The Chalice of Death (14 page)

The interrogators looked doubtful. “If we waste her time, stranger—”

“If you fail to call her, and somehow I survive your gentle handling,” Navarre promised, “I'll see to it that your fat is stripped away layer by layer, blubbery one, and that your tiny companion is smothered in it!”

There was a moment's pause. Finally the small man, the one named Ruiil, stood up and said, “There's no harm checking. I'll call upstairs. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ruiil disappeared. He returned five minutes later, looking pale and shaken.

“Well? What's the word?”

“We're to free him,” he said. “There's been some sort of mistake. The Earthman wants to see him in her chambers immediately.”

With consummate punctiliousness, the two interrogators helped Navarre out of the torture chair—he was a little wobbly of footing on the left leg, which had borne the force of the chair's neural bolt—and paused a moment as he straightened up.

They led him back down the corridor, into a large and well-furnished room complete with a lavish bar. The interrogators live well down here, Navarre thought, as they drew a pale amber drink for him.

He gulped it. “Your hospitality is overwhelming. I'm impressed.”

“Please don't hold this against us,” the fat man said. The resonance was gone from his voice, now. He was whining. “We do our jobs. You must admit we had cause to interrogate you—and you said nothing! If you had only spoken up earlier …”

“I'll spare you,” Navarre declared magnanimously. “Take me to Earthman Winstin, now.”

They escorted him to a glide-channel furnished in clinging soft brown damask and shot upward with him toward the surface. A dull blue landcar waited there, and the fat interrogator scribbled an order on a stylopad and handed it to the waiting driver,

“Take him to the palace. The Earthman wants to see him quickly.”

Navarre glanced back once and saw the tense, anxious faces of the interrogators staring at him; then he turned his head, and promptly forgot them. The day was warm, and both suns were in the sky, the red and the yellow.

Fifteen minutes later he was at the sumptuous palace of the Oligocrat, and just five minutes after that he was being shown through a widening sphincter into the private chambers of Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Marhaill.

She was waiting for him, a slim, wiry figure in glittering platinum-cloth and red tights, looking graceful and delicate and as resilient as neofoam webwork. Her scalp was bare, in Earthman fashion

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“I ran into some snags when I landed. How was I supposed to know there was feuding going on between Jorus and Kariad? I posed as a Joran, and naturally the customs men collared me.”

“I sent you a message about it,” she said. “As soon as I received yours. But there are lags in subspace communication; you must have left too soon. Still, no damage has been done; you've arrived.”

No damage, thought Navarre wryly, except for one throbbing leg and an uneasy ache in the area of the chest. He dropped down wearily on a richly upholstered divan and felt the faint soothing caress of the massage-cells as they went to work on his fatigued thighs and back.

“How is it on Earth?” she asked.

“Everything is fine.”

Briefly, he described the status of the settlement as of the time he had left. She nodded approvingly when he was finished.

“It sounds encouraging. Do you think Antrok will win the election?”

“He's a logical choice. The boy's a natural leader. But what's this little storm brewing up between Jorus and Kariad?”

She smiled secretively. “You may remember that Admiral Melwod Finst left Kariad seven months ago on maneuvers, with three first-line ships at his command.”

“And a Joran fleet of the same size departed about that time for points unknown, under the command of the excellent Admiral Hannimon Drulk.”

“Exactly. Now, it became necessary in time for me to account for the whereabouts of Admiral Finst and his fleet. I could hardly reply that Admiral Finst was in reality an Earthman named Navarre, whose appointment to the Kariadi Admiralty I had obtained by coldly bamboozling my good Oligocrat Marhaill. So I took the alternate path of action and caused the maneuver of a subspace dispatch from the noted Admiral Finst saying he had been set upon in deep space by three unidentifiable starships, and was in the midst of a fierce battle.”

Grinning, Navarre said, “I begin to see.”

“Likewise,” she went on, “I caused to be filtered into the hands of my tame Joran spy a report that Admiral Drulk's fleet had been destroyed in action somewhere in deep space. Then it was a simple matter to let Jorus accidentally find out about the similar fate that befell Admiral Finst.”

“And so both Marhaill and Joroiran concluded that there had been a pitched battle between fleets of Kariad and Jorus in some distant sector of space,” Navarre said. “Which led each of them to suspect that the other had some nefarious designs on him. And which kept both of them from guessing that their ships were perfectly safe, and were now serving as the main line of defense for the hated enemy Earth!”

Navarre leaned forward, suddenly serious. “So Jorus and Kariad are at the edge of war over six ships that they think were destroyed. Do you think it's a wise move to let such a war take place.”

Helna said, “Of course not. But if I can keep them at the
verge
of war—if I can foment constant uneasy friction between the two systems—it'll keep their minds off Earth. Marhaill's a weak man; he'll listen to me. And he fears Jorus more than he does Earth. I knew I had to drive a wedge between him and Kausirn, and I succeeded.”

“Kausirn's in charge, then?”

“Evidently. Joroiran is hardly seen in public any more. He's still alive, but completely in the power of the Lyrellan. Marhaill's aware of this.”

Navarre clenched his fists angrily. He still had a mild liking for Overlord Joroiran, spineless, incompetent ruler that he was. And he disliked the Lyrellan intensely.

“Why did you came back, now?” Helna asked.

“I was afraid Kausirn might be stirring things up to send a Joran fleet to Earth. Six ships couldn't hold off the full force of the Joran navy any better than six sheep could. But if Jorus and Kariad are going to go to war with each other—”

Helna shook her head quickly, an expression of inward doubt appearing on her face. “Don't be too confident of that.”

“What do you mean? I thought—”

“The public attitude is an unhealthy one. But I think Kausirn suspects that he's being hoaxed. I know he's been negotiating with Marhaill for top-level talks, face to face.”

“Well? Can't you take advantage of your rank to head such talks off?”

“I don't know. I've warned Marhaill against a possible Joran assassination plot, but on this one thing he doesn't seem to listen to me. I think it's inevitable that he and Kausirn will get together and compare notes despite me. And then—”

“And then what?”

“And then Jorus and Kariad will undoubtedly sign a treaty of mutual harmony,” Helna said. “And send a combined fleet out to crush Earth.”

Chapter Fourteen

Two weeks later, Navarre left Kariad at night, in a small ship bearing the arms of the Oligocrat Marhaill. His pilot was a member of Marhaill's Secret Service, hand-picked by Helna herself. No one had been on hand to see him off; no one checked to see his passport, no one asked where he was going.

His flight clearance papers bore the code inscription XX-1413, signed by Marhaill, countersigned by Helna. That was enough to get him past any bureaucrat on Kariad; the translation of the double-X was,
Special Secret Ambassador for the Oligocrat, do not interfere
.

Navarre chuckled every time he had occasion to glance at his image in the ship's mirror, during the brief journey between the worlds. He could hardly recognize himself, after the job Helna had done.

His youthful crop of brown hair had been shaven once again; to his bald scalp had been affixed a wig of glossy black Kariadi-type hair, thick-stranded and oily. His normally high cheekbones had been lowered by an overlay of molding plastic; his eyebrows had been thickened, his lips built up into fleshiness and his jaw-contour altered, his ears drawn back and up by a simple and easily repairable bit of surgery.

He weighed twenty pounds more than he had the week before. His skin-color was bright blue.

He was Loggon Domell, Ambassador from the Court of the Oligocrat Marhaill to the Court of Joroiran VII, and only a skilled morphologist could have detected the fact that behind the outer layer that called itself Loggon Domell was one Hallam Navarre, Earthman.

This was the second time he had masqueraded as a Kariadi, but Helna and her technicians had done an infinitely more painstaking job than he had, earlier, when he had passed himself off as Melwod Finst. “Finst” had simply looked like Navarre with his skin died blue and his scalp wigged; Domell was an entirely different person.

It had all been remarkably simple. Helna had persuaded Marhaill that it would be well to send an ambassador to Jorus to discuss the galactic situation with Joroiran and with Kausirn; Marhaill, busy with his
drak
-hunting and his mistresses, had agreed, and asked Helna to suggest a man capable of handling the job.

“I have just the man,” she had said. “One Loggon Domell, of this city. A wise and prudent man who will serve Your Majesty well.”

Marhaill had nodded in agreement. “You always are so helpful, Helna. Send this Domell to Jorus!”

The little ship landed in midday at the Jorus City spaceport. By prior arrangement, a government car was there to meet him at the edge of the landing apron. A high-ranking Joran named Dilbar Loodig had been chosen as the official greeter.

Navarre knew this Loodig; a hanger-on at court, a man with a high hereditary title and little else to commend him. Loodig's boast was that he knew everyone at court by the slope of their shoulders and the angle at which they held their necks; Navarre wondered whether Loodig's ability would stand him in good stead now. It would cost the courtier his life if unhappily he were to recognize Navarre.

But Loodig gave no outward sign of recognition, and the Earthman knew he was not clever enough to have masked his true feelings had he detected Navarre behind the person of “Domell.” Navarre presented his papers to the courtier; Loodig riffled through them, smiled ingratiatingly, and said, “Welcome to Jorus. Is this your first visit to our planet?”

“Hardly,” Navarre replied smoothly. “In the old days before the present difficulties I spent many happy holidays here. I once had a summer cottage in the highlands of Veisk, overlooking the river.” The microscopic distorter in his throat did curious things to the sound of his voice, making it lighter in texture, supplying a deep gravelly rasp as well. He spoke in pure Joran, but with a slight lilting inflection and a distinctly alien shift of the full vowel values.

“Indeed?” Loodig said, as they entered the car. “The highland country is some of our most beautiful. You must have enjoyed your stay there.”

“I did,” Navarre said gravely, and repressed a snicker. The car threaded its way rapidly through the city, onward to the palace. He noticed an escort evidently following; they were taking good care of the alleged Kariadi ambassador, it seemed.

At the palace, Navarre was ushered speedily through the outer rooms.

“Will I be able to see the Overlord shortly?” he asked.

“I've notified him that you're here,” Loodig said. “The Overlord is not a well man, these days. He may not be able to see you immediately.”

“Oh. How sad!”

“He's been in poor health quite some length of time now,” said the courtier. “We here are all extremely worried about him.”

I'll bet you are
, Navarre thought.
If something should happen to Joroiran, Kausirn would jump at the chance to name himself regent for the heir apparent. The boy is only eight, now
.

Loodig excused himself, disappeared for a moment, and returned shortly after, smiling.

“The Overlord will see you, I'm happy to report. Please come this way.”

Loodig led him down the narrow winding passages toward the smaller throne room Joroiran customarily used for private audiences. It was not nearly as magnificent a hall as the main throne room, of course, but it did serve amply well to awe visitors. Periscopic viewers allowed Security men to observe the course of the Overlord's audiences and protect him from harm.

They reached the door. Loodig knelt, making ceremonial gestures, while Navarre remained erect as befitted his rank as ambassador.

“His Excellency, Loggon Domell, Ambassador Plenipotentiary from Kariad,” Loodig announced.

“Let him enter,” Joroiran responded, in a pale, almost timid voice.

Navarre entered.

The Overlord was plainly showing the effects of his virtual captivity. A small, ineffectual man to begin with, he had hardly bothered to take the steps he once took to cover his deficiencies; instead of the magnificent framework-robe that provided him with his regal public stature, he wore only an embroidered cloth robe that added little to his appearance. He had looked poorly the last time Navarre had seen him, nearly a year before; now, if anything, he looked worse.

Navarre made the ambassadorial bow, unfolded the charter of credentials Marhaill had given him, and offered them to Joroiran. The Overlord scanned them briefly and put them aside. Navarre heard the door slide gently closed behind him, leaving him alone with Joroiran.

There was no indication that the Overlord recognized him; instead, Joroiran fixed his gentle, washed-out eyes on a point somewhere above Navarre's left shoulder and said, “It pleases me that I can speak with someone from Kariad. This present friction has long distressed me.”