Shadow's End (10 page)

J
iacare Lostre, the King of Kamir who had been lost (who had tried desperately and unsuccessfully to stay lost), sat cross-legged on the chalcedony throne of Kamir-Shom-Lak considering with measurable satisfaction the demise of Leelson Famber and all his lineage. Famber's siblings and their children and all their children. Famber's parents and their siblings and all their children. Beginning, however, with Leelson himself, with Leelson's wife or mate, if any, and his offspring.

Despite the burdens of kingship, which had piled up during his absence, Jiacare had found time to recruit and dispatch an appropriate assassination team: Mitigan, a professional killer from Asenagi, a Firster who saw no dichotomy between profession and religion; Chur Durwen, another Firster, a talented youngster from Collis who was well on his way to high professional status; plus the brothers Silby and Siram Haughneep, the king's own bodymen, sworn servitors to the royal family. Oh, definitely a four-assassin target, the family Famber, all of whom would learn painfully and lengthily that “finding” lost kings who did not wish to be found was not the wisest of occupations.

Words penetrated his preoccupation.

“… and so, Your Most Puissant and Glorious Effulgence, it is no longer possible to reserve the forests of Tarnen, though they are Lostre-family possessions, since they are needed by Your Majesty's peasantry in Chalc as pastures for their cattle.”

The Minister of Agriculture lowered his databoard and
peered over the top of it at His Royal Highness, who stared rigidly past the minister at the tapestries behind him.

“This is a serious question,” murmured the Minister of Agriculture, as though to himself.

“I'm sure,” said His Effulgence from a tight throat. “Too serious to be delayed for my benefit. Why didn't you just get on with it?”

“The Scroll of Establishment of Kamir-Shom-Lak requires that all matters concerning the general welfare be presented to the king for his approval or advice.”

“Since my advice is invariably ignored, I don't advise,” said the king.

“The Great Document does not require that Your Effulgence advise. It merely requires that matters be presented in case Your Majesty might choose to do so,” said the minister, with an unsympathetic yawn.

“Take it as written that I do not choose. I neither advise nor approve. Nor will I ever approve of any matter brought before me. Certainly I do not approve of cutting the forests of Tarnen. They are the last forests remaining upon Kamir.”

“As Your Majesty knows, the removal of forests is one of the necessary steps in homo-norming a planet. Kamir has delayed far longer than most planets. Why, on Kamir, we still have animals!”

The king became very pale. “We have a few, yes. There are fifty species of birds in the forests of Tarnen, including the royal ouzel, whose feathers grace our crown, whose image is graven upon our planetary seal. There are numerous species of insects and animals. There are ferns, orchids—”

“None of which is required by man,” the Minister of Agriculture interrupted. “We have been over this, Your Majesty. In accordance with Alliance regulations, before we may establish outgrowth colonies, our home planet must be homo-normed at least to Type G. That means—”

“I know what it means! It means no trees, no birds, no animals. Why don't we skip over a step? Why don't we save the forests by eliminating the cattle, which we will do sooner or later when we set up the algae farms required by Class G.”

“We have preserved the patterns of the forest species, Your Effulgence. They are in our files as required by the homo-norming laws.”

“They won't be alive! No flutter of wings, no plop of little green bodies into water, no silver glitter beneath the ripples. There will be only men and the crops to feed men!”

“The stored species can be enlivened whenever there is sufficient space and food for them. Just now, however, there is widespread hunger in the area of Chalc. As Your Majesty is aware, food and medicines are already stringently rationed everywhere on Kamir.”

“Except among the aristocracy.”

“Your ministers cannot be expected to govern if they are hungry or worried over the welfare of their families.”

“Suggest that the peasants of Chalc restrict their fecundity.”

“Humanity comes first. Fecundity is the blessing of the universe, which was made for man.”

“What universe is that?”

The Minister of Agriculture flushed, slightly embarrassed. “One gets into the habit—”

“I am not one of your Firster constituents, Minister. I am a faithful son of Lord Fathom, ancient and enigmatic, god of the Lostres.” He took his eyes from the tapestries and looked directly into the minister's eyes. “Listen to me for a moment. You have traveled. You are a sophisticated man. You have been to Central, as I have. What do you think of it?”

“Your Effulgence…”

“Be honest! What do you think of it?”

“It seems a very efficient place.”

“Did you feel at all crowded?”

“Well, one does feel a bit—”

“Did you go to the Grand Canyon of Old-earth?”

“Yes. I confess, I didn't see what the fuss was about.”

“You rode down in a transparent elevator. Through the glass you saw the strata, each one labeled as to age. At the bottom you experienced a sensurround of the way it used to be, a few centuries ago. You were told that the canyon now houses over a billion people. Do you want that for the forests of Tarnen?”

“But it's inevitable, Your Effulgence! There will be frontiers for our great-grandchildren, perhaps, but for us, now, there is still space to fill! So long as there is space to fill, we must go on having babies. So Firstism teaches us.”

The king sighed deeply. “Save the teachings for the fecund masses, Minister. Why don't you give the peasants some land in the Orbive Hills.”

“There is no arable land left in the Orbive. There has been widespread erosion….”

The king nodded slowly. “Oh, yes. Because your father chose to allow firewood cutting in the Orbive instead of providing solar stoves. Because his father permitted unlimited herd growth among the Chalcites to woo their votes. Just as his father, your great-grandfather, first Kamirian convert to the Firster cause, defeated the attempt by the Green Party to limit human population upon Kamir. And so sealed our fate forever.”

The minister flushed angrily. “As Your Majesty says.”

“My
grandfather told
your
grandfather that the herds would die and the people would die.”

The minister's mouth twisted into a half smile. “Your Majesty's grandfather is remembered for his sagacity. Now that the herds are dying and the people are dying, however, there is a public outcry which will not be stanched by mere laying of blame on persons long dead. Hungry people do not care what our grandfathers did. So long as one inch of Kamirian soil remains, the people will
believe that using it will solve their problems. Only when all the land is gone and destroyed will they permit the next step in homo-norming, and Your Majesty knows it as well as I.”

The king uncrossed his legs and put them flat upon the throne, his hands flat beside them, wondering if by will alone he could sink into that stone, obliterate himself, become nothing. He said, sighing deeply, “Do as you will. I do not approve. Take that as written, and let me abdicate.”

“The Scroll of Establishment of Kam-Shom-Lak specifies a hereditary king, Your Majesty, and it has no provision for abdication.”

“I have a younger brother. Several, in fact.”

“So long as Your Effulgence is alive …” The threat in this was implicit. Kings might die, but they could not run away. Kings had died, as a matter of fact, under more or less mysterious circumstances. He did not mind dying. He did mind what they would no doubt do to him first, to make him say something they could use for a reason. Conspiracy against the welfare of Kamir. Kamir, that he loved as some men love women!

“How many more of you are there today?” asked the king. “How many more ministers out there in the anteroom, crouched slavering over the few remaining fragments of our planet.”

The minister stiffened. “Seven, Your Highness.”

“Tell them they may go. I don't approve of anything they're doing.”

Angered, the minister growled: “The Firster godmongers pray for you daily in your blindness, Majesty. Man is meant to procreate! We were given the universe to fill. What are a few animals, a few trees in the face of our destiny?”

“Tell the rest of them to go home,” the king said desperately. “Tell them in future they must condense their
reports to something less than five minutes. In future, I will listen to nothing longer. I will set a timer.”

“But Your Highness can not possibly comprehend the ramifications of the problems from a condensed—”

“Why should I comprehend?” he cried, pressed past endurance. “I don't comprehend. I will never comprehend. I see a different world than you ministers see. On ascending to this throne, I took an oath to rule the world of Kamir. That world, though much diminished, still had seas and forests and animals. You are destroying that world. Greater comprehension would only increase my sense of futility.” The Lost King rose from his throne, turned his back upon his minister, and stalked to a nearby window that stood open to let in the fresh breezes of early spring.

He had escaped on a day much like this—it had been late fall, not spring, but on a similar day—slipping out this very window in the darkness before dawn, across the velvet lawns, into the trees. Once Tarnen was gone, this royal park would contain all the trees left on Kamir. He had thought of that as he had walked through them that day toward his cache of clothing and money and documents, hidden away bit by inconspicuous bit over a long, long time of preparation. He had emerged on the far side of the trees dressed as an Elithan, and he had slipped into the crowd that always stood there, staring at the palace, to stand for a time himself, staring at the palace, before he went away.

He had taken ship for Elitha, unremarked, unnoticed, calling himself Osterbog Smyne, a common Elithan name. He had reached Elitha. Oh, with what eagerness had he taken up a new life as a nobody on Elitha. If not for that damnable Leelson Famber, Osterbog Smyne would be on Elitha still, keeping a fruit stall, taking his holidays in the forests, watching birds, maybe even going fishing, far from ministers and reports and briefings and the whole irrelevant, endless fal-de-rol of kingship.

“Your Majesty is so deep in thought, one assumes he is considering marriage and the production of an heir,” said a pontifical voice from behind him. So. The Minister of Agriculture had called for assistance, and here was Lord Zhoun, the Prime Minister, the quintessence of boredom, the paradigm of duty undesired.

Jiacare Lostre murmured, “I've told you, I've no intention of begetting a child to carry on this charade. The planet is within a year or so of being Class G. Soon you'll be directing the aristocracy to turn in their pets for euthanizing. Soon will come Class-J domed cities, which will grow, and grow, until they make a glittering ceiling over the final convulsions! You know how it will end, how it always ends. The Scroll of Establishment contains no requirement that I be part of the process.”

“Common sense would indicate—”

“Common sense, hah! Focus on one of my no-doubt-eager brothers or nephews. Groom half a dozen of them for this thankless ascendancy.”

“Your Majesty, please …”

“Prime Minister, please!”

“You used to call me Uncle.”

“You used to call me Jickie, Lord Zhoun, and you used to tell stories of adventure and mystery. You used to like to go riding. Remember horses? You even took me fishing once. When father was alive, you were quite a nice fellow.”

“When your father was alive, he attended to his duty.”

“In a manner of speaking, Uncle. My father, though beset by uncontrollable and inappropriate affection for small girls, was in most respects a very good king. He had no convictions to confuse him. He was impressed by ritual and dedicated to traditions. He complied with them well, but then he had certain talents I do not.”

“Jickie!”

“It's true, Uncle. Father was quite open with me. As I had four older brothers, he felt free to tell me things he
would never have told the heirs. First, he had taught himself not to care about anything but sensation. Then he taught himself to sleep while sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open. He could do this either while upon the throne or upon horseback, and he was invariably asleep while you and the others read your interminable accounts of continuing destruction. He told me this, enjoying his cleverness, without realizing the effect it had on me. Of course, he never thought I'd ascend the throne.

“Unfortunately, I lack his simplicity. My existence is entirely symbolic, yet I am expected to behave as though my thoughts and acts had significance. My office could be filled by an android. Indeed, an android would do my job far better. It could be programmed, as my father was. It could smile gently and pay no attention to the destruction going on around it.”

“I thought when Leelson Famber found you—”

“You paid Famber to bring me back!” the king snarled. “You paid him!”

The Prime Minister shook his head, confused at the vehemence of this reaction. “Actually, no, Jickie, we didn't. We were worried about you! We paid Fastiga a fee to ascertain what had happened to you. They assigned him to the task, that's all.”

“Ah.” The Lost King turned on his minister with an expression both wild and strange. “You didn't mention that when I returned. Nor since, come to that.”

“You never asked,” said the Prime Minister, astonished into a loss of aplomb. “You never asked, Jickie.”

The king turned back to the window, unable to hide his emotions: anxiety, rage, regret, what? All those Fambers, even now being disposed of! Well, few enough of them compared with the population of a planet. And were they not foremost among Firsters? And were not Firsters his enemies, now and forever?