Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (25 page)

Some would-be hunters insisted they'd stalk on foot. Others demanded that shooting blinds be set up for them. A few stubbornly refused to hunt other than from animal back. Many individuals and parties demanded to be dropped into selected areas; others had decided to ride as far as possible on the ground and hike from there.

And apparently every one of the high-ranking visitors was used to having his or her way. Tiajo's staff members were dashing about with maps and navigational computers, intertial trackers, satellite-linked locaters, and much-emended lists, trying feverishly to accommodate everyone. The parties would be dispersed across much of Epiphany, though Alacrity had noticed that a small southern continent was being kept clear of visitors.

Floyt and Alacrity came upon some horses and inspected them curiously. Most resembled their forebears, terrestrial thoroughbreds, hunters, and jumpers, but several were peculiar strains bred in alien environments.

One such, with spiderishly long legs, and three-toed hooves like a prehistoric hipparion's, caracoled nearby. Beyond it stood a thickset colossus far larger than any percheron; as it reared a little, its lips pulled back to reveal the dentition of an omnivore.

Most of the mounts wore shin and hind ankle boots and had hooves cupped in protective bells.

A scattering of nonterrestrial riding animals was also visible, among them a creature resembling a millipede bearing a triple saddle and a slothlike beast whose face put Floyt in mind of Admiral Maska.

Most of the mounts had been supplied by Frostpile, but some wealthy guests had brought favorites with them from other star systems, making Floyt blaspheme at the thought of the cost.

Dressed in camouflage battle suits, the Severeemish envoys stood by, surveying the proceedings.

Floyt suspected they were savoring the discord their Observance was causing at Frostpile.

Sortie-Wolf gave the two a friendly wave. "Poorly coordinated bedlam, wouldn't you say?"

"Then why don't you let them call it off?" Alacrity proposed as he and the Terran paused. "We could all go back to bed and get up again at noon for another breakfast."

Seven Wars barked laughter. "The obsequies, you know, the obsequies. Weir the Defender must be honored as befits a Severeemish lord, or our customs will have been flouted."

"Some honor," Alacrity sneered at the Babel.

"Ah, well, it will have to do."

"Citizen Floyt," the general said, "at some point I'd like to have a few moments of your time. I think insights are to be gained by soliciting an Earther's point of view. It bears remembering that Terra was origin world to
Homo severeem
as well as
Homo sapiens."

"Oh. Well, of course I'd be happy to sit down with you when time permits."

Maybe with about twenty, thirty Invincibles standing around, Muscles!
Alacrity thought.

"Splendid. I've always wanted to trace my gene-heritage, both natural and augmentative. Your avocation is fascinating." Sortie-Wolf and his father waved good-naturedly and walked off to inspect some of the riding animals.

"Ho, you'll probably find them cross-indexed under 'Mutants, Ugly, Bloodthirsty, and Warlike.'"

"Still, the general was loud enough in suggesting a way to save you yesterday."

"That might mean he's shrewd, but it doesn't mean he's innocent." They resumed their way. "You know, I didn't realize what a stir you were going to cause with this genealogy stuff."

"To be frank, it surprised me too. I was taught that offworlders didn't care about their ancestral background." Something occurred to him. "Maybe when we get back to Earth I can help you look into yours."

"Forget it." He knew at once that he'd overreacted. "What I meant was, thanks anyway, Ho, but do me a favor and don't. Don't even enter my name."

Floyt nodded, saying nothing.
Just when I thought I was getting to know him.

They came to one of an assortment of outfitters' marquees, where a noisy disagreement was going on.

A rather attractive woman of middle age, smartly turned out in riding pinks, her face carefully painted in a butterfly pattern, was harassing an assistant armorer.

"Why, back home I'd have you flayed! I paid five thousand ovals for that rifle! Now, go fetch it for me this second!"

The servant answered calmly. "All guests' personal weapons are being held offworld, Esteemed One, to insure the High Truce. But we have many others from which you are invited to choose." He held up a short, sleek energy carbine with saddle-scabbard ring. Floyt noticed that it had a strange fitting under the forestock.

"You imbecile!" she gritted, raising a sting-crop. "What good is a weapon if anyone could own it?"

She swatted the carbine aside and strode away, swearing.

"Open season on armorers?" Floyt asked.

The man shrugged. "It's been like that all morning. One young idiot demanded we return his poisoned throwing daggers; wanted to go hunting
fangsters
!
Imagine? And the Daimyo expected us to hand over an air-skiff mounted with hammergun pods."

"Close airstrikes as a wildlife management technique," reflected Alacrity. "Very original."

"Alacrity, can't we just go sit this out in whatever passes for a dungeon?"

Alacrity laughed. "Only if you don't want to be an Inheritor, Ho. But it'll be all right. See the guns?

Every one is fitted with a governor—in the case of Madame Merde's carbine, the boojum detector under the forestock. Each hunter and staff member, gillie, and pilot will be wearing a functioning ID band. None of these weapons will be mistakenly—or even purposely—fired at us."

"But are they foolproof?"

"Supposed to be foolproof and tamperproof, Ho. We're gonna be careful just the same. I made some special arrangements yesterday evening."

Floyt thought about making a crack, but restrained himself. Alacrity had left a request for equipment, supplies, weapons, and an air vehicle. As the breakabout receipted for the ID bands and weapons, Floyt said, "I thought we weren't going to hunt? And these wouldn't be any good for defense; everybody else will be wearing bands too."

Alacrity was accepting two big-game rifles and a pair of handguns. "Well, there're always warning shots. And signal shots. And shots to scare away things that we don't want to kill but don't want to be eaten by either. Epiphany's only lightly settled; there're some mean specimens wandering around out there."

Other hunters were selecting all manner of artillery. One lovely, delicate young debutante picked out a terrifically powerful Forbes Annihilator that, to Floyt, resembled a neck-slung holorecorder of unusual size. Alacrity shook his head disbelievingly. The promised blastathon would be the lowest kind of lamebrained excuse for hunting: halfwits blowing holes through or setting fire to everything in sight except one another, which was, now that he thought about it, too bad. If the Severeemish truly wanted trouble on Epiphany, insisting on the Hunt had been an astute move.

They came to where Stare Skill, Kid Risk, and Brother Grimm were checking over the mound of equipment the outfitters had assigned them. The Djinn and the old mercenary seemed amiable enough, but the xenologist looked disconcerted and avoided meeting their gazes.

"So you three have thrown in together?" Alacrity asked as they compared notes.

"Yes, to—what's the term?—'lie doggo,' " Brother Grimm replied with his frightening smile. "So much is brewing around here that it reminds me of the story of the louse and the flea."

Alacrity resisted the temptation to ask why. Floyt decided that no matter who kissed the Djinn, or how much, there was no hope of his ever becoming a handsome prince.

Risk looked amused. "These two were kind enough to agree to look after an old good-for-nothing like me. Restores your faith in human nature."

Brother Grimm emitted strange, popping laughter as he picked up all their gear with no perceptible difficulty. "Such diplomacy, William! Such humility!"

Ill at ease, Stare Skill said curtly, "It's time we were on our way."

Floyt and Alacrity watched the trio move off in the direction of the ground vehicles. "Why should
they
be nervous?" Floyt wondered.

"Stare Skill and Brother Grimm are probably thinking that the Djinn's homeworld has a lot of strategic and economic importance, aside from happening to be the place where they live. Billy Risk must've piled up so many grudges and vendettas that by now he does it by instinct. But don't believe that garble of his about who's looking after who."

They started off again. "Stare Skill isn't showing much gratitude, though," Alacrity commented.

"Tilla told me that Kid Risk loved her and left her, a long time ago. Do you think she'll let him make amends—? Hey, what's the frown for, Alacrity?"

"I was just calculating how the three of them might react if they thought Weir bequeathed somebody sovereignty over—what's the Djinn's planet? Ifurin."

"Me, for example?"

"Yeah. Those brothers wrote some pretty gory fairy tales, didn't they?"

After staring around for a few minutes the two were directed to the landing area by a bemused Invincible. As they crossed the tumult of the mustering place, things seemed to have grown even more confused than before. "I talked to a few people around Frostpile," Alacrity confided, "then I reserved us a spot several hundred kilometers from here, far away from where anybody else ought to be."

"Why not stay in one of the base camps?"

"That might be playing into somebody's hands. Besides, Tiajo and the Severeemish will be nosing around. Seven Wars would like as not make us go hunting with them."

Many of the mounted hunters, astride saddles and perched in howdahs and riding bareback, were having more than a little trouble controlling their animals.

Alacrity nudged Floyt. "Look at Dincrist!"

The shipping magnate was talking with several friends, but Heart wasn't in the group. She'd told Alacrity the previous day, before going back to her suite, that she didn't share her father's passion for the hunt. Dincrist looked fully recovered from the buzzball game, but nervous. His hand stayed close to the holstered pistol at his waist.

Nearby, a particularly repulsive creature squatted on two sets of rear legs, following Dincrist with black, bulging eyes, growling and whining. Its mouth was crowded with serried rows of white, inward-curving teeth.

"Tame Gresham's beast," Alacrity muttered. "They use 'em for hunting humans as well as animals. I never did like those things."

The predator from Gresham's World swung its ugly head at the two and made a gurgling sound.

Dincrist glanced their way, then continued scanning the yard uneasily.

"He's shakier than we are," Alacrity said. "I guess he's decided it was him somebody was trying to scramble in the tank." He opened his mouth to yell a comment, but Floyt stopped him.

"It would only make things harder on Heart, Alacrity."

The breakabout stared at him. "Thanks, Ho. You're right."

They passed on to where a caged animal huddled wretchedly in one corner of its confinement, quivering. It put the Terran in mind of a green, six-limbed homunculus. "This can't be an attack beast too?"

A gillie overheard them. "Now, that's a woodsprite." He gestured toward Dincrist's party. "They're riding after hedge devils today, and tomorrow, this little sprout. Too bad. They say there aren't many left." He went about his work.

Floyt squatted down, reaching into a cargo pocket of his bush fatigues. The woodsprite edged foward, sniffing. The Terran extended a piece of fruit he'd saved from breakfast. Nostrils flaring, the thing took the human's scent and moved closer timidly. Floyt tossed it the fruit. The creature caught it with one limb and devoured it as though famished.

"Alacrity, isn't there something we can—"

"Nothing!"

Resigned, the Terran fell in beside his companion and resumed their walk to the takeoff point, where vehicles of all types, crammed with every sort of outdoor equipment, were parked or grounded at assorted angles.

The craft Alacrity had reserved was a large, ungainly sky barouche that had seen better days. It bore the Weir crest and was laden with all manner of camping and survival gear.

"But Alacrity, do we really need all this junk?" Floyt gestured to the crest. "Not to mention the flying bull's-eye?"

Alacrity reassured him with a wink. He looked around to satisfy himself that they weren't being watched. The gillies and other staff members were too harried to be doing much spying. Those hunters who weren't occupied with difficulties and complications of their own were partaking of a prehunt snack and a bit of cheer as waiters circulated among them with trays.

Alacrity began to sort through the cargo, selecting a few items: a case of rations, a compact field generator, a two-man bubble shelter, and sleeping cocoons.

A young assistant motor-stable overseer came hurrying up to him. "I see you've got everything set, Reef," Alacrity said.

The young man nodded energetically. "You bet, Alacrity." He patted the barouche.

"Good." Looking around, Alacrity pointed to a row of surface skimmers. "Now, which of those is free?"

Reef's eyebrows knit. "Uh, all of 'em. They're mostly for local sightseeing."

"Well, which one's the best of the lot?"

Reef indicated an almost-new skimmer, fully charged. Alacrity leaned the rifles against it and began stowing the gear he'd selected. Floyt snorted with laughter.

The skimmer was an open vehicle with a fairing, two low-slung tandem seats, and a small luggage well between the rear seat and the tiny engine. A safety helmet sat astride each seat's control pommel. A navigation-commo unit bulged its nose. To Floyt's way of thinking, the ground skimmer couldn't have looked much more like a bobsled without being one.

"But, but what about the barouche?" the perplexed Reef asked.

Alacrity paused. "After we're gone, take it back to the motor stable and dismount the control stem or something. Then keep your lip sealed. But make sure nobody uses it, read me? Good. Here."

He surreptitiously passed Reef a Spican bank note. The assistant overseer palmed it and took an unhurried leave.