Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (32 page)

Seven Wars produced a data capsule. "Our lawgivers have devoted some thought to the issue.

Recent developments"—he nodded to Dorraine—"seem to make this an appropriate time to present their exegesis."

Just happened to have it along, hmm?
Alacrity scoffed to himself.

The minister gave the capsule to Tiajo while Floyt thought,
When, in the course of Severeemish
events …

"You were waiting for something like this!" Alacrity exclaimed. These stiff-necked, legalistic, surprisingly loyal people plainly would never dream of asking that an oath be dissolved without some grounds.

"Boy, have
we
been used." Floyt shook his head in disbelief.

"Ah, not altogether," Sortie-Wolf replied. "You managed to bring a great measure of trouble upon yourselves." To Tiajo he said, "Please consider carefully what we have said. We would be steadfast and faithful friends. You know the worth of the Severeemish word."

The old woman nodded, lips pursed in thought. "I've never had cause to doubt it." Her eyes moved to Alacrity and Floyt. "The memorial ceremony will begin in a few hours. Go and prepare, both of you. And see that you mention nothing that's happened here, or I'll show you how difficult life can be."

"Hey, but what about—" was all Alacrity got out. By now, all Tiajo had to do was beetle her brows, and he shut up. As the two made a fast exit, Floyt noticed that Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf were bowing low before Dorraine, rendering formal condolences for the loss of Inst. He hoped that was a good sign.

CHAPTER 17—BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE

The household physicians who treated them were the same ones who'd seen to Alacrity after the buzzball game; the doctors allowed as how they were beginning to feel right at home in the suite. As Sintilla gamely attempted to pry information out of them, Floyt reflected on what unfortunate shape he and Alacrity would have been in after only a few short days if not for the excellence of Frostpile's medical care.

The breakabout interrupted his treatment periodically for attempts to contact Heart. The result was always the same: the communications terminal in the suite of rooms shared by the Nonpareil and her father had been set to refuse all incoming calls.

"I'm going over there," Alacrity announced at last, struggling to rise.

"No!" Sintilla warned.

"
Hell,
no!" Floyt seconded. "Tiajo's mad enough as it is. We don't need any more trouble today, Alacrity!" The breakabout let a doctor push him back down onto his bed.

"What
is
the grandam so angry about?" Sintilla pressed.

"Would you two lugs have the decency to play fair? Haven't I always let you in on the dirt around here? Now, I know that you didn't finish the race, and Inst had an accident or something, but I can't get one straight answer out of anybody. How'm I supposed to make a living, fellas?"

"Have you considered a career in commoscreen canvassing?" Alacrity inquired sweetly.

She made an obscene gesture at him.

"We truly aren't at liberty to tell you, Tilla," Floyt said gravely. "It wouldn't be fair to … someone who deserves better. But it will all come out soon, I expect; then we'll tell you everything we can, I promise you."

"You better," she grumbled, rising and moving for the door. "I'm still counting on you guys to make me rich."

Exhaustion and the effects of their medical treatment combined to make them sleep the afternoon away. As a result, they had to rush in order to make Weir's funeral on time.

They'd put aside their own clothing for the flowing, togalike robes required by the ceremony, and soft tabi that eased their abused feet. Floyt had resumed his Inheritor's belt.

Since they were about to penetrate one of Frostpile's inner most sanctums, they were routed to a new checkpoint and scanned with weapons detectors and telltales. As they were boarding a special corridor tram on which Endwraithe, the Spican banker, was already seated, they heard a commotion behind them.

"Good luck, boys! I'll see you later!" Sintilla, her way blocked by an Invincible, was waving to them.

The tram was starting to move. "We'll tell you all about it!" Alacrity called to her. Endwraithe was lost in thought. The two fell silent for the duration of the ride.

Following a complex path, the tram gradually wound its way to the highest point in Frostpile, the top of a spire that spiraled like a unicorn's horn. They passed guards and patrols, hovering drones and surveillance pickups, and still more weapons detectors and monitoring emplacements.

At the spire's summit was a spacious mirador, within it a formal garden. All three disembarked from the tram. An Invincible officer and his squad, in dashing, resplendent dress uniforms, scanned them yet again. They were then admitted.

Only those who wore the Inheritor's belt and their invited companions were present, fewer than thirty in all. The many bequests and legacies going to groups and organizations would be taken care of later; the staff and household, along with certain other subordinates, would receive their recognition separately.

But all those mentioned by name in the great man's last will and testament were present. It came to Floyt then what company he was keeping.

All wore robes, and Inheritors their belts. Stare Skill was there with Brother Grimm; Kid Risk, Sir John, and Dincrist had all come without escort, and spoke together now. Endwraithe went to join them.

Alacrity restrained himself from confronting Heart's father; it could only hurt his own situation and threaten Floyt's.

Admiral Maska was standing by himself. The stoop-shouldered Srillan twitched his long snout and made a solemn, shallow bow of greeting to the two. Tiajo, Redlock, and Dorraine were near the center of the garden, conversing quietly with the Severeemish.

The governor saw them and walked over. "The forensic team examined the clothing Inst wore at the sportsfest. They found traces of the epoxy that was used to seal the game's computer," he confided.

"Careless," Alacrity commented cooly. "It was probably a spur-of-the-moment thing." He hoped everybody was properly impressed by and grateful for his clement attitude.

"We also found out that he'd procured an ampule of an Agoran virus some time back," Redlock said.

"Nothing lethal, but it would've immobilized an unprotected person for quite a while."

"That's probably what your little playmate on Earth was trying to get you to sample, Ho," Alacrity concluded.

"I suppose if you insist on an investigation, my wife would accommodate you," Redlock informed them, jaw set.

"No. No need for that," Floyt assured him. Alacrity withheld his own opinion. Redlock looked relieved.

A deep tone sounded through the garden. Halidome was gone, and a gorgeous red dusk had settled.

"If you wish to pay last respects, you've only a little time," the governor told them. He bowed, then went to rejoin his wife.

On a crystal bier near the center of the garden reposed the body of the Defender, Director Caspahr Weir, under the blue-white aura of a preservation field. The bier rested on a piece of apparatus strange to both of them, though Alacrity saw it was some sort of projector.

They had their first glimpse of the man whose actions had thrown them together and drawn them across the light-years. He was unremarkable, even in the uniform of a supreme commander. He wore only one decoration, a medallion with nineteen jeweled starbursts on it.

He was small, a good deal shorter than Floyt, and lean into the bargain. He'd accepted natural aging; his face was networked with lines of care and years. The hairs on his head were white, few, and threadlike. His hands, clasped across his middle, were in embroidered military gauntlets, but their gnarled frailty could still be seen.

"He looks so tired," was what Floyt found himself saying. "So very
used up.
Doesn't he, Alacrity?"

Alacrity agreed. He bade the old man in a murmur, "Sleep well, old-timer."

"And thanks," Floyt blurted.

Alacrity turned to him. "Thanks for what, Ho?"

Floyt shrugged, trying to pin it down for himself. For being compelled to leave his homeworld, practically thrown out? For being placed in lethal danger? For an inheritance that was still an enigma? But there'd been star travel, too, and the Sockwallet Outfit; the grandeur of Frostpile and the exhilaration when
Thistle
showed her prop to
Feather.

"For everything," Floyt decided.

Another of the deep tones echoed through Frostpile. Minister Seven Wars moved to a large, hand-carved planter in the center of the garden. Its decorations were the grotesque battle symbols and gargoyle masks of the Severeemish. Seven Wars began working at the base of the Thorn Cup.

In keeping with the Usages, the Cup was one of those nurtured in the innermost courts at the Holy Bastion on Desideratum, which was also called Severeem Prime. It had begun life as a beautiful beaker plant, with scalloped, bell-shaped blossom upturned, veined and tinted with every color imaginable.

It had been wound with a rider vine. The parasitic vine had become one with the beaker plant and had begun feeding off and ingeniously mimicking other plants, seeds, and spores it contacted.

Once the Severeemish had drunk the Thorn Cup as a test of sincere grief and bravery, and the worthiness to inherit or succeed. The Cup had often been lethal. Nowadays, drinking a Thorn Cup entailed only a certain unpleasantness. But the gardens of the Severeemish were always abundant with the herbs and flowers, molds and other vegetation they bred; an individual's reaction to any particular Thorn Cup was unpredictable.

Seven Wars parted the beaker plant's stem and the rider vine wrapped round it with fingers like metal talons. He ignored the dappling and bright warning colorations, and the triangular, oily blue leaves imitative of a keepaway.

From the vine dangled small pods containing spores copied by the rider from cloudscrub.

Wheeze-moss clung to it too, and ersatz chokebemes. Sortie-Wolf handed his father a large, highly polished flask made from a jet-black tusk and crowned with a cuspstone cap and stopper of translucent beige. Even though the flask and its contents had been minutely examined, a detector drone, like a miniature mantaray, closed in overhead, aromatics sampler and optical surveillance pickup extended. The Severeemish were neither surprised nor offended; their hierarchy, too, had its intrigues and assassins.

Seven Wars held the flowering chalice without concern, unmindful of contact with the molds and leaves. He charged it with a full measure of syrupy green liquid. The minister raised the Cup to Weir and, as pourer, took the first sip.

The rest of the Inheritors were gathering around. Seven Wars held the Cup out to Tiajo, ignoring the oily blue keepaway leaves that brushed his knuckles and the back of his leathery paw.

The old woman took it carefully and held it in trembling hands. She raised the vessel to her late brother, then sipped. She sneezed and spilled a few drops as she moved it away from herself.

Redlock was quick to take the Cup from her as Tiajo sneezed again and her eyes brimmed over. But Floyt saw that they weren't simply allergy tears; her shoulders shook, and Redlock motioned aside for the moment a physician who would have offered her an eye-mist dispenser.

Redlock's breath rasped a little as he lifted the Cup to Weir; his skin wasn't as thick or leathery as that of a Severeemish; the keepaways immediately raised white welts. Dorraine was still off to one side, watching. Maska held out his hand; the governor passed the Cup to the admiral.

Maska's sensitive snout began to sniffle and run, and he too sneezed. His Srillan physiology was sufficiently like a human's that his eyes began to water and swell shut.

Dincrist, whose turn was next, held the Cup with elaborate wariness and a distinct lack of reverence.

He took a deep breath and held it while he stole a quick sip. It was an ignominious performance, and Floyt thought he detected scorn on Tiajo's face between sneezes, but Dincrist showed no adverse effects.

The Cup continued its round. Household physicians moved in to attend those who'd already drunk.

Two showed signs of anaphylaxis, requiring antishock and adrenaline injections. Hives were treated, and abrupt lymphatic swelling, agonizingly itchy eyes, and nasal passages were soothed and sneezing stopped.

Stare Skill's draught had her short of breath, the air making noise in her chest. Brother Grimm helped insure that the Cup didn't fall; no one took exception. Stare Skill finished the ritual, and Seven Wars refilled the chalice. Grimm supported Stare Skill as the xenologist inhaled a dilator-decongestant-antihistamine. The Observance went on.

When the Cup reached Floyt, all eyes were still with it as Dorraine was the only other Inheritor who had yet to drink. With a mental shrug, Floyt took the Cup in both hands and raised it to the funeral bier and its burden. The draught was bitter and sour and thick, but somehow invigorating, quickening.

Dorraine walked to Floyt, taking the Cup without caution. After lifting it to Weie, she drank deeply, inhaling the pollen afterward, running her hands over leaves and mold.

She handed the drained Cup back to Seven Wars. She showed no allergic reaction of any kind.

Floyt supposed that the immunization treatments she'd received over the years, plus her own natural immunities, had protected her. That was the rational explanation. But he found himself thinking,
Who
knows? Maybe she's got Agoran royal blood in her. Wouldn't that be a good joke on all of us?

A hand on his shoulder drew his attention to a grinning Alacrity. "Better let him give you an inhaler,"

the breakabout said, indicating a doctor with a jerk of his thumb.

"By head's a bit clogged," Floyt admitted stuffily, "but I dod't doe that I really deed a—"

Alacrity was chuckling. "Good God in the Void, man, your head's swelling up like a vacuum tent.

Better do it."

Floyt did it. Alacrity wondered if a complete cure for allergies wasn't out there someplace already, like so many other things waiting to surface in or already filtering through the Third Breath.