"That slop? I shall have a steaming cup of real caff, if they sell it."
Donol laughed. "I am informed that, upon certain planets, consumed by certain species, it is a narcotic. Extremely illegal, therefore guaranteed available in The Wasted Corsair. A moment, if you please— barkeep!"
As a serving-wench in a dirty apron brought their drinks, they heard a tinny crash. The smoke-filtered light within The Wasted Corsair did not flicker. Nor, save for the gong, did the
noise rise or fall. Yet, within the tavern, the ambience changed as a flimsy curtain at the back was thrust aside and seven young girls in white, loose-fitting, high-necked garments, gathered at the wrists and ankles, issued past onto the stage, a mere hand's width above the filthy floor, and, unlike the building itself, constructed from metalloid mesh such as was to be found aboard starships.
The first girl turned to her right as she emerged, the second to her left. The third joined the first, and the fourth the second, until all six stood, perhaps two arms* lengths apart, in a well-formed row across the back. The seventh, and last, girl brushed past the curtain and appeared upon the stage without dramatic pause, without breaking the rhythm the previous six had established, a rhythm which existed, thus far, only in the minds of the men who watched, for, in the beginning, the girls had no accompanying music.
The seventh, too, dressed in white, one simple piece with voluminous sleeves and legs, cut from a fabric light in weight, yet not revealing. Nevertheless, Robret observed—nor could he have avoided feeling—an increasing tension among the men as she took her place at the center of the stage, forward of the others. They had rolled their hair or wore it short. She had wrenched her own dark tresses into a thick hank, held by a ring and cascading from it to the small of her back, leaving her long, graceful neck exposed. In her left hand she carried a small, cylindrical bundle, black, some twelve or thirteen siemmes in length, half that in diameter.
In what now seemed like the darkness offstage, a drum began to thump at a pace just slower than the beating of a sleeping heart. Moving to the beat, the girl at center stage bowed upon a straightened leg, arms spread, hair sweeping in a circle until it touched the floor. She rose and lifted her empty hand, gracefully indicating the others to her right, by way of silent introduction. They bent at the waist before she pivoted upon her toe and indicated those upon her left, who also bowed, although whether to acknowledge their audience or their fellow performer, Robret could not have attested.
The drum beat a trifle faster. Turning to her audience again, the girl held out the object she had with her for inspection.
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Before Robret could tell what it was, she lifted her hand and poured its contents into her other hand. The cylinder had been a loose collection of thin nails or hair-needles, which gleamed and tinkled as they fell from one hand into the other. A low whisper, not quite a moan, swept through the audience. The drum beat faster. As before, the girl at center stage indicated the others who accompanied her. They, too, held bundles, smaller than hers, composed of fewer needlelike objects, which they transferred from hand to hand in glittering arcs.
Now the drum beat like a waking heart, alert, not quite yet frightened. Imitated by those behind her, the girl separated a needle from the bundle and held it in one hand, high above her head. Looking upward at its gleaming point, she danced in place beneath it, turning about as if as helpless to look away from it as Robret was to look away from her. The needle plunged, driven by her hand. She ducked at the last instant. The point entered her flesh at the hinge of her jaw, below the ear. When she took her hand away, only the shining head stood out from her skin like a bauble fastened to her lobe. The audience erupted with sympathetic groaning and wild applause which rose, stage by stage, to an unbearable volume of whistling, cheering, and stomping as she turned, bowing to display the bloodless self-inflicted wound.
"A terpsipuncturist," Donol whispered, his breath moist upon the sharper consonants, "from some backwater called Tannatham, and reputed to be a good one. Her apprentices are locals, I should reckon." Robret made a swatting motion at his younger brother, as at a buzzing insect, his eyes riveted to the figure upon the stage, fascinated and revolted by the spectacle before him.
With a graceful slide the terpsipuncturist removed herself to one side as her apprentices danced beneath their own gleaming needles. One by one, perhaps as each found the courage, they plunged the cruel implements home, standing for a moment as if surprised they had survived, afterward bowing to the delighted audience and their mistress, who pointed an accusing finger and shouted. Robret was aware of blood trickling down one girl's neck, a spreading stain in the white, absorbent fabric at her shoulder. Sobbing, the bleed-
ing girl covered her face with her hands as the others stepped away from her. She pulled the needle from her flesh and scurried through the curtain.
"We'll not see her again," Donol asserted before he could be prevented.
The drum beat faster as a reed flute began twining itself like a sinuous reptile into the rhythm. The ritual was repeated, the dance beneath the deadly looking needle, the sudden plunge, the applause and cheering. The girl had stabbed herself in the nape of the neck, the needle sinking full length into her satiny flesh without shedding a drop of blood. Each of her remaining apprentices imitated her until the last fell, thrashing in convulsions, victim to a misplaced needle in her spine, hauled off —amidst hooting and jeering from the heartless crowd—with the rough, unhappy stage assistance of the establishment's peacekeepers. The drum beat faster, taunted by the flute.
This time, the crowd burst into applause at the veteran dancer's daring even before she placed the needle. She did, and stood back to give her four apprentices a chance. Imitating her mistress, the first placed a needle beside her eye, thrust, and, without a sound, pitched forward, dead. As she was being taken off, the terpsipuncturist waved the last three girls away, perhaps for further instruction, and faced the audience alone.
The drumbeat tripled its pace, leaving the flute confused and far behind. Leaping upon tiptoes, the dancer spun, whirling from one side of the stage to another, plunging needle after glistening needle into herself. Siemme by square siemme, the garment concealing her body yielded its secrets to her bizarre stitchery. As each bit was pinned to the girl's flesh, her voluptuous form emerged, to the enthusiasm of her audience, as the folds were tucked against her. No trace of blood could be discerned; to be certain, the fabric would have shown it. As the music reached an ear-shattering peak, it was as if she danced unclothed before them. Robret found himself unable to breathe. A glance at Donol caught him staring, openmouthed, although Robret gathered he had seen this all before. The drum continuous and the flute running ahead, the terpsipuncturist slapped furiously at herself. Robret cringed with each blow. She threw herself down and rolled
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about. Someone at a nearby table fainted. With the flute shrieking its final notes, she leapt up, snatched the needles out in handsful, and flung them aloft. The drum stopped. The needles pinged and clattered upon the planks. She was gone.
Robret thought the tavern might collapse about him as the men reacted, roaring, screaming, throwing food, drink, articles of clothing, pounding tables, stomping their feet. Coins of a thousand planets clattered upon the stage like hailstones upon a corrugated roof. Noise dwindled and he turned to his brother, almost failing to recognize the flushed, hungry face panting back at him. "I say, we have grown a bit primitive recently, have we not?"
Donol's feral expression dissolved as he regained control and transformed it into a cynical sneer. "You refer to me, brother?"
Robret sighed and looked about the room which had returned to whatever passed for normal. "I was making a more general observation, Donol. No personal slight intended. I must say, that was rather—impressive."
Donol's was not a pleasing expression. "Was it not, just? Well, I suppose one must get down to business, then."
"My plan is sim
ple, brother," Donol spoke in low tones, more beneath the noise of the tavern than above it, "to reduce the esteem in which Hanover holds Morven, providing us an opportunity to replace the Usurper ourselves."
Robret nodded. "Yes, the plan is good—it always has been. And, whatever our failures, much has already been accomplished toward both ends."
"You believe," his brother asked, "Hanover will accept a fait accompli?"
"I did not risk all to come and discuss generalities, Donol. We must, in what time we have, exchange information and begin to cover contingencies."
"Sir, more respect." Donol made the protest with a crooked half smile. "You speak to the man about to marry the daughter of the Black Usurper!"
Robret gave him a sour look. "Anxious to legitimize himself in the eyes of the populace. He believes marrying
her into the original ruling line will accomplish that." He paused, weighing his next words. "I fear this proposed marriage has produced mixed results. By some reckonings, Skyan among them, betrothal to one's father's widow is incestuous. It has angered people."
"What can I do?" Donol spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "At the Holdings, I am scarcely more than the prisoner I was to start. Forget the adolescent cynicism I displayed before hard circumstances taught me better. Any damage my reputation suffers as a result of our connivance is a welcome sacrifice to the cause of ridding Skye of the Black Usurper."
Robret gave his brother a look of inspection. His brother looked back and grinned. "Then we are agreed. I shall continue sending what material aid I can, and meet with you whenever needful, having established a pattern of habituating disreputable places such as this. Meantime, let me tell you what I have managed to learn of the Usurper's plans."
They ordered another round, caff for Robret, and settled to an account of Morven's contact with the Rii, their desire for new stars. The silence existed only between the brothers. The Wasted Corsair remained as noisy as before. As Robret attempted to absorb what Donol told him, of a sudden the younger of the two seemed to change the subject. "Father may have had his reasons. Perhaps he had wearied of a lifetime of politics and war—"
Robret sighed and rubbed his palms over his eyes, which were surrounded by black pits. "A weariness I well understand."
An impatient expression crossed his younger brother's face. "Still in all, we Islays have made a great mistake, isolating ourselves from the rest of the galaxy, a mistake we must remedy in future if the family is to survive."
Robret let his hands drop to the table. "For conversation's sake, how, at this late date, do you suggest we begin?"
"I have done. While you were among the mountains and forests, I studied our enemy and the landscape he moves in—a deal more, brother, than our father knew of his friend Morven." Robret nodded, growing interested. "The first thing," Donol offered, "is that, interminable and frequent as
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we know them to be, the Ceo's wars consume soldiers in quantities unimaginable to us. And Oplytes, who do the bulk of the Ceo's fighting, do not last long."
"So I have heard. And?"
"He whom we call *Black Usurper' is called by another name within plush-paneled council chambers of the capital. The Ceo's pimp.' This is how he rose to prominence, finding soldiers for the Ceo. If he would maintain his position, he requires a supply of bodies. Skye, which otherwise possesses nothing of unique value to Morven, aside from opportunity to revenge himself upon our father, is in unparalleled legal position to provide bodies."
Robret shook his head in tired confusion. For him the freedom of Skye, the preeminence of his family and their reputation, were primaries. This was new to him, that events here had broader meaning beyond the battle for this world. He said nothing. Donol continued: "Now—and, I believe, unlooked-for by anyone upon Hanover—Morven has been promised by these Riians some device, substance, or process capable of enslaving an entire planet."
Robret sat up straight. "What?"
The younger brother nodded. "No more than I have said. It is his most cherished secret. Even exaggerated, it can only add to our sufferings. It not only offers to solve the imperium-conglomerate's manpower problem, but to resolve the Thousand Years' War or any future conflict in the Monopolity's favor. Or, as I believe, in favor of a more powerful Morven."
"This is fantasy, Donol, such technology has no antecedent in Mon—"
"In a manner of speaking"—Donol chuckled—"you are correct. Morven's secret is no outgrowth of human scientific endeavor, which falls, these days, into greater and greater neglect. I suspect not one original invention has been made in any of the imperia-conglomerate for centuries." This was something Lia had made much of in the years she had been their teacher.
"So?"
"So I have come to believe in this promised power he looks forward to, for the very reason that it is non-human in origin."
Although he remained skeptical—his brother's logic was not the best—Robret nodded. Human endeavor, in all respects save those of brutalizing, robbing, or enslaving other beings, was upon the wane. Moreover, heretofore unheard-of sapients were hardly novel within the boundaries of the Monopolity. Some, brought home as living souvenirs from voyages of exploration, traded through hundreds of hands in dozens of systems until no one might guess their origins, were known to appear in the capital and elsewhere, as carnival freaks, to enjoy dubious welcome as objects of curiosity and derision in the 'Droom, and later to become ordinary slaves, in the capital, upon subject worlds, or upon their own planets under Monopolitan "protection."
Some, the eerie "stiquemen," the enigmatic turnip-shaped kooloon, appeared from time to time upon their own exploratory voyages. These visitors hailed from powerful but unknown domains, bringing gifts to the 'Droom. A copious (if somewhat disorganized and mysterious) trade throve in odd artifacts and substances—even odder ideas had a way of showing up at unpredictable intervals—with more unknowns outside the ill-defined boundaries of the Monopolity. Sometimes outbound Hanoverian starships disappeared in stranger circumstances than was to be expected when privateers roamed the Deep, a Thousand Years' War raged, and unknown reaches were being explored. For the most part, however, human culture seemed to be the most advanced in portions of the galaxy so far explored. Those looking to others for secret powers or new technologies were more often disappointed than otherwise.
Robret ignored the surroundings and his brother to think, difficult when one was as weary as he felt. Donol was unsure what the Usurper had promised to pay for the alien technology. They guessed, knowing the man, that in the end someone else would be left to settle the bill. He was certain Morven did not actually possess it yet and would be anxious to test it. Both thought the test would be carried out upon Skye, with the intention of impressing the precolonial population, since their rights as subjects of the Monopolity were—this was as new to Robret as anything Donol had to tell him—a matter of legal debate. The brothers and their allies would be
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fools not to seize this opportunity. If the technology were real, they had no choice.
Returning to the world outside his thoughts, Robret settled down with his brother to forge a plan.
Chapter XXIX: Upon the Spiral Stairww
He was late.
Fastening his trousers, Donol locked the door behind him and started down the staircase leading to the lower Holdings. What he thought of as "the Festivities" were beginning in the courtyard, and here he was, malodorous, sweaty with exertion, unkempt and disarrayed, having dallied overlong at what, by any objective estimate, should have been no more than a hobby.
Reflections danced upon a curving wall where light struck upward through an arch-topped window of the landing outside the door he had just secured: the glitter of polished military hardware, far below. Under the gaze of Morven and his administrators, nonentities to the last man, the Hanoverians were forming themselves into ranks, Oplytes in one long row, humans in another. Even high within the building, their booted
clattering across the flags, the shouted commands of officers, could not be mistaken.
Running a hand over his face, Donol wondered how quickly he could change his clothes, bathe, and shave. Before he had descended three steps, he felt a tickling sensation and lifted the hand to his cheek again. It came away bloody. A small scratch, one he would obtain payment for the next occasion he came here, tonight or tomorrow. Events were beginning to pile up. He found he had little time these days for anything besides the complicated, dangerous game he played with Morven and his brother. He extracted a monoquoded handkerchief from his tunic pocket, dabbed at his cheek until the cloth came away dry and, putting it away,
continued downstairs, sated for the nonce, the current of his thoughts rushing along channels other than the hot, black, churning of arousal, frustration—and desire, for the moment satisfied, to exact a toll from more than one individual at once—which had become of late a sort of background noise roaring in his mind.
He paused upon the next landing and through another window watched preparations for the arrival of the entity Morven was calling the i?//an ambassador. He had seen, as yet, no sign of an approaching vehicle, nor would he. The creature was not coming from Alysabethport. The story being handed about was that, although they could not travel among the stars without human assistance, i?//ans possessed means of overcoming gravity, at least within the minor influence of a planet, independent of such awkward contrivances as starports and lubberlifts. Given the delight with which his brother and the woodsrunners interrupted greenway traffic, Donol thought this just as well. He began to curse himself again for being late, when, with sudden insight, he realized it might not do any harm, being absent from what was about to happen.
Weeks had passed before Donol announced an opportunity to make good their plans. Robret was allowed to learn of Morven*s arrangement for meeting with the Rii somewhere upon Skye, sometime in the near future. The guerillas would raid the meeting place, the Holdings itself, directed by Robret, operating upon information the elder brother could only obtain from Donol. The strike would be timed to embarrass the Usurper at a crucial, reputation-destroying juncture. More important, it had to occur before Morven could make use of the Rimn technology he awaited with greater anticipation every day.
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