Star of Gypsies

by Robert Silverberg

  Then I thought: It costs me nothing to allow Periandros his title, for as long as he is able to hold it. And it seems important to Julien to give him that little honor. Very well.

  "Yes," I said. "To speak with the Sixteenth."

  5.

  AS WE WERE MAKING READY TO SET OUT FROM AUREUS Highlands to the Galgala starport I heard the distant sound of explosions and saw white smoke on the eastern horizon. Julien told me that fighting persisted in the back country, that Shandor had holed himself up in an obscure pocket of the Chrysoberyl Hills and was standing off attack by the imperial forces.

  Once long ago on Mulano-it seemed a million years-Julien had warned me that my continued abdication might lead to wars between worlds. "War is an outmoded notion," I had told him with splendid assurance. "It's an obsolete concept." And now there was a war going on right here under my nose on Galgala itself, our Rom capital. With the troops of the emperor laying siege to a son of the Rom king practically within sight of the royal house of power.

  So war was not at all an obsolete concept. Nor had Periandros' soldiers gallantly allowed Shandor to escape, as I had so naively imagined. By cunning or stealth or treachery or sheer force he had won his way free of the house of power, yes, and they were pursuing him, they were besieging him. My son.

  For a day, a day and a half, I thought about nothing but that: that warfare was taking place on Galgala, that Akrakikan soldiers were seeking to capture my son. Or to kill him.

  I had to do something.

  He would have overthrown me; but still he was my son. The firstborn. Once my pride, my joy, my miniature image of myself. A difficult boy, perhaps an unloving one, and a stranger to me for most of his life; and lately my enemy. Yet still my son. Blood was calling to blood. I had other sons, many of them in fact, and in one way and another, over the great span of time, they had all been lost to me, through distance, through their own needs to be apart, through ambitions that had taken them to the edges of the universe, through quarrels, through death. We are a family people, we Rom, we Gypsies, and how sad and painful it was that the Rom baro, the biggest Gypsy of them all, should have come down into the winter of his years with no wife at hand, no sons. Here was Shandor my son practically within my reach. I would go to him. Perhaps there would be forgiveness at last. At least there would be no more killing.

  Just when everything was in readiness and we were about to depart for the starport I sent suddenly for Julien and said, "First we must make a little detour, old friend."

  "What do you mean?"

  "To the Chrysoberyl Hills," I said. "To put an end to this fighting."

  "No," he said. "We must go to the Capital."

  "First this."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "Listen to me this once, Yakoub. Forget Shandor."

  "How can I?" I said. And I told him all that had been passing through my soul.

  Julien listened without saying a word. And stared at me with infinite tenderness and sorrow.

  "That was what I had feared," he said at last, when I had run dry of speech. "That you would find love in your heart for him, that you would want to make your peace with him. I had hoped to hurry you off Galgala before you learned the truth, mon ami. But now you give me no choice but to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  He paused only a moment. "Shandor is dead."

  "Dead?" I said stupidly. "When? How?"

  "Yesterday, or the day before yesterday. They used dream-light; they slipped into his camp under cover of illusion. Shandor was seized and brought before the imperial general." Julien stared toward the floor. "They will say that he was killed while attempting to resist, Yakoub. I am greatly sorry for your grief, mon vieux, mon cher."

  "Dead?" The word refused to register.

  "A strategic decision. I had nothing to do with it. You understand, do you not, I had nothing to do with it? He was thought to be too dangerous. An immense destabilizing force."

  "He was a fool. He was incapable of destabilizing anything."

  "That is not how it seemed to the emperor, Yakoub."

  "So Periandros himself gave the order to kill him?"

  "Not so," said Julien. I think he was sincere. "It was not the Sixteenth himself, but the general of the Sixteenth, seeking to win the emperor's favor. Seeking too hard, I think. Believe me. I beg you, believe me, Yakoub."

  "What is this?" I asked. "The thirteenth century? Not even then did they kill captured princes. Are we sliding back into barbarism, is that it, Julien?" I turned away from him, appalled by the power of my own feelings, stunned by the weight of the grief I felt. Shandor! Shandor! How I had despised him, that sorry son of mine! How he had shamed me! How often I had longed for his death, a hundred times over the years! And how I mourned him now! I was as shaken as I had been that terrible day on Mulano when Damiano had brought me the news that Shandor, against all custom and decency, had proclaimed himself king. Then, if I could have killed him with a snap of the fingers, I would have snapped my fingers; but now he was dead at some stranger's hands and a monstrous void had opened within me where he had been.

  I swung around and caught Julien roughly by the shoulder, so hard that he tried to shrink back from my touch, and could not.

  "Was there anyone who thought that it would please me to have Shandor lose his life? Was it Periandros' favor they were trying to win with this murder, or mine?"

  "I beg you, Yakoub-"

  "Well? Was it?"

  Julien shook his head desperately. His eyes were wild; his hair tumbled into his face; all his careful elegance was gone. "No," he said hoarsely, after a time. "Je t'en prie, Yakoub! I beg you, believe me! I had nothing to do with this. Nothing! Nothing!" And I saw that he was speaking the truth. Letting him go, I turned from him and went to the balcony, and stood by myself looking toward the Chrysoberyl Hills.

  All was quiet there now. No puffs of smoke, no sounds of warfare. It was over, then. I wondered how many other Rom had died with Shandor. Asking that of Julien, I thought, would be asking too much.

  "Send word to the Sixteenth," I said, after a time, "that I will be delayed a little while in my journey to the Capital. We must hold the funeral first. And that will take some days."

  "But the emperor-"

  "Bugger the emperor! My son is dead, Julien. A king of the Rom is dead! There is the shroud to make. The white caravan to construct. You know the rites as well as I do. The music, the pilgrimage, the burial. The wine, the food. Where is the body of my son?"

  "The Akrakikan-"

  "Get it from them. And send me the officers of the court. We will do this in the proper way. And then, only then, will you and I make our journey to the Capital and present ourselves before the Sixteenth. Go. Go." I gestured furiously, impatiently. "Get out of here, Julien! Leave me alone!"

  6.

  THE WORLD THAT IS KNOWN ONLY AS THE CAPITAL, the world that is the hub of the galaxy, is to me a pallid and dreary place. Why the Gaje decided long ago to make it their New Earth, the seat of the government, I will never know, or care; you will have to ask of the Gaje if you would understand that choice. In a universe that holds a Galgala, a Nabomba Zom, a Xamur, why plant the center of your empire on a planet like that?

  But of course Galgala and Xamur and Nabomba Zom were never theirs to choose. Those worlds are ours by right of discovery.

  The Capital is not a terrible place. It is a smallish world, one of six that orbit a pale yellow-green sun, and it has a mild climate, rivers and streams, flowers and trees, air that you can breathe without adaptors, a general feel of comfort and placidity. But its oceans are shallow and its mountains are low and blunt and its birds are gray and brown. A drab world, a safe little world, a decent middle-of-the-road world. Perhaps that is why the Gaje like it so much. But they have not even managed to give it a real name.

  Naturally they have built themselves an absurd fantastical imperial city out of marble and flame, a great gaudy enterprise, shining towers and broad boulevards
and blazing lights, the usual crystal and emerald and alabaster everywhere. But what else would you expect from the Gaje: showiness, theatricality, preposterous overmagnificence. But in that case they should have built their capital on some planet other than the Capital. Just as the Idradin crater seems incongruous in its ugliness against the matchless beauties of Xamur, so too does the imperial city look wildly out of place on the Capital. It is like a colossal coruscating diamond that has been set in a diadem of cardboard.

  Be that as it may. The Capital is the great Gaje place, and I am a mere shabby Gypsy, who knows nothing of true splendor. Maybe some day I will come to understand the Capital better than I do now. But that is not important to me, understanding the Capital.

  For all its grandeur the imperial center had an uneasy, makeshift look about it when I arrived. It was like a city just recovering from a war- or preparing for one. The green and red sky-banners that paid homage to the Fifteenth had all been turned off. Only a handful of new ones in the colors of the Sixteenth had been put up thus far, and so the sky looked strangely empty. In the outer ring of the city, where scores of dazzling light-spikes normally glowed in honor of visiting lords from other worlds, everything was dark. I had never seen it like that before.

  That darkness puzzled me. Weren't there any other visiting lords here? If there were, didn't they object to the absence of their spikes? Perhaps all the imperial vassals were keeping clear of the Capital until they were absolutely certain that Periandros was the emperor they were vassal to. Well, even so, I was an imperial vassal, and I was here. Where was my light-spike? I missed it. Maybe I was the only one here. Maybe Periandros had told all the others to stay away. Could it be that the Sixteenth, still uncertain of his throne, felt it might seem unduly provocative to be claiming homage from the planetary lords just now? I know that I wouldn't have felt that way. I would be making every show of power and rightful authority that I could, if I were in Periandros' shoes. But-thanks be to Holy God and the Divine Mother and Saint Sara-la-Kali-Periandros was in Periandros' shoes and I was in my own.

  "Why is there no spike up for me?" I asked Julien, not long after I was installed in the opulent guest palace at the Plaza of the Three Nebulas that the Imperium maintains for the use of the Rom king when he is visiting the Capital.

  "There is a problem with the spikes," said Julien diplomatically.

  "I imagine there is," I said.

  "They consume a great deal of energy. These are difficult and expensive times, mon ami."

  "Ah. I forgot. The thrifty Periandros."

  "He has ordered a cutback on superfluous expenditures of energy. Temporarily, I'm afraid, there will be no light-spikes. It is only idle show, is it not, mon vieux? These Roman candles blazing away?"

  "The emperor has his own sky-banners up, I see."

  "Only a very few," Julien said, looking uncomfortable. "He must assert his imperial presence, after all. But you will note that where the Fifteenth had hundreds of banners in the sky, the Sixteenth has scarcely any. A symbolic minimum."

  "I have a presence to assert also," I said. "I would like my light-spike, Julien."

  "Cher ami-je t'implore-"

  "Yes," I said, "my good old light-spike, bright purple, five hundred meters high, telling all the Capital that the Rom baro is in residence awaiting audience with the emperor-"

  Julien was miserable and made no attempt to hide it. But he took my meaning. Not that I give a tortoise turd about light-spikes or banners or flags or medals or any such trivialities, ordinarily. But this was a time of testing for everyone. Periandros owed me the courtesy of a spike. Subtly or not so subtly-what did I care?-Julien would have to convey my wishes to his master. Then Periandros would be compelled to weigh his need for pinching obols and minims against the desire of the venerable Rom king for a little pomp and pageantry. And I would find out just where I really stood in the esteem of the new emperor and how much leverage I might have over him in the difficult times ahead.

  The sky remained dark the next night. But the night after that, I saw the traditional royal Rom light-spike spear the heavens as soon as the sun went down.

  In his hospitality, at least, the new emperor was unstinting-or perhaps Julien had simply arranged things as he felt they ought to be arranged. That was more likely. Periandros would have had a stroke if he had known what Julien was spending to keep me amused while I was awaiting the advisers I had summoned for my meetings with the emperor.

  The immense and splendiferous Rom palace was in immaculate order and I had platoons of servants-robots, androids, human slaves, doppelgangers of slaves-a staff so huge it was ridiculous. The finest foods and wines were available at any hour of the day and night. Musicians, dancers, minstrels, likewise. And other services. It was embarrassing. Who needed these crowds, this hoopla? Especially in light of the sort of hospitality my own son had been providing for me. Not that I wanted the crawling things and meals of mush back, mind you; but this went too far in the opposite direction. I think you know that it is not the Rom way, all this luxury. It is the Gaje idea of the Rom way, perhaps: or perhaps the Gaje are so guilty about the way they have treated us over the millennia that they feel they must make amends in this overblown fashion when the Rom baro comes to town.

  Day by day my people arrived at the Capital, bearing news of the horrendous chaos that had spread through the worlds during the time of my imprisonment, and-may all the gods and demons be praised!- the wonderful restoration of order that had been effected since the collapse of Shandor's insurgency. The Gaje lords might be squabbling but at least we Rom had the spacelanes open again and the ships running on time.

  Polarca came first, then Biznaga, then Jacinto and Ammagante, and the phuri dai. Followed soon after by Damiano and Thivt. But not Valerian. I hadn't sent for him, and not for his ghost either. It would have been unwise, and in very poor taste besides, to invite a proscribed enemy of the Imperium like Valerian to come to the Capital. Testing Periandros was one thing, thumbing my nose in his face something else entirely.

  I had to do without Chorian, also. I had grown very fond of the young Fenixi-let me not be too coy here; I had come to love him as I would a son-and it was my plan to move him into positions of ever greater responsibility in the government. We were all antiques; I needed someone born in this century to help keep me in touch with realities. But although Chorian was among those I called to my side at the Capital, he didn't show up. I asked Julien about him.

  "He will not be coming," Julien said.

  "What's the problem? I thought the starships were running on schedule again, now that Shandor is-"

  "The starships are running on schedule, yes, mon ami."

  Instantly alarmed, I said, "Where's Chorian, then? Has something happened to him?"

  "He is safe and sound among the Haj Qaldun worlds, so far as I am aware," Julien told me. "He has not received your invitation, that is all."

  "He what?"

  "Yakoub," said Julien reproachfully. "What is this foolishness? How can I summon him here? He is Sunteil's man, your Chorian."

  I felt anger flaring up. "He is Rom, Julien! One of my most loyal and devoted-"

  "Perhaps so. He is also Sunteil's man. What you ask is impossible, mon vieux. Light-spikes I can get for you, yes. And other things: you have only to ask. But one who is actually in the employ of a rebel against the emperor? Yakoub, Yakoub, Yakoub!" He shook his head. "Be reasonable, mon ami!"

  I was annoyed, but I saw his point. King or no king, I was going to have to yield on this. It had indeed been foolish of me to think I could have Chorian here at this time. I regretted that greatly. I wanted him here. It would be good for him to become familiar with the Capital, and useful and instructive for him to observe the daily ebb and flow of my negotiations with Periandros. But of course he couldn't be here now. Whatever he might be to me, he was Sunteil's man also. I shouldn't have needed Julien to point that out. Chorian would have to stay away from the Capital.

  For now. But he
would be on hand to play his part in the cataclysmic events that lay just ahead.

  7.

  THE CRYSTALLINE STEPS ONCE AGAIN THE THRONE-platform, far above me. How many times over the many decades of my life had I stood on the great slab of onyx at the base of that lofty seat of power, staring upward at the ruler of all the Gaje worlds?

  I had never seen the Thirteenth, not in the flesh. I was too far from the center of power then. The emperor of my childhood, he was, and well on into my early manhood too, living on forever and forever. I had seen his image on the screens of a dozen worlds, though: the little weary waxen-faced man, perched high atop his onyx platform. Who could have imagined he would have lived so long? The Fourteenth was a different story, young and vigorous, coming to the throne with the avowed purpose of clearing away the cobwebs that had gathered during his predecessor's interminable reign. I made my first visits to court during his time. A slight-bodied dark-skinned man, almost Rom in color, with keen golden eyes and an easy smile, and the strength of a true emperor behind that smile. He came from Copperfield, as five of the emperors before him had done. It would be a lie to say that I had known him well, but I had seen him, I had even spoken to him two or three times. And then suddenly he was dead. There were rumors that he had been done away with, for having instituted too many reforms too quickly. And so came the Fifteenth, the shepherd of Ensalada Verde, in later years my friend and working partner, wise and good. Well, he too was gone now but I was still here, waiting by the crystal steps for the one who called himself the Sixteenth, this mingy miserly Periandros, the fourth emperor of my life. If indeed this was an emperor I stood before now, and not merely a vain pretender.

  I listened for the trumpets. Yes, there they were. But not the old deafening glory. More of a pathetic blatting whoosh. Another of Periandros' petty economies? Or was it merely the flavor of the times, that made everything seemed a pale and meek shadow of its former self?