Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (19 page)

Sintilla gave him a look of clownish pity. "Yeah, and you can screen the protocol orientations, but that's just not the same as having a pal who knows the ropes, is it? Look, I don't want to grill you guys; I just want to see how things go for you here, same as for all the others."

In spite of the Earthservice warning against unnecessary fraternization, Floyt could see where knowledgeable advice might be of great help to his mission; even Alacrity seemed a bit out of his league in Frostpile.

"Very well," he said, surprised to find himself making decisions. Alacrity withheld any objection; her story would be easy enough to check out, and in any case, he had no intention of trusting her or anyone else. Besides, he was prone to sympathy for a fellow underdog.

"Jubilation!" she laughed, clapping her hands. "Did anybody offer to show you around Frostpile? No?

Well then, I'll do it, unless you're too tired."

They were both restive from shipboard confinement. Sintilla summoned a corridor tram, and they were off, descending into the main part of the stronghold.

The corridors teemed with robotry and automata, Invincibles and other household members. The Weir guardsmen were a more heterogeneous group than Redlock's Celestials or the Corporeals of the Severeemish. A good many older men and women wore the heavily braided and decorated red and gold uniforms; Sintilla explained that many had been Invincibles all their adult lives. More than half were liberated slaves; all were unsparingly loyal to the Weir family.

Floyt was fascinated with the variety in dress and appearance of those traveling the corridors afoot and on trams. He saw one young woman in a glittering outfit like a matador's suit of lights; she looked like some sort of royalty.

"Food technician," Sintilla explained when he asked.

The journalist pointed out assorted places and things of interest or importance and filled them in on the history of the place. Originally, Tiajo had planned to select one of several high-flown names for the Weir seat of power. But during the construction, her brother had, with typical lack of reverence, taken to calling it Frostpile. The name had caught on, and to Tiajo's consternation, she had never been able to dislodge it.

"Is Weir laid out in state?" Alacrity asked. He had no idea what the local custom was.

"Uh-huh, in the family complex," Sintilla supplied. "But no outsiders will be permitted until the ending ceremony."

Three times Invincibles at security checkpoints flagged them down for quick, courteous but thorough detector searches. And, detectors swiveling, floating surveillance drones drifted along the corridors.

"What're they afraid of?" Alacrity wondered aloud.

"That somebody'll violate the High Truce," Sintilla said. "That's why Tiajo wouldn't let any of the Inheritors or guests bring along a big retinue or entourage. Only one or two companions apiece, like Hobart."

"Or the Severeemish, with those Corporeals," Floyt mulled.

"Don't the privileged classes miss their concubines and nannies and hiney wipers?" Alacrity wondered.

"Frostpile can provide any and all on request." Sintilla giggled. "Every one of 'em loyal to Tiajo."

"And so all the visitors are on a fairly equal footing, regardless of rank," Floyt realized.

The little journalist nodded. "There are plenty of grudges and feuds among the various parties.

Everybody's salivating for his slice of the Weir fortune and realm, too. Not to mention the trouble you're bound to run into anytime a mixed crowd like this one gets together. It's a good idea
not
to discuss religion or politics."

"Or history or art," Alacrity added.

"Or sports or sexual credos," Floyt contributed. He wondered if the Invincibles were also keeping their eyes open for stray medical styrettes.

"Actually, the guards are trying to be very discreet about all this searching," Sintilla told them. "When the Daimyo of Shurutzu arrived, the Invincibles scanned his baggage and got a strong reading. Turned out he'd packed along a favorite biosynergic, um, 'marital aid.' Impressive, but not lethal. Anyway, wasn't there a flap about that! Now the guards are being more circumspect."

They arrived at the Hall of Remembrances and dismounted. The place was crammed with memorabilia collected during Weir's long, eventful life. Just within the entrance was the flying throne in which he'd been sitting when he'd died, out in the meadow beyond Frostpile. Rows of shining exhibition cases, display cabinets, and shelves were lined with weapons, trophies of war, and ceremonial artifacts and clothing.

The place was nearly a maze, with orientation supplied by floating holos and illuminated floor strips.

With a jaunty stride, Sintilla led them into it, calling back, "This is one of my favorite places in Frostpile."

There were personal keepsakes and lavish gifts of state. The precious items—scepters, crowns and diadems, jeweled staffs and batons, and similar symbols of Weir's accumulated titles and ranks—were arrayed in special security cases, monitored by elaborate alarm systems and closely watched by sharp-eyed Invincibles.

Less grandiose items were shown as well. Among these was the original hard copy of the famous message from the Srillan admiral, Maska. Weir had attempted to expand into Srillan territories while the aardvarklike aliens were occupied elsewhere. Maska, then Srilla's youngest flag-rank officer, had somehow managed to bluff his other enemies and throw together a huge armada with which to confront Weir.

Maska had made it a point to broadcast his message in cleartext. Floyt now bent down to read the hard copy.

SIR:

UNLESS YOU AND YOUR FORCES WITHDRAW IMMEDIATELY UPON

RECEIPT OF THIS COMMUNICATION, I SHALL CERTAINLY KICK YOUR

ASS ALL OVER SEVERAL CONSTELLATIONS.

Weir had indeed withdrawn, one of his few reversals. He and Maska had later become friends. The Earther scowled at the reference to the beings who'd done so much damage to his homeworld.

"Dame Tiajo set all this up," Sintilla commented as they strolled along the glowing guidance strip on the floor. "The old man was never much for parading his accomplishments."

They stopped by another case. On black velvet rested a crude-looking little handgun. Alacrity could see at a glance that its primitive sights weren't very accurate. It lacked safety, trigger guard, and adjustment controls of any kind.

The placard next to it gleamed:

THE EMANCIPATOR PISTOL. THIS MASS-PRODUCED WEAPON WAS

AIRDROPPED IN GREAT NUMBERS THROUGHOUT THE GRAND

PRESIDIUM BY THE OPPOSITION LEAGUE INTELLIGENCE CORPS FOR

USE BY REVOLUTIONARY GROUPS AND SYMPATHIZERS. THIS

PARTICULAR UNIT IS THAT FOUND BY CASPAHR WEIR AT (STANDARD)

AGE SIXTEEN YEARS.

"Never saw one before," Alacrity commented as they gazed down, faces reflected like ghosts in the crystal pane.

"The Opposition League seeded them on lots of planets, with instruction-beads. Weir found one early on."

Floyt listened to her then regarded the Emancipator dubiously. "It doesn't look very impressive."

"It was one-shot, short-range," the little woman answered.

"And with it, Weir made his first kill. See, the idea was, you found one on the ground someplace, stuck it in your shirt, and waited. It was for killing a sentry or whoever. Then you took
his
weapons and ammo and equipment.

"But those little gizmos are built to take it. You can recharge them from almost any energy source.

The propulsion unit will shoot just about anything you can fit into the firing chamber: slugs, pebbles, pellets—practically anything."

As they moved on, Floyt inquired, "How is it that you know so much about the Emancipator?"

"Weir told me."

They halted. "You
knew
him?" Alacrity demanded. The peppy little extrovert in rompers didn't look like the type to hobnob with interstellar rulers.

"Sort of. He let me interview him, from time to time, the last few years. I'm the only correspondent who's been permitted to cover the funeral, didn't you know?" She winked merrily. "It was Weir's stated wish, so there wasn't much Tiajo could do about it except stick me out in Riffraff Alley."

"Who're you working for?" Alacrity asked tersely.

"Oh, I free-lance," she informed him brightly.

Floyt was listening with only half an ear, still thinking about the Emancipator. Of the vast number dropped, of the fraction of those found and the percentage of
those
actually used, only one had fallen into the hands of a Caspahr Weir. But that had been sufficient. The truth was more astounding than anything in the penny dreadfuls.

"What was he like, Weir?"

Sintilla turned to Floyt. Alacrity waited for the answer as she pondered for a moment. "Y'know, Hobart, damn it, I've never been able to answer that one in a few words. If at all. A very complex man who always made simplicity work for him. Lots of inner conflicts, but a great sense of humor. Everything they called him was at least a little bit true: savior and opportunist, ruthless and compassionate. See what I'm driving at?"

"I'll have to think about it."

Much of Frostpile was closed in preparation for the various devotional services and rites or off-limits for security reasons.

"Which is too bad," Sintilla remarked, "because the palace would actually remind you of a lively little community. There's the Frostpile All Volunteer Light Opera Company, and the Invincibles' joints, like the Hazardous Duty Rathskeller, sports clubs—"

"What about gambling?" Alacrity was quick to inquire, with an avaricious gleam in his eyes.

"Cribbage? Two-ups? Marbles?"

She chuckled, "Uh-huh! Also dice, egg jousting, and, I suppose, pillow fights. But you might as well forget 'em; Tiajo doesn't want guests mingling with the hired help."

Alacrity's face fell.

Floyt tut-tutted. "Oh, cheer up; you can always cheat yourself at solitaire."

"It's not the same thing, Ho."

Sintilla, who appeared to be on familiar terms with many of the people in the place, led the two to a high tower shaped like a shark's fin. They found an empty exedra, and the woman showed no hesitation in ordering refreshments.

They looked out over the palace stronghold. Frostpile was being readied for many diverse activities.

Complex, highly technical sporting apparatus was being tested; in an enormous open area, Invincibles and Celestials were drilling. In another-Floyt couldn't tell
what
was going on there.

"They're gearing up for the Hunt," Sintilla said.

"Hunt?" It was a sport long unpracticed on Earth. "Disgusting. I'm surprised anyone would have anything to do with it."

"Fine, because we're not going to," Alacrity put in. "Too many chances for, ah, mishaps."

"You'll be there if you want your inheritance, Hobart," Sintilla informed him. "Those Severeemish'll make sure of that; even Tiajo won't cross them."

The two wasted a few seconds in protestation, then Sintilla elaborated. When Weir had accepted the fealty of the Severeemish, he'd also accepted the obligation to live up to their Observances and the Usages thereof. Most of those involved what amounted to lip service. Others, like those surrounding the death of a liege lord, were different.

For the Inheritors, there must be proof of respect and custom, in the form of games, a Hunt, and the drinking of something called the Thorn Cup. If Weir's successors failed to keep to that, the Severeemish would have, by their lights, just cause to consider their obligations and fealty at an end.

"And Redlock and Tiajo can't afford that," Sintilla finished. "The Severeemish are too valuable as allies, and too dangerous as potential enemies. Hobart will have to participate or be disinherited."

"Dandy," Alacrity groaned. Down below, he could see preparations for the Hunt being made, where she'd pointed them out. Invincibles were inspecting weapons, portable shooting blinds, vehicles and aircraft of assorted types, and hunting beasts.

"Wait a minute, Sintilla," Floyt began.

"Why don't you call me Tilla? Most people do."

"Tilla, then. I have to
participate.
Does that mean I don't necessarily have to win anything? Or kill anything?"

She nodded perkily. "That's the way I understand it."

"Listen, that's not so bad, Alacrity." Certainly, it wasn't enough to interfere with his compelling urge to see his mission through.

Alacrity rubbed his chin. "What's this Thorn Cup?"

"Nothing, really. And there's the formal dinner tonight, but that's—"

"Nothing, really," Alacrity predicted. "How formal?"

"To tell you the truth, it's an overdone get-acquainted bash. They won't go in for speeches or anything, if that's what you're worried about. Or for lamentations and mourning, either; that's considered bad taste. And, of course, the residents of Riffraff Alley will probably be thoroughly snubbed. Anyway, we've got some time before then."

"For what, Tilla?" Floyt wondered.

"This." She pulled off her expensive little proteus and set it for sound recording, placing it on the table between them.

"Now, Hobart, what can you tell my readers about the decadent sexual practices of Old Terra?"

CHAPTER 11—HETERODYNING

When Sintilla showed up at their suite to collect them for dinner, they were a little logy, having transferred from
Bruja's
evening, via the short voyage inboard
King's Ransom,
to the early afternoon of Epiphany's twenty-hour day. A brief nap hadn't helped much.

Soon they had found themselves in early ev-ening again. The suite door bloomed for them, and they went forth.

If Frostpile by day was an enchantment, by night it was very nearly overpowering. It glowed like gauzy daylight, sending rainbow rays dancing and patterning in the sky. Free-floating lightshapes—hoops and polygons, globes and spirals—roamed, throwing bright, colorful rays. Other illuminations flared throughout the place, things resembling gemstone candle flames, darting firewisps, and intricate whorls; some were stationary in nooks or sconces, while others gave the impression of being capriciously and joyously alive. The great corridors radiated a milky luminescence.