with the limp, back that morning in the rain and dropped them in the mud outside the barracks to discourage further escape attempts."
"Oh," said Let. "What about the one who did make it?" he asked after a moment.
Instead of answering, she said, "Let, I want to give you a warning." The prince stiffened a bit, but she began differently than he expected. "Let, in a little while, you may be going on quite an adventure, and you may want to forget some things, because it will be easier. Like being the prince of Toromon. But don't forget it, Let. Don't."
"What sort of adventure, Petra?"
Again she did not answer his question. "Let, do you remember how I described the prison to you? What would you do if you were king and those prisoners were under your rule, with their rotten food, the rats, their fourteen hours of labor a day in the mines …"
"Well, I don't know, Petra," he began, feeling as if something were being asked of him that he was reluctant to give. It was like when his history teacher expected him to know the answer on a question of government just because he had been born into it. "I suppose I'd have to consult the council, and see what Chargill said. It would depend on the individual prisoners, and what they'd done; and of course how the people felt about it. Chargill always says you shouldn't do things too quickly …"
"I know what Chargill says," said the Duchess quietly. "Just remember what I've said, will you?"
"What about the third man, the one who escaped?"
"He … came back to Toron."
"He must have had a lot more adventures. What happened to him, Petra? Come on, tell me."
"Actually," said Petra, "he managed to bypass most of the adventures. He came very quickly. Let me see. After they dashed across the searchlit area, they ducked into the jungle. Almost immediately the three got separated. The black-haired one got completely turned around, and wandered in the wrong direction until he had gone past the mines, out of the forest, and across the rocky stretch of ground beyond a good five miles. By the time it was light enough to see, he suddenly realized he had been wandering toward the radiation barrier; because in the distance, like a black skeleton on the horizon, were the abandoned ruins of Telphar, the Dead City."
"Shouldn't he have been dead from the radiation?"
"That's exactly what he figured. In fact, he figured if he was close enough to see the place, he should have been dead a few miles back. He was tired. The food they'd taken kept him from being hungry. But he was definitely alive. Finally he decided that he might as well go toward the city. He took two steps more, when suddenly he heard something."
There was silence over the intercom.
After he had allowed sufficient time for a dramatic pause, Let asked, "What was it? What did he hear?"
"If you ever hear it," Petra said, "you'll know it."
"Come on, Petra, what was it?"
"I'm quite serious," Petra said. "That's all I know of the story. And that's all you need to know. Maybe I'll be able to finish it when I come back from the party tonight."
"Please, Petra …"
"That's it."
He paused for a minute. "Petra, is the adventure I'm supposed to have, the war? Is that why you're reminding me not to forget?"
"I wish it were that simple, Let. Let's say that's part of it."
"Oh," said Let.
"Just promise to remember the story, and what I've said."
"I will," said Let, wondering. "I will."
Jon walked down a long spiral staircase, nodded to the guard at the foot, passed into the castle garden, paused to squint at the sun, and went out the gate. Getting in was a lot more difficult.
Chapter III
The Devil's Pot overturned its foul jelly at the city's edge. Thirteen alleys lined with old stone houses was its nucleus; many of them were ruined, built over, and ruined again. These were the oldest structures in Toron. Thick with humanity and garbage, it reached from the waterfront to the border of the hive houses in which lived the clerks and professionals of Toron. Clapboard alternated with hastily constructed sheet-metal buildings with no room between. The metal rusted; the clapboard sagged. The waterfront housed the temporary prison, the immigration offices, and the launch service that went out to the aquariums and hydroponics plants that floated on vast pontoons three miles away.
At the dock, a frog-like, sooty hulk had pulled in nearly an hour ago. But the passengers were only being allowed to come ashore now, and that after passing their papers through the inspection of a row of officials who sat behind a wooden table. A flimsy, waist-high structure of boards separated the passengers from the people on the wharf. The passengers milled.
A few had bundles. Many had nothing. They stood quietly, or ambled aimlessly. On the waterfront street, the noise was thunderous. Peddlers hawking, pushcarts trundling, the roar of arguing voices. Some passengers gazed across the fence at the sprawling slum. Most did not.
As they filed past the officers and onto the dock, a woman with a box of trinkets and a brown-red birthmark splashed over the left side of her face pushed among the new arrivals. Near fifty, she wore a dress and head rag, that were a well-washed, featureless gray.
"And would you like to buy a pair of shoelaces, fine strong ones," she accosted a young man who returned a bewildered smile of embarrassment.
"I … I don't got any money," he stammered, though complimented by the attention.
&
nbsp; Rara glanced down at his feet. "Apparently you have no shoes either. Well, good luck here in the New World, the Island of Opportunity." She brushed by him and aimed toward a man and woman who carried a bundle composed of a hoe, a rake, a shovel, and a baby. "A picture," she said, digging into her box, "of our illustrious majesty, King Uske, with a real metal frame, hand-painted in miniature in honor of his birthday. No true cosmopolitan patriot can be without one."
The woman with the baby leaned over to see the palm-sized portrait of a vague young man with blond hair and a crown. "Is that really the king?"
"Of course it is," declared the birthmarked vendress. "He sat for it in person. Look at that noble face. It would be a real inspiration to the little one there, when and if he grows up."
"How much is it?" the woman asked.
Her husband frowned.
"For a hand-painted picture," said Rara, "it's very cheap. Say, half a unit?"
"It's pretty," said the woman, then caught the frown on the man's face. She dropped her eyes and shook her head.
Suddenly the man, from somewhere, thrust a half-unit piece into Rara's hand. "Here." He took the picture and handed it to his wife. As she looked at it, he nodded his head. "It is pretty," he said. "Yes. It is."
"Good luck here in the New World," commented Rara. "Welcome to the Island of Opportunity." Turning, she drew out the next gee-gaw her hand touched, glanced at it long enough to see what it was, and said to the man she now faced. "I see you could certainly use a spool of fine thread to good purpose." She pointed to a hole in his sleeve. "There." A brown shoulder showed through his shirt, further up. "And there."
"I could use a needle too," he answered her. "And I could use a new shirt, and a bucket of gold." Suddenly he spat. "I've as much chance of getting one as the other with what I've got in my pocket."
"Oh, surely a spool of fine, strong thread …"
Suddenly someone pushed her from behind. "All right. Move on, lady. You can't peddle here."
"I certainly can," exclaimed Rara, whirling. "I've got my license right here. Just let me find it now…."
