Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (31 page)

Floyt doubted their ability to deal with a fangster using sticks and stones at the best of times, much less in their current condition. "What about fording?"

Alacrity gazed at the roiling water again. "We'd get knocked over and get our brains mashed. Maybe as a last resort."

"No, look." Floyt quickly selected a disc of rock. He lifted it with a grunt, offering it to the breakabout. "Take it! It'll help you keep your footing!"

Alacrity was about to object when the fangster's hunting cry changed his mind. He dropped the throwing rock and hollered in agony as Floyt made the transfer. The breakabout tried to bear as much of the ballast's weight as possible with his left arm, on his uninjured side. Still, it was a moment-to-moment battle not to give in to the torment and drop his burden.

Floyt had seized a blocky stone. Now they eased into the water, trying to steady one another as much as they could. It was paralyzingly cold, a snow-fed stream.

Their cycling shoes gave them only marginal purchase on the sluiced rocks of the streambed, and the rushing current hit their upper bodies like an avalanche. Clutching their weights, buffeted and pounded, they struggled in deeper, and deeper still, wondering if they'd freeze before they made it across.

Alacrity took a misstep and nearly went under. The Earther, trying to keep one eye on his companion, was nearly drawn into a whirlpool, then turned his ankle, but managed to hobble on. Alacrity somehow contrived to hang on to his boulder with the arm on his good side and use the other to pull Floyt through, though the torment of it brought a shriek from him.

Swirling at waist level, the water kept them tilting and wavering, fighting desperately for balance, warring for each step. They heard a snarling wail behind them-the fangster at the bank. They didn't dare turn to look. A denizen of the peaks, the thing had struck Alacrity as being almost spindly. He hoped that meant it had no stomach for a swift, cold bath.

Floyt stepped into another hole and went under, floundering and dropping his ballast. Alacrity released his own and lurched for the Earther. They were spun like leaves, and both expected to be pounded to shreds. But fickle waters spun and bucked them toward the far bank, and Floyt was able to grab a large rock sticking above the foam. Alacrity felt his feet touch bottom. In moments they were dragging one another onto dry land.

They collapsed, blue-lipped, exhausted, and shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering. On the far side of the stream the fangster scuttled back and forth, watching them with eyes like green flames, whining and spitting at them, the quills of its tail standing out stiffly. Nevertheless, it made no effort to test the water temperature.

"However in creation did you think of using ballast?" Alacrity asked when he could talk again.

"I read about it. In
Skagway Scanlon, King of the Klondike."

"Penny dreadful?"

"Dime novel." Floyt considered the raging, frustrated fangster. "In Skagway's case it was a Kodiak bear, of course."

"I have to start doing more reading. I really do."

At that moment a sound drew their gaze to the head of the valley. Two lean, heavily armed air cutters were bearing down on them while a third flew high cover. The fangster snarled defiance at them, then slid away into the brush.

"How do we know they're real?" Floyt remembered that Inst probably had confederates somewhere out in the Epiphanian wilds.

"Doesn't matter who they are," Alacrity chattered. "They've got us. I'm not so sure who I'd prefer anyway."

Floyt stopped shivering for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"We killed Inst, remember? Or at least got him killed."

Floyt went back to shivering.

The Invincible rescue team that piled out of the cutters turned out to be the authentic item, though.

Paramedics treated them while guards established a perimeter and the major in charge of the detail questioned them. His expression became increasingly grim as he listened. He dispatched one of the grounded cutters to search for Inst's remains. As soon as the two survivors had been seen to, they were hustled aboard the remaining cutter under close guard.

On the way back to Frostpile, one of the paramedics asked Floyt if he'd mind answering a few questions about Earth. She was doing research in her spare time, hoping to draw up a family tree.

CHAPTER 16—RELATIVE VALUES

"Death," Redlock ruled less than an hour later in Dame Tiajo's chambers. Several of the surveillance drones that were floating near the ceiling dipped closer, prepared to carry out his will on the spot.

Thistle's
wreckage and the remains of Inst and his harness—what little there was—had been found and brought along as evidence. Mercifully, none of it had been trotted out. The only other significant delay had been for a brusque cleanup, not for the sake of the two survivors but to avoid offending Epiphany's nobles. After a rather cursory bioscan, the medics had decided that the companions didn't require immediate attention. Surrounded by Celestials and Invincibles, they'd found themselves before an impromptu board of inquiry. It was an hour to noon.

"Death for both of them," Redlock reiterated. Ignoring the obedient drones, he held out his hand to one of the Invincible officers. The man looked questioningly at Tiajo, hand on his sidearm.

"For defending ourselves?" Floyt asked quietly, his voice sounding strange to him, coming as it did through his swollen face and broken nose. Both his eyes were blackening.

"For murder!" Redlock shot a quick look at his wife. Dorraine was still off to one side, not weeping but eyes downcast, as if no one else were there. Near her, at the vast viewpane that showed much of Frostpile, Maska stood, a calming presence even though he said nothing but only watched, sad-eyed.

The Severeemish were there, almost at attention. If they were inclined to gloat, Floyt noted, they didn't dare show it.

"That's for you to decide, isn't it?" Alacrity asked the grandam. Tiajo, seated, was plainly trying to collect her thoughts and composure. It was clear that, while she seldom crossed wills with Redlock and held a great deal of affection for him, she had her reservations on this subject.

"Defended yourselves? Against
Inst?
"
Redlock's scarred cheek tugged with amusement. "A lie, right on the face of it. Why would he threaten two lowlies like you?"

Alacrity was caught up in the same question; he hadn't figured it out himself. But Hobart Floyt replied evenly, "Governor Redlock, you'll have to ask your wife that question." The breakabout's mouth fell open.

Redlock's face went bloodless; he made to take the Invincible's gun, permission or no. But a sound escaped the queen of Agora, of resignation and despair, but not a sob—Floyt couldn't picture her ever crying.

"If you don't speak up, Highness," the Terran went on, "you'll forfeit my life and Alacrity's too."

Dangers and fear and hardship had put an unswerving candor into him. Alacrity could see his companion tremble, but his voice didn't.

Redlock was listening again; Floyt's accusation had hit some target.

"Did … did my father really try to
kill
you?" she asked at last. The stately carriage was now slumped, the superlative features infinitely sad. Redlock stood rooted and mute.

"I don't believe so. He could've done that easily," Floyt said into the silence. "But he meant to keep us from getting back to Frostpile. It would have been enough to force us down where subordinates were waiting, wouldn't it? Until the Willreading and the Thorn Cup were over?" He didn't sound accusatory; he was gentle, consoling. "No, I don't believe he would have killed us under any circumstances."

Dorraine squared her shoulders and turned to Floyt, clear-eyed, with the barest smile of gratitude.

"Thank you."

"But … why?" Tiajo asked. No one could remember her ever having been so subdued. She adored Dorraine almost as much as she did Redlock.

The queen assembled her courage. Just as Floyt was about to answer for her, to spare her, she spoke. "I'm not … I wasn't his daughter. Not the daughter of his body." Her chin came up. "But the daughter of his heart. And he was the only father I ever knew. We loved each other very much."

Redlock's hands were dangling at his sides now. He moved to his wife, and Alacrity silently let out his breath. Dorraine threw herself into Redlock's arms. "What will happen now?" she asked, looking at the envoys.

The complex system of allegiances and fealties sworn by the Severeemish, in part through the queen of Agora, had been couched in terms of blood and lineage. Now it seemed that they were null and void.

"We kept the secret for a very long time," Dorraine began slowly. Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf listened, unblinking. "We kept it from … from everyone. Inst—my father, if you will indulge me—"

"I don't care," Redlock broke in. He told the towering Severeemish, "She's my wife, queen of Agora.

That's the way it'll remain."

Peace and war hung in the balance. But unexpectedly, Theater General Sortie-Wolf inquired gently,

"May we know the circumstances?"

"He found me during the fourth year of the Turmoils, after his … after Dorraine died in a concentration camp on Rawbone. Without Dorraine, there'd be no succession. He and Dorraine hadn't been recognized by anyone for their real selves; you know that. He chose me because I looked like Dorraine. I was the right age too."

She glanced out the viewpane at Frostpile. "I don't remember much about my own family, except that I was separated from them."

The dark eyes flashed at Redlock again. "I'd been alone for a long time. I don't know how many camps I'd been in. I don't know why I wasn't liquidated. Inst took care of me and taught me what I had to do."

"You were an apt pupil," Seven Wars commented.

"And then one day the warships came." She squeezed Redlock's hand. "And we were liberated. Then you put me on the throne, my only love. Everything was chaos, back then. Inst altered records and identification data. He destroyed or altered files, family holoportraits, and all the rest. He made me Dorraine in every particular."

"Except one," Floyt maintained. "You didn't have the allergen immunity."

She nodded slowly. "I took treatments in secret over the years. Nothing on Agora could have betrayed me. But no one can be immunized to every allergen."

"The Thorn Cup!" Alacrity blurted. Everyone saw it now. Mimicking flora from Severeernish worlds, it would very likely incorporate an allergen or toxin with which her immunizations couldn't cope. The woman they all still thought of as Dorraine would have run the risk of exposure if she'd agreed to accept the Cup.

"But there was that old family stricture. The idea of using it came to my father when Director Weir took a turn for the worse. And so I could avoid the Cup after all." She sounded bewildered. "And so it still doesn't make sense. Why should he need to have you out of the way, Hobart Floyt?"

"Your father modified the wording of the stricture," he said quietly. "If he didn't tell you that, it was probably to keep from burdening you. And you told it to your husband and Dame Tiajo in good faith.

Then Inst discovered that I'd been included in the will at the last moment."

Alacrity thought of the conversation just before the air-bike launch; Inst had heard Dorraine misquote the stricture in Alacrity's presence, and that probably deepened the First Councillor's resolve. Of course, by then the plan to get Hobart Floyt, amateur historian and genealogist, out of the way must already have been made. With the Severeemish looking for any excuse to revoke their fealty, it had been an absolute necessity.

It had only taken a bit of luck and a certain amount of guidance on Inst's part to bring about an opportunity to put Floyt out of the picture—Inst, who'd forestalled a duel with mention of a race; Inst, who'd spoken out so strongly for reason and prudence, making sure that Tiajo would favor him and the contestants compromise on him as race escort.

"Your father could've killed us, easy as could be, Dorraine," Alacrity said. "But he didn't. He didn't even try."

"All that is well and good," Defense Minister Seven Wars conceded. "But it is clear that a lie has been foisted off on the Severeemish." He was now at rigid attention, addressing the queen. "Weir had us swear fealty to the daughter of Inst, a woman of royal blood. With all deference, madam, you are not that woman."

Floyt and Alacrity braced themselves; the room was still. In moments word could leap forth faster than light, and war would dismantle Weir's lifework.

"Of course, she
does
rule Agora," Sortie-Wolf pointed out, to end the silence. He turned to Seven Wars. "Father, do you think that part of the oath might apply? A mere technicality, of course … "

"Of course," concurred Seven Wars, fingering his chin with steel-hard nails. "And another: Inst referred to her as his daughter, not just once, but on many occasions. Not a formal adoption proceeding, perhaps, but a strong point of usage."

There were puzzled glances and knotted brows all around the chamber. Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf were enjoying themselves enormously.

"Sophistry, perhaps," the son warned.

"But the sort our lawgivers dearly love to haggle over," the father averred.

"And just what are you both driving at?" Tiajo demanded.

They gazed at her innocently. "Why, that there must be a reappraisal of the Severeemish oath of fealty."

"You know that I'll never let you break away from the Domain," Redlock said.

"Oh? And do you think you can defeat the Severeemish a second time? We are stronger now than ever."

Redlock would've spoken to that, but Tiajo got there first. "You haven't answered my question. Why this talk of lawgivers and technicalities? And reappraisals?"

Sortie-Wolf smiled ferociously. "The Severeemish
have
grown stronger since coming into your sphere. And prospered as well. Why should we wish to break away? We've fought for you, and fought well; that was our promise. But now it's time for fealty to end, to be replaced by a true alliance between free and equal participants."