The tables were not enough. Clustered about them were gifts too large to place upon them with the others, in several instances too large for anyone to lift. Among these, Arran eyed an idle, hovering pair of personal §-field riders, similar in operating principle to the draywherry, but more resembling legless mechanical versions of the riding-beasts Old Henry—at present supervising preparations in the kitchens —had told him of. The upswept airshield and sensor-pod might well be an animal's head. The wirewoven fuselage behind was, like an animal's body, contoured for the benefit and comfort of whoever sat astride the thing.
Left of the great fireplace, sweating even in expensive finery containing its own temperature-regulating devices, awaited His Manifold Eminence, the Archregistrar of Hanover, whose dignifying presence upon Skye v/as itself a kind of gift, one of many from the Monopolitan Ceo, Leupould IX, to the eldest son and daughter-in-law-to-be of one of the imperium-conglomerate's greatest (and, more important, publicly best-remembered) heroes.
Servitors, family servants Arran had known all his life and thought of as his friends, passed round and through the Great Hall with trays of drinks and flavorsome tidbits. Acting with exaggerated formality—many were dressed, if not in better clothing, then at least with greater care and exercise of taste—they refused him personal acknowledgement. Arran was not certain he liked this. It made him feel lonely. He wished Old Henry were here beside him, instead of busying himself with maintaining some kind of order amidst all this festivity. Even Waenzi might have helped, but Old Henry and Mistress Lia had both insisted, and Arran had conceded they were right, that this was no place for a triskel.
Nonetheless, Arran felt special pride in himself this day. Not only was he well enou^ to attend this wedding, unlike his father's, but, in addition to his finest tunic, matching
knee-Stockings, platinum-buckled slippers spreighfonned for the occasion, he wore a grown man's loose-fitting trousers of a colorful pattern which, except when he took a deep stride, had been fashioned to resemble the kelt of ancient tradition or the srong of an even older heritage. About his waist a broad sash, its embroidery picked out in rhodium thread, bore a fastener matching those upon his shoes.
Against his right side, the sash passed through the back-loop of a special pocket, fashioned from a hard-surfaced species of kefflar, which Old Henry called a "holdster." This had been sewn by hand that Arran might carry the walther-weapon, butt reversed in venerable military fashion, and afterward present it with a ceremonial flourish to his brother's bride. It was, as weapons ought to be, clean and lubricated, fiilly loaded with eleven tiny lead-tipped charges manufactured for it. Under Old Henry's supervision, the weapon had been restored, rust-pits filled with fresh, untamishable metal, its substance infused with ions which prevented more corrosion, and finished in such a manner that its deep and liquid-looking blue-black exterior would never again scratch or wear or fade to gray.
Owing to the importance of Robret the Islay, father of the groom, no less to that of his principal and honored guest the wheelchair-bound Tarbert Morven, father of the groom's stepmother, hundreds of visitors to the planet Skye had by this time arrived in splendor from the Hanoverian 'Droom. Each small group had descended in its turn to the landing pentagram, making the voyage hence aboard a draywherry hastily repaired. Military honors were supplied by Morven's dread imposing household Oplytes which had followed their master down from orbit upon the next trip of the lubberlift, too late to assist in dealing with the roadcut bandits. The Islay, naturally enough, had intended that it be so, never wishing it asserted of him that he could not defend his Holdings without help.
Each Oplyte stood two and a half measures tall, with close-cropped hair and ashy, waxen complexion. Arran had heard his father say that no Oplyte feared death, for he was dead already. What the boy saw in the unreflective eyes of the warrior-slaves confirmed his father's words. He wondered how it must feel to be an Oplyte. Something sympa-
96 HENRY MARTYN
thetic within him strove to see the world from the perspective afforded by those metallic-looking eyes. Something even stronger deep inside him made him shy from the effort.
It was rumored—this was a thing he had never asked his father nor expected him to answer—that in the field, Oplytes were never provisioned, but were expected to feed upon fallen foemen as a grisly incentive to uncompromising victory. That they owned other appetites, which they satisfied with equal savagery at the expense of women, children, and other men, was, even to one as young and uninformed as Arran, rather more than rumor. It had become, by shrewd design, no less than an abomination of legendary scale. Little expense was spared by the crafty Ceo of Hanover in assisting potential enemies within and without the Monopolity to appreciate what horror they faced did they oppose their will to that of the imperium-conglomerate.
Arran shook his head, cleared his mind of unsubstantiated surmise, continuing the surreptitious inspection of these dread warriors which his sense of objectivity preferred. Each was as broad at the shoulder as two ordinary men. Each wore a tough, tight-fitting uniform which, upon command, changed color and pattern to blend with any environment. At present, what they wore was as bright as Hanoverian colors ever were, light gray trimmed in silver. Silver, as well, were the outsized thrustibles strapped to each arm of every Oplyte. Ordinary men would want a hand free to do other things than fighting. Oplytes, it was said, had a free hand anywhere they wanted.
No doubt, Arran thought back to the roadcut incident, their human officers had regretted this lost opportunity for an outing. He knew the troops did not. Oplytes were not equipped by their nature (if, in origin and character, they could be regarded as natural) for regretting anything.
With effort, he tore his horrified attention from the deadly beings, turning instead toward a host which appeared anything but deadly. Mistress Woodgate, soon to be his sister and therefore "Lia," had told the truth (he never expected otherwise): each of the guests from the capital, dazzling enough in costumes they brought with them, affected a masque. No two
were alike. Much clever maneuver and an elaborate protocol assured this was always the case. It seemed no two were even of the same color. From his studies, Arran recognized an alliupe, a moses, xander, kaisar, cleopaetre, all from the mists of half history; galileo, Shakespeare, newton, faraday, holmes, einstein, and velikovsky from a better-known era. A scowling nietzsche argued with an even fiercer-looking rand. Lewis jested with cosby. A cordial schweitzer rolled among them upon pneumoplastic wheels.
The boy was of a sudden grateful he had thought (with some aid from his mentors) to confine Waenzi to the tower bedroom. In this confusing press, the triskel could be trampled underfoot. Arran hoped in earnest that the animal would remain confined. He craved companionship and hated being locked up, abandoned and alone. Upon occasion, locks or no locks, he was altogether too clever, getting in and out of places where he did not belong.
With disappointment, Arran in vain searched among the horde of Monopolitans for one of the fabulous intelligences who visited the Hanoverian 'Droom upon occasion, having arrived from out-of-the-way places and strange, alien civilizations located beyond the borders of the imperium-con-glomerate in the black reaches of the unexplored Deep.
His Eminence raised jewel-bedecked arms, capturing the attention of all within the Holding Hall amidst a flourish of enthilled drums, pipes, and claxons—more, Arran thought as hair prickled at the back of his neck, like wailing battle calls than wedding marches—provided by Old Henry at an ancient, battered thille player which had always, in Arran's memory, stood against that wall. The old man caught Arran's eye and winked. They might have had an orchestra today, Arran thought. His father could with ease have brought symphonia entire from Hanover. Yet something about this music felt warm and goodly to him, traditional in the Islay family as it was and issuing from a well-traveled heirloom.
Young Robret followed behind the Archregistrar, through the door by which the elderly dignitary had earlier entered. Next
came Robret's father and a heartbeat later the other of his brothers, both of whom, just moments ago, had been
98 HENRY MARTYN
circulating among the guests as Arran was in theory doing now.
In accordance with tradition, and as if in echo to their own, earlier ceremony, the Lady Alysabeth awaited her husband beside the Archregistrar, her friends the Drector and Lady Nasai-Ulness nearby. To Arran, it was cold courtesy that moved Alysabeth Morven— Islay, he reminded himself, although he had known of her for longer by her earlier name—to avoid, in her calculated manner, taking attention from the bride. By any standard, she was the more beautiful of the two young women. Had this consideration, mechanical as it seemed, not been exercised, Lia Woodgate (also soon to become "Islay" which in Arran's mind served as a sort of compensation) would have stood in peril of taking second place upon that day, of all days, when, by rights and every maidenly expectation, she ought to have stood first.
In any case, this nuptial diplomacy had met with only limited success. The Lady Alysabeth had dressed herself in a plain gown of so pale a gray it might have been called silver had the fabric betrayed the slightest metallic sheen. The absence upon her person of any jewelry, save a bracelet indicative of her status as a married woman, lent—whatever her intention to the contrary—such stark severity to her attire that it accentuated her flawless beauty. Arran caught her eye upon him and felt a chill run through his body. It was like being examined by some dark, lithe, sharp-fanged predator. He wondered what his father felt in similar circumstances.
Realizing with a start that Old Henry's wink had constituted something of a summons, Arran hurried to catch them up and join the family party. The room—rather, those within it—reoriented itself from chaos toward the Hall's great hearth as the Archregistrar and the Islays took their places. A hush descended upon the crowd, along with a feeling of impatient expectation, rewarded before too many more moments had passed by the entrance of the bride.
To most of those invited to this place, what she wore would be—already had been—a subject of some interest. Even Arran could see why this was so. Although he had always
appreciated his tutor's pretty face and figure, he had never looked upon quite so beautiful a woman as Mistress Lia had become. She had arrayed herself, from the tiara upon her brow to her hidden toes, in traditional pale green (it was claimed that for some perverse reason, Jendyne brides preferred white, the ancient color of mourning), symbolizing purity, fertility, that eager willingness which was the quality most prized in a new wife among all the imperia-conglomerate. The skirting of her dress was more voluminous than any Arran had ever seen, while the bodice, tight to an impossibly cruel degree, conforming to her precise contours as if it had been painted upon her, cut so low in the back, and in particular at the front, that it vanished into the waistline of her skirt, exposed more of Mistress Lia's pale flesh than he had ever before seen.
He experienced an uncomfortable tightness in his throat which swallowing did nothing to improve. To make matters worse, he was compelled to concentrate upon his breathing which had become difficult and unnatural.
This color and cut was not a scheme which suited every woman. It tended to make blondes sallow, while a redhead's complexion borrowed the hue of her attire so that she appeared ill. Upon Mistress Lia, it accentuated her eyes in a charming manner, was kind to her fair, freckled skin, and highlit her otherwise undistinguished tresses ("mousey," she was wont to say in self-deprecation) in a manner ordinary clothing never did.
For this occasion Lia affected no masque, although Arran understood they were sometimes worn at weddings upon the capital world, elaborate sculptures with wide, dark, artificial eyes and sullen, swollen, parted lips, attempting to convey both innocence and its opposite at the same time. With a warm thrill chasing throu^ his body—the sensation was not new to him, manifesting itself, as it did, with increasing and embarrassing frequency—he wondered whether such a combination were possible in real, unmasqued life. It was certain Lia's own eyes were wide enough, whether with innocence or something else, Arran was in no position to guess. Her lips—that feeling came upon him again, and although it was pleasant enough to experience by himself in his own
lOO HENRYMARTYN
room, this was neither the place nor the time. He found himself speculating about what his brother— A deep breath, a hard swallow, and again he focused upon the ceremony.
One stately, unhurried step at a time, Lia came forward, concentration upon her face, holding the folds of her enormous skirt so as not to tread upon them. She had chosen, as a Hanoverian bride will, to underline her bridal willingness with a pair of wide silver bracelets, joined at purchase with a fine chain so as to comprise fetters. By tradition, the chain was broken in a laughing ceremony among the bride and her maids so that a short, glittering length now hung from each of the bands encircling her wrists. About her throat, and, it would seem this was Lia's innovation, at her temples, she wore matching silver bands, each disjointed in its center, ends pinked in a zigzag pattern, also representing broken bonds. Beneath her long, full skirts, Lia would be barefoot— bushels of petals had been strewn in her path to preserve her delicate soles from the chill floor—as a token of wifely humility.
Angry with himself, and attempting to regain control, Arran rehearsed in his mind the ceremony about to take place. His brother and Lia would meet (he had seen many weddings take place in dramathilles) just before the spot where the fat old Archregistrar stood beside the great fireplace. The music would come to a halt, for preference just as the bride did. After a moment of awkward, anticipatory silence, the Archregistrar would begin asking of the couple questions older in their origin than any antiquarian could calculate. In due course and in turn, Robret and Lia would offer their replies.
He would announce that what they told him suited him, whether or not it did. Struggling with self-consciousness and her awkward garments, they would embrace, kiss as Arran had never seen them do when they believed themselves in the presence of others, turn to face the gathering, and begin their future as husband and wife. They would be married. The boring part would be over with.
Now would come the moment which Arran, suspended between enthusiastic boyhood and dawning manhood, had in
L. NEILSMITH lOl
truth looked forward to most. Arrayed along the aisle-space where bride and groom would soon pass were two imposing rows of Oplytes, mighty weapons at the ready, set, Old Henry had told him yesterday, upon the twelfth-charge. At a signal from their officers, they would raise their thiustibles and thumb the yokes. Overhead, kinergic beam would meet kinergic beam in a fiery salute of annihilation.
Lia reached the Archregistrar where Robret stood waiting in a state of nervous impatience. Arran tensed. The music stopped. Robret and Lia stepped forward amidst beaming expressions and welcoming gestures offered them by the family Islay, even including the Lady Alysabeth who smiled and, with a certain shyness it seemed to Arran, ventured to touch Lia's hand. Silence fell as Arran had known it would. The Archregistrar opened his froglike mouth. Robret and Lia martialed their responses.
Of a sudden, out of sequence, a shouted order cracked, shattering the silence. The giant Oplytes raised their mighty, weapon-bearing arms. Half of them, every other warrior in each row, turned in the same instant upon his armored heel. All brought their weapons to the level, so that every person in the Great Hall was threatened.
Chapter XIII: Due Process of Law
A collective murmur of astonishment swept the Holdings Hall, punctuated by indignant gasps and mutterings denoting a variety of reactions.
At the less-crowded rear of the great room, toward the Hall's great double doors which, so large and unaccustomed a number of perspiring bodies being present, had been propped half-open for the sake of ventilation, toward the scatter-cluttered edges of the gathering, a thin, shrill scream was audible. With a flurry of motion, one of the guesting women
fainted. Others, overwhelming in their solicit
ude, crowded round to attend her.
A minute passed which seemed to the frightened Arran like a day in fullness, dawn to dusk. The Oplytes, through this timeless interval, stood like effigies of carven stone and, it seemed no less than a miracle of discipline to the boy, held their thrust. It was characteristic of the time and place that it occurred to not a single person among the gathering that this might be some kind of joke.
At last, amidst a high-pitched mechanical whine and an accompanying hiss of pneumoplastic tires rolling along the spotless translucent paving blocks, Tarbert Morven—his Schweitzer done away with and the ugly scarlet face of hammurabi ribboned into its accustomed place—wheeled his inexorable way along the aisle which had been cleared in courtesy for bride and groom.
He stopped. The noise of his passage stopped with him. He had reached the feet of Robret fils and Lia Woodgate, standing frozen, much like each of the others in this place, paralyzed with shock, their faces white, their mouths agape. Morven turned in his chair and faced the elder Islay.
It was one of those rare moments in the destinies of men which would alter all that had preceded it, likewise determining everything which was afterward to follow. The look the two exchanged was hard and cold—all present felt it so—more tangible a thing than the destructive energies which the Oplytes' upraised thrustibles were capable of generating. It could not have been more visible had it been fashioned from a bar of steel. Alysabeth stood beside her husband, an unfathomable expression upon her inhumanly beautiftil face.
The crippled Morven placed both useless, withered, motionless hands upon the armrests of his chair. With a grunt of expenditure, he pressed his weight upon them, elevating himself a few siemmes from his seat. By slow degrees, his awkward, atrophied feet slid like the unliving things everyone believed them to be from the treaded metal tray upon which they had so long rested, placed themselves before the chair, and, stirring to life, planted themselves firm upon the key-locked blocks of the floor. Shifting his weight, Morven rose
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