“Interesting,”
he said. “I’d never heard that yarn.”
“No? What sort
of Prince doesn’t trouble to inform himself on the doings of neighbor-states?”
He glanced over
his shoulder for help. Andre and Van Duyn were looking on with some amusement,
but Gabrielle stared poisoned daggers at him. “Actually,” he replied lamely, “I
had to spend a good deal of time studying the affairs and history of Coramonde,
so diverse and complex are they.”
Van Duyn moved
up even with them. “Your Radiance,” he said smoothly, “please tell me more
about your country, since I, too, am in ignorance. I’m particularly interested
in your free trade system.”
The Snow
Leopardess’ attention was effectively diverted. While the American feasted on
the sight and sound of her, the Prince fell back and rode next to Gabrielle,
who was busily ignoring the existence of everyone on the road. Andre moved up
to the spot vacated by the Prince, the better to hear Katya. The son of
Surehand leaned close to the red-haired enchantress and whispered, “It was only
a horserace. I just didn’t want her to have the satisfaction of beating us
all.”
Her eyes stayed
fixed coldly ahead but, without turning, she reached out and grasped his wrist
in one white hand with a grip of surprising strength.
“You’re a puppy
and a fool, who chases tomgirls,” she hissed softly, but the pressure of her
hand was not that of anger.
“Your knives,”
the scholar was saying, exhibiting more charm to the Princess than Springbuck
had seen him employ in all the time he’d known him. “They are unusual weapons
for a woman to use. I notice that you’ve a long and a short one on each side.
Why is this?”
“Ha! The bigger
ones, that are canted backward so that I may take them quickly, these are
combat knives, infighting knives. The smaller ones are throwing daggers, and I
wear them so that I may have either type of blade in either hand if I will. But
here, what is this strange thing you have across your saddle bow?”
Van Duyn hefted
the M-l. “It’s a rifle, a weapon of my people, unlike anything you have here.”
They rode
through some patches of undergrowth into a series of thickets and glades. To
her companions the Snow Leopardess said, “A farmer hereabouts brought in a
brace of wild swine, hoping to domesticate them, the idiot. They savaged him
and broke free early today and it is them we hunt.”
A man arrayed
in green livery approached them on foot, a hunting bow held with arrow nocked.
“What word,
huntmaster?” called Katya.
“His Highness
even now closes on the beasts,” came the reply. “And as always he will not use
spear or bow but wears his steppeman’s gear and courses with the very hounds,
leaping along among them. He picked up the swine spoor before they did and now
drives his prey this way. I think I may have a shot at them before too long.”
With a crow of
delight the Snow Leopardess jumped to the ground. “No, huntmaster,” she said.
“I have had to attend to matters of state while my brother hunted. Fairness
says that I should get the kill and not he. Stand by our guests.” And so
saving, she reached to her saddle and drew forth a boar-spear-bladed sword, one
with a straight blade which was circular in cross section for most of its
length. It widened at the end into a broad, heavy spearhead with a bar to fend
off impaled prey. It was, the Prince reflected, a weapon to be used only by the
most daring and capable of hunters; any falter or miscalculation would mean
maiming or death. Just as he was considering violating etiquette by suggesting
that the Princess allow the bowman out front, Van Duyn dismounted and, taking
his rifle in hand, walked over to stand near her.
“If you miss,
perhaps I’ll get a chance to show you how this thing works,” he said, holding
up the Garand.
She smiled
savagely but with an air of camaraderie, and told him, “I don’t miss.”
The baying of
the dogs came nearer, accompanied by the shouts of their trainers. The group
waited in various states of tension for long minutes. When Gabrielle would have
dismounted, the Prince instructed her to stay ahorse. She looked at him in a
way he could not interpret, but complied.
A crashing in
the undergrowth brought them around. The boar, a five-hundred-pounder, broke
from cover across the clearing from them. To Van Duyn it resembled nothing so
much as a porcine locomotive. It ground to a halt when its tiny, insane red
eyes fell upon them. It lingered for a moment, razor-sharp hooves tearing up
the turf, then gathered itself to charge as the Snow Leopardess braced herself.
The American
threw his rifle to his shoulder. His first look at this terrifying animal, with
its long, frothcovered tusks ripping the air in search of a yielding target,
decided him; there was no question of going after such a hydrophobic monster
with a sword. But as he made to bring it into his sights, another figure sprang
from the brush with an ear-shattering battle cry.
Van Duyn had
only a fleeting glance at the man who threw himself at the rampaging boar. He
was short, a fair-haired, deeply tanned fellow who was well muscled and yet
moved easily as he eluded a murderous rip of the foam-flecked tusks. He was
barefoot and wore gauntlets and a loin clout, and had no weapon that the
American could see.
Van Duyn raised
his M-l again, certain that the man, whom he took to be Reacher, would meet a
painful death if he didn’t act. He found, however, that as the monarch feinted
and dodged to avoid the boar’s rushes, Katya showed no sign of concern for her
brother’s safety, but waved her sword and bawled encouragement.
The baying,
grown steadily louder, reached a crescendo as two sleek hounds burst on the
scene. The boar found itself in the midst of three enemies now, all nipping or
feigning at him as he spun and slashed. Then he made a fatal move; facing the
man, he felt a tug at his rear as one of the dogs took a fierce bite at his
rump. He swung his head viciously, mad from incessant baitings. In that
instant, the King darted in, lifting his left hand and bringing it down in a
terrific blow to the weighty collar of gristle protecting the wild swine’s
neck.
As its front
legs buckled, the beast dropped to its knees, stunned as if by the slam of a
sledgehammer. Then it surged wildly in an effort to regain its feet. The King’s
hand moved again, more swiftly than the onlookers could see or fully
appreciate, gripping the boar’s snout and pulling up and back, drawing the
throat taut. The hunter’s right hand, fingers clawed and flashing, swept in a
blindingly fast rake across the exposed target, and blood fountained. He jumped
clear of the death throes.
With the
exception of the Princess, all were speechless at the speed and power of the
triumphant King of Freegate. Van Duyn, standing on the extreme left of the
company as Katya clapped her hands and cheered, was first to catch a glimpse of
a brown blur breaking from the foliage on his left. It was the second wild hog,
bearing down on the King, who was apparently unaware of its approach behind
him. The American took no time to yell a warning or check to see if the
huntsman could get in a shot with his bow; he brought up the Garand and fired
in one programmed motion. His hours of painstaking practice served him well,
and he never again regretted the inconvenience and sore shoulder that range
time had cost him prior to his second departure from his home cosmos. The boar
stopped as if it had hit a wall. The heavy slug, moving at 2800 feet per
second, caught it just behind its head, pitching it sideways.
The rifle’s
effect on the people of Freegate was nearly as drastic. Reacher, who had
pivoted and dropped into guard to face the second swine just before Van Duyn
had fired, gazed from the dead quarry to its slayer in calm curiosity, head
tilted inquisitively. The huntmaster had dropped his bow and, screwing his eyes
shut, clapped his hands to his ears with a scream of fear. The Snow Leopardess
whirled and brought her sword up with a hiss of surprise which dissipated
almost immediately. Like her brother, she glanced from carcass to scholar and
smoking weapon.
“Remarkable,”
she breathed after a moment. “How far away will it kill?”
He didn’t
answer, since Reacher joined them at that juncture. Save Katya and Springbuck,
all bowed in courtesy. Without touching it, Reacher examined the M-l with much
interest. Close up, his diminutive size was more obvious. At age twenty-four,
he was no more than five feet four or so, but muscled like a panther, his legs
long and shoulders wide for his height, and they’d already been shown his
astounding quickness and brawn. He’d destroyed the boar in sport, without
qualm.
“You should
know,” Katya said almost huffily to Van Duyn, “that my brother was aware of the
second beast’s proximity; his senses are the equal of his prowess.”
Springbuck was
studying his royal host, now that the man was close enough for the Prince to
make him out without difficulty. He knew from the first moment that he’d never
be able to match this King in sheer fighting ability and predatory keenness.
The King’s skin
was weathered and his eyes, slightly darker versions of his sister’s, crinkled
at their corners. His gloves were of two types; the left a heavy cestus
covering the hand from just behind the wrist to just beyond the middle
knuckles, tough leather bound up tight and banded about with metal to form
impact surfaces. The right glove was longer, laced almost to the elbow, and
where his fingers ended within the fingertips of the glove, long claws
glittered wickedly, artfully affixed artificial talons.
“Your
Highness,” said Andre, “may I present His Highness, Prince Springbuck, lawful
Pretender to the throne of the
Ku-Mor-Mai?”
The Prince
doffed his mask as the monarch turned to him, returning the scrutiny the son of
Surehand had exercised on him moments before. Both inclined their heads
slightly at the same time, satisfying protocol. Springbuck found the Lord of
the Just and Sudden Reach’s presence not uncomfortable, though the small ruler
spoke not at all.
Katya turned a
haughty eye to the huntmaster, who was attempting to pull himself back
together. “My brother will use your horse to return to the city. Fetch it; the
King shouldn’t run beside mounted folk. Oh, and see to the kills and distribute
their meat at the beggars’ plaza. Slain as they were, their meat will be bloody
and unfit for daintier palates.”
Then other
huntsmen came to the scene, drawn by barking dogs and the single shot. They
were set to dressing the quarry after bringing up the huntmaster’s horse, while
Van Duyn and Andre complimented Reacher on his success. He made no comment in
return, but didn’t seem aloof or impolite; he merely listened and studied the
newcomers silently.
Then they were
all mounted and away, back to the city proper in the thinning light.
“I see all the
land, nearly, put to use for cultivation and grazing, Your Radiance,” Van Duyn
said to the Princess. “But I see no villas or manses in this pleasant place.
Why so?”
“In case of
siege,” she said. “Every inch of land on the plateau must work for us and our
stock. If fat merchants or idle nobles want to build pleasure houses outside
the city, they may do so, but only on the other side of the bridgeway. We don’t
permit them to occupy an important defense asset with drafty dust traps and
rambling, artsy sculpture gardens. And you would do me a favor in foregoing
that Radiance nonsense among us, comrade.”
She then turned
the talk to his rifle, intrigued with it in a good-naturedly bloodthirsty way.
He was evasive, and glad when a troop of household cavalry, in tall plumes and
armor of varnished cuir-bouilli shaped to their bodies, met them to escort them
back to the palace.
They left their
horses and entered the building via the broad front steps, though it was said
that Reacher and his sister had other, less conspicuous ways of entering and
leaving their home. Springbuck had noticed that Reacher seemed to miss little;
on the ride back he’d been interested in the condition of the citizens they’d
passed, had inconspicuously inspected the troops and been always attentive to
the wind and the sounds and smells he read from it. Now, the Prince saw him
notice each small detail of the palace’s maintenance. It also occurred to
Springbuck that it had been coincidental that the King had made his kill in the
precise place where the rest could see it, and he wondered if Reacher hadn’t
arranged matters somehow, perhaps by driving the animals there, to display his
competence.
The King and
his sister conducted their guests to the first of their home’s unusual
conveniences, an elevator which, Katya explained to Van Duyn, worked from the
same source which impelled water throughout the building, the windmill he’d
seen, regulated by an intricate system of weights and pulleys and capable of
storing its energy against windless days by lifting great ballasts, to be
gradually lowered later. The device seemed slow to Van Duyn, reminding him of those
damnable machines he’d encountered in France.
The elevator,
barely big enough for the six of them, ground to a halt. Its doors opened on a
wide lawn, the blue sky serene around them and Freegate spread below. They were
at the pinnacle of the palace, high above any other structure in the city. The
roof was covered with turf and small trees, flowers and foliage. A multitude of
birds of all sorts nested and perched at all parts of the garden, making
full-throated song. At the center of it was a luxuriously appointed belvedere
housing Reacher’s private chambers.
“And in case of
siege, will this become a cabbage patch?” asked Van Duyn of the Snow
Leopardess.
“That and
carrots, I should think,” she replied.
They were
ushered into the belvedere, which offered thick fur carpeting, silken drapings
and furnishings of highly polished, fragrant wood and black-veined marble that
were upholstered in velvet, silk and the hides of rare beasts. There were also
sculptures, mosaics and paintings of the hunt, warfare and sybaritic subjects.
Springbuck sensed that Reacher hadn’t done the decorating here and decided that
it probably reflected his sister’s taste.