by John Brunner
The heavy curtains over the door parted with a swish and Valley stood in the gap, her hands folded demurely, her delicate face expressionless save for her big brown eyes. She said, “My lady, there is word from Sabura Mona.”
Landor and Sharla exchanged glances, and Landor said, “Speak, Valley.”
“She desires that my lady shall come to her apartment tonight at the hour of ten, preferably alone, her messenger says.”
Ordovic half rose, said, “Is this Sabura Mona such that she may order the Regent?”
Valley remained in the doorway, not understanding him, for he had spoken in his own dialect and she in Argian, and Landor said to Ordovic, “She has ordered kings.”
He subsided, and Sharla raised her voice, “Tell the messenger I will attend her.”
Valley nodded and disappeared silently, while Ordovic said, “You are going, then, my lady?”
Sharla nodded. “Not quite alone. With Landor, I think. My excuse can be that my command of Argian is dimmed with seven years’ disuse.
“Now, Landor. About my brother. Strength is his lack. There shall be no more of the whipping-post. He shall be taught statecraft. He will not like it, but you I trust to undertake the task.”
A shadow of a smile of pride touched Landor’s lips. “I am flattered, Sharla, that you have confidence in me.”
“The name of his scapegoat is Dolichek, I believe. He is a slave’s son. Find him. And find his father too, if he lives.”
Landor nodded and went out, the curtains swaying behind him. Ordovic sat silently, staring at nothing. After awhile Sharla said gently, “Ordovic.”
“My lady?”
“Call me not my lady. We are three strangers together here on Argus, even though I was born here. This coldness is unbecoming.” She laid her hand gently on his knee and looked at his hard profile.
He said woodenly, “The fact remains, my lady, that you are Regent of Argus and daughter of a king, and I am but one of your subjects.”
“You are an Outlander, and no subject of mine!”
“Your subject by adoption,” said Ordovic firmly.
“You called me Sharla before, Ordovic.”
His face went rigid and he got abruptly to his feet, began to pace the room with long, light strides. He said, “Must you taunt me, my lady, with the memory that I took you for a woman of the streets? I can never forgive myself.”
“I was a woman of the streets, Ordovic! And would have remained so, for who would credit the tale I had to tell? Slavered from the peaceful world where I was schooled, sold into a brothel—who believed I was a princess, of royal birth?”
“Landor did,” said Ordovic harshly. “He gave you back your heritage—all this.” He gestured at the lavish fittings of the apartment. “He gave you back your honor and your rightful station!”
He whirled and stood before her, towering over her, and his eyes were like chips of granite. “There was only one thing I could give you—my service.
“If you have no further orders for me tonight, my lady, I shall withdraw.”
Sharla looked up with parted lips, shaking her head slowly. At last she sighed and said composedly, “Very well, Ordovic, if that is the way you wish it. But I have one further task for you tonight.”
“At your orders, my lady.”
“Find Kelab the Conjurer, and bring him to me. If you can, buy him—if you must, drag him.”
Ordovic saluted without expression and turned and walked out, not looking back.
For a long time Sharla sat gazing into vacancy, her face set and white.
Then the curtains stirred again and Valley stood there, hands folded as before, her eyes big and limpid. Sharla thought, not for the first time, that her younger sister had picked her slaves well for quick obedience and silent service.
She roused herself, said, “And what is it, Valley?”
“Dolichek attends my lady’s pleasure,” said Valley. “The Ser Landor sent him, so he affirms.”
“Let him enter,” Sharla commanded, and as Valley withdrew, arranged her robe and patted straight the cushions of the couch. Then she looked up and saw Dolichek.
He stood there pale and silent, his bony body white with cold, and bowed a little hesitantly towards her. She thought, there is a queer pride in him, somehow—though he is only whipping-post to a prince, there is pride there.
Behind him the whipmaster, who had come assuming the usual purpose for the summons, waited patiently like a basalt statue.
She said, “Come here, Dolichek,” and there was no resemblance to the way Andra would have said it in the tender voice she used. He looked puzzled, but obeyed, walked forward with a trace of a limp. There were blue bruises and long weals on his bare legs. In front of her he paused, his eyes asking a mute question.
She looked past him to the whipmaster, “Slave!”
“My lady?” said the giant, his voice a deep rumble.
“Are you of my father’s slaves, or a purchase of my sister’s?”
“I was of the lady Andra’s following, my lady.”
“Break your whip and go to her,” said Sharla casually. “I have no further use for you.”
The giant looked at the whip in his hand, snapped its silver-mounted stock without effort, tossed it away and walked out.
In still amazement Dolichek watched him go, and then turned to Sharla, his lip trembling.
Suddenly he was on his knees, his head buried in her lap, sobbing, “My lady! My lady!” while she stroked his matted yellow hair mechanically and stared at nothing.
Ordovic left Sharla’s rooms with his mind in a turmoil and his face set grimly. The passage was dimly lit by high windows, and torches flared at the intersections. Under one of these torches, in the shadow of its sconce, a man stood waiting.
“Who stands yonder?” he challenged.
The man moved from the shadow into the light of the torch and said, “It is I, Captain—Tampore, sergeant of the guard.”
Ordovic laughed shortly. “Have you come with more fairy-tales of Kelab to tell?”
“No, Captain. I have a word or two of advice.” Tampore spoke in thieves’ argot, a crisp, guttural form of Argian salted with slang which Ordovic comprehended better than the formal tongue.
“Speak on,” he invited, his eyes searching Tampore’s face.
“It is a good thing for Argus that you and Ser Landor and my lady Sharla came, for you are a soldier, and we understand soldiers well on Argus, and Ser Landor is a statesman of power and the lady is well thought of by the common people from the sheer mention of her name, though few have seen her, and she is reputed tender. The lady Andra is not called the black witch for her kindness.”
Ordovic, watching his face, nodded.
“But you are strangers. We admire soldiers, ay—but Ser Senchan Var, too, is a soldier, and famous within the Empire, which you are not. The lady Andra has filled the high places with her own men. It would seem to us of the guard, who hear the whispers from those same high places, that had she retained the Regency and had her marriage to Barkasch of Mercator gone through, she would have broken the last shackle holding her—the even splitting of the Council of Six for and against her. But she sprang that marriage bond upon your mistress unawares. Beware of other hidden pitfalls. And beware of a knife in the dark lest the lady grow impatient.”
Ordovic did not move his steady gaze. He said, “What manner of man is Barkasch of Mercator? And what purpose is served by the proposed alliance?”
“Barkasch is a fighter and a brave man, and he rules an independent kingdom of three harsh worlds whose soldiers are the fiercest in the galaxy. A royal union that united the worlds of Mercator and the Empire could be the first step to a newly glorious Empire. It could also be a weapon of unbounded power to further the designs of a ruthless woman.”
“The designs being—?”
Tampore shrugged. “They are not blown kisses, but who save a wizard can know the heart of a witch?”
Ordovic permi
tted himself the shadow of a smile. Landor had some inkling of those designs. He said, “While we speak of wizards, where may I find Kelab the Conjurer tonight?”
Tampore plucked his beard, said, “I said he was not to be found if he did not wish it. He could make you forget you found him—they say he can make a man blind to him a foot away, yet still see all but Kelab. But if he chooses to be found he may be found in the Low City if he has no task of entertaining for some noble or rich merchant.”
Ordovic said, “What is the Low City?”
“That part of Oppidum west of the fortress on the Hill of Kings where Lady Andra is resident. Oppidum is the greatest city on the planet, and city imperial for ten generations.
“East of the fortress lies the spaceport and the wealthy quarter and the markets. They have a saying at the port—passengers go east, spacemen go west.”
Ordovic nodded. He said, “I thank you for your advice, Tampore. I’ll follow it.”
“Good luck, Captain Ordovic. And here is one last piece of advice worth all the rest.” He pressed something hard and cold into Ordovic’s hand, turned with a swish of leather sandals and was gone in the darkness. Ordovic fingered what he had been given and laughed with a strangely bitter sound when he found what it was.
The oldest remedy of all. Cold steel.
He tucked the knife in his belt and went on down the passage, thinking of the past few minutes. Landor—Sharla—
The memory of their first meeting was as angry as an old wound broken open.
V
Ordovic was feeling very pleased with himself. He pushed open the swinging gate by the hand-lettered sign that read PIRBRITE’S GARDENS, and walked in with the rolling gait of one just in from a long trip in free fall. He had two thousand circles to spend—good solid Empire currency—and all the time he wanted. And he intended to spend both to his own pleasure.
He paused with one hand on the gate, surveying the garden. There were little tables here and there among the bushes, and there was soft lighting, part artificial, part the glow from the two-foot globes of white and pink luminescence on the birbrak trees that made any night on Loudor glorious. There was a mixed scent of clean fragrant foliage and rich liquors from a dozen worlds, and many men and women sat under the outstretched branches, talking, drinking and making love. And of course the inevitable party of spacemen playing shen fu. They said there was not a drinking-place on any world where you could not find one game in which to lose your money.
As he looked around, a small stout man in pink and green like one of his own birbrak trees came up to him and said, “The best of evenings to you, Ser soldier, and your request?”
Ordovic looked down and smiled slowly. “You are Ser Pirbrite?”
“I am.”
“Excellent. I wish to get drunk, by degrees—loudly and noisily drunk.”
Pirbrite looked anxious, and Ordovic laughed. “Not all here, my friend. I doubt if all the liquor in this place could make me drunk. I shall merely lay the foundations of it. Have me brought a measure of ancinard and a plate of strine, and if there is music I would like it.”
Pirbrite nodded and moved away. Ordovic picked a nearby table in the bay of a birbrak tree, where he could see the stars in a great thick band across the moonless sky. A pleasant place, and of higher class than most that he frequented. And—his eye swept appreciatively along a line of girls standing close to the little covered hut that served for bar and kitchen—had a neater line in hostesses.
The girl at the end of the line took a laden tray from the serving hatch and came over to him. He studied her with interest, and began to consider revising his plans for the evening. Blonde hair, delicate face, a figure which was in no need of support.
She set down the tray and waited, looking him over with a brassily insolent stare while he took the brimming mug of fuming red liquor and drank, and after it sent one of the tough balls of strine meat that are so useful for prolonging the process of getting drunk.
He looked up and grinned, and spun a fifty-circle coin with a flip of his thumb. She caught it expertly and turned to go, but his hand closed on her wrist like a steel trap and he said, “Since when has a measure of ancinard and a plate of strine made fifty circles?”
She sat down beside him on the bench, smiling like a child caught stealing sweetmeats, and said, “I like you, soldier. What’s your name?”
“Ordovic,” he answered, “and yours—thief?”
“Sharla,” she said smoothly. “Are you going to spend all your money on yourself, then?”
“Oh, take it, subtle one,” said Ordovic in mock disgust. “Or take it in kind.”
“A kiss for it,” offered Sharla, half-rising, the coin clutched triumphantly in her hand, and she leaned forward to press her lips on his. But a right arm as strong as a steel bar went round her body, and she did not move away.
Ordovic was revising his plans for the evening.
Again the swinging gates beside the hand-painted sign parted, and a thin man with a balding head and a nose like an eagle’s beak stood on the threshold, keen eyes surveying the garden. The glow of the birbrak trees and the dark green of their foliage made the scene like a paradise, but there was no appreciation in his cold, unsmiling face. He wore a patrician gown like a well-to-do merchant, but there was a short sword belted to his waist.
As usual, Pirbrite himself came bustling over to him and wished him the best of evenings.
“Evening,” said the man curtly. “You are the proprietor?”
“At your service,” agreed Pirbrite, his eyes anxiously searching the other’s face. “You wish, Ser—merchant?”
“I am no merchant,” said the newcomer briefly. “You have here a girl by the name of Sharla—Empire-born?”
Pirbrite’s brow cleared. If that was all—He said doubtfully, “I fear she is engaged with a customer just now, but we have many others just as charming—”
The newcomer seemed on the edge of losing his patience. He said with an effort, “You misunderstand me. What is the history of this girl?”
“Really, I hardly know,” admitted Pirbrite. “I purchased her at auction three quarter-years since, and she has proved accomplished and attractive in her task as hostess.”
The stranger raised his eyes to the sky as if praying for self-control. He said, “And her previous owner?”
“Heneage, master of the Mooncave out of town to the east. He had her from the slaver who picked her from some school on Annanworld, fringewards in the Empire yonder.” He jerked a thumb indiscriminately at the galaxy overhead.
“That sounds like the one,” muttered the stranger. “Where is she?”
“In shadow of that tree yonder,” said Pirbrite, pointing. He cupped his hands around his mouth and gave forth the deep-throated boom of a Loudor moth. Instantly the nearer trees glowed brighter to attract the insect, and the dark bay he had indicated was flooded with a soft pink radiance.
“Ay,” said the stranger after a pause. “Her price?”
“Her price?” echoed Pirbrite, taken aback. “Well, really—I had never thought of selling her—I mean…” He gasped.
“Come now, man!” rapped the other impatiently. “Delay not! Name it!”
Pirbrite took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “Three thousand circles,” he said flatly. It was more than double her worth.
Then he felt something hard and cold pressed into his chubby hand, and he opened his eyes again to see the stranger striding down into the garden with his hand on his sword, and in his own hand—
His eyes grew as round as the coins with wonder, and he picked up one of them—there were three—and turned it over.
A thousand circles!
The newcomer surveyed the soldier coolly. A fighting man, plainly. A mercenary, like all his breed, but an honest mercenary who would fulfill his contract or die.
He transferred his attention to Sharla and said, “You are the Princess Sharla Andalvarson of Argus?”
Ordovic said husk
ily, “Man, you are crazed!”
The stranger said, “I think not. Is it not truth, Sharla?”
She nodded, very slowly, with parted lips, but otherwise made no move.
Ordovic got slowly to his feet, his face bearing an expression of mingled doubt and amazement. He said, “Speak! What is this—a jest?”
“No jest, soldier, but the sober truth. This lady is indeed Sharla of Argus, and elder daughter of King Andalvar. As I read the story she was slavered from a school on Annanworld seven years back and sold into a house of shame on Loudor here—Mooncave by name. In due course she was resold here—a princess of the Imperial blood, but who would believe the tale?”
Sharla’s eyes were dim and far away, but she said huskily, “Ay. They took it for the tale of a child half crazed when I tried to tell them first, and the slavers never realized they held the Empire’s wealth at the swordpoint.
“My father would have bought me, or laid waste the world on which my blood was spilled if I had been slain. And then I learned to shut my mouth, and have kept it shut these seven years, for most of the old courtesans spin such tales—I met one who claimed to have been my father’s mistress scant ten years before, but she knew nothing of the court of Argus. She was a liar like all the rest—and what was I?”
She sat there hardly moving her lips, telling her tale of shame in a low but tearless voice.
“I had almost forgotten,” she finished. Ordovic looked bewilderedly from one to the other. He had thought he knew every trick of the trade when it came to parting money and its owner, but this was a new one. There were ways of testing its validity—
He said fiercely, “By the winds of Loudor, stranger, this is no common tale. Who are you that you spin so wild a story?”
“No one that you would know, soldier. And none that you would know either, Sharla. My name is Landor, and I am neither of Loudor nor of Argus, but of Penalpar, half the galaxy away.”
“Well, Landor of Penalpar as you call yourself, what if this tale of yours be true? What is it?”
Landor ignored him and bent his brilliant eyes on Sharla. He said, “Sharla, your father is sick and approaching death. These two months I have sought you, beginning on Annanworld and tracing you hither to Loudor to bring you back.”
