Jinx On a Terran Inheritance

by Brian Daley

  The Mountebank was still present, as well as a number of other craft, but none had the markings they were looking for. Floyt was tempted to ask Gute, but thought better of it. There was no telling who might then get wind of their interest in the ship.

  They went through the gate and down a wide road of well-kept squeezebond. Blackguard's foliage was rank and high, with an odd yellow-blue tint to it, looking vaguely Jurassic. They could see numerous trails and what looked like bridle paths. Once a glassy white swan-boat passed by overhead, music and laughter trailing from it; apparently the partying and carousing went on at all hours of the day and night on Blackguard. They met no other ground traffic.

  As they came over one rise, Floyt thought he smelled an oceanic, salty aroma. Gute passed by the turnoff for the large complex, which shone like a mirrored beacon, and wound down toward the big, forbidding castle keep they'd noticed the day before. The place looked authentic, if unweathered, and a strange architecture showed what seemed to be Moorish and Asian influences. Some features baffled them, like the enormous polyhedron at the summit of the central tower. Shrine or command center? Observatory or hangar?

  Gute stopped in a clearing to one side of the road, just at the edge of the forest, and shut off the engine. Digging into the sack, he began throwing items of clothing at Alacrity and Floyt, saying, "From here we go afoot. Put these on and get the cart unhitched."

  There were baggy diapers of lumpy, loosely woven homespun the color of oatmeal. Their intricate knotting had been fastened into place with hidden stitches; convenient stat-hesive closures, also concealed, were provided for use by the novice. There were, in addition, floppy knee waders made of some synthetic that looked like natural gum.

  "The garb of Waldenian manuremen," Gute informed them, removing his spectacles and leaving them in the runabout.

  "Very much in vogue these days," Alacrity noted. But he and Floyt had already agreed that there was no future in antagonizing Gute. Gute handed each of them an unbelievably archaic slave collar. They dutifully clicked them on; the silly things didn't even lock. The collars were only required costume, Gute had explained, at some of the compounds, where certain of the Betters obtained their pleasure from seeing fellow humans debased.

  Under the Blackguardian's supervision, the two unhitched the cart and began pulling and pushing it up the long incline to the castle. In moments they were sweating heavily, the collars vexing them. The diapers began chafing at once.

  For the most part, the place was built of gargantuan stones, not much of a feat given modern equipment and transport, but it plainly replicated the traditional keep of some lapsed, nontech culture. Floyt and Alacrity both spared a moment's uneasy thought over what a job building one of the originals must have been.

  On the battlements stood figures in long outdated war-dress, armor, and the fighting regalia of a half-dozen worlds and a few of Terra's historical periods. Gute signaled, and the portcullis was raised. With Gute in the lead they passed over the drop-away drawbridge and under murder-holes and other defenses.

  The place was only lightly tenanted, by people living out roles as nontech warriors and other romantic stronghold residents. Most of them affected a single glove tucked through belt or sash: embroidered, gilt, and jeweled ones for the unarmored; heavy gauntlets for the ironclads.

  Traditional, for giving or accepting challenges, Alacrity concluded. Mark of nobility—they're playing it to the hilt, all right.

  Only a few servants were in evidence, and none of the workforce of serfs or slaves it must've taken to run such a place for real. That made sense; many of the compounds were probably only occupied part time. It was only logical to keep the in-house staff as small as possible, with augmentation as necessary from Central Labor.

  "I guess none of the paying customers are anxious to take part in the authentic dung detail," Alacrity groused as he and Floyt shouldered the cart over a courtyard of big, square cobblestones.

  "Shut up!" Gute whispered harshly. "Spoiling their illusion is the surest way of getting them angry!" Then he began tugging his forelock in all directions, going through strange, gyrating genuflections.

  Ersatz warriors and courtesan looked down on them, lording it. Floyt noticed more than one pair of Betters joining hands or embracing. Being jaded sure leads to some odd ways of getting your newtons loose, he decided.

  The citadel compound was rather austere, with no contemporary conveniences that they could see, except that the unglazed windows on the higher levels—the Betters' domain—seemed unwisely large for a bow-and-catapult society. The three passed through the inner curtain and followed a dim passageway lit by occasional slit windows.

  The place was cool and a bit stuffy, but without the indefinable smells of age. Gute halted them by a low, thick stone slab door framed in iron. He took big swaths of cloth from the sack, giving one each to his unwilling helpers and keeping one for himself. Both were puzzled; there didn't seem to be anything like a stable nearby. But when Gute tied the cloth around his nose and mouth they were quick to imitate him.

  Gute turned the rotor of the door's peculiar disc-lock and shouldered it open. The smell that wafted out made it easy to tell that they were peering into an open sewer.

  "Cesspit," explained Gute, taking a pair of torches from the sack and glancing around to make sure nobody was watching. He lit them with a thermonode he'd hidden in the folds of his diaper. The two friends shied away at once, certain that there'd be a methane explosion, but none came.

  "There's no drainage for the Betters' garderobes because they're between the inner and outer curtains—just like the originals," Gute continued, handing each man a torch. "So you two clean it out."

  He lit a third torch from Alacrity's and ducked into the cesspit. They followed. The place was two meters or so wide and perhaps twenty long. Far overhead, the darkness was broken only by faint light coming through a string of ominous round holes.

  "Actually, you are lucky," Gute asserted. "This place wasn't due for cleanout for another month. But they're getting ready for some kind of big fest, so you get to do the job in knee boots instead of hip waders."

  The contents of the place had accumulated in little hillocks and splattered the walks. Holding his torch high, Alacrity saw that minute lifeforms had created a city of their own. They squirmed and scuttled away from the light; he sighed inconsolably.

  Under Gute's supervision, they backed the cart in and chocked it, the bed tilted for more convenient shoveling. "Why don't they just put in plumbing?" Floyt barked, scandalized. "Is this supposed to be a resort, or not?" His voice sounded strange, muffled by the cloth.

  Gute shrugged. His muffled answer was "The Betters don't want anything modern in the citadel. Damned uncomfortable, if you ask me. Candles, praying cells, halls of feasting and watchtowers … garderobes. There's lots of trysting around here."

  He too sighed. "Myself, I'd give anything to do it up there where the stars are, and you don't weigh anything—or so they say. Or on a luxury compound."

  But Gute didn't come from some overgroomed world, or a sealed environment on a hostile planet where every last part of the environment was closely monitored, or where social pressures made any sort of role playing impossible. Alacrity shook his head, thinking about it, limbering up his shovel. Perhaps the most important thing to the Betters was that they had absolute power on Blackguard—at least over their offworld captives.

  Besides which, they don't have to deal with these cesspits, Alacrity reflected.

  He craned to look at the holes high above, garderobes of the inner curtain. "What about those, Gute? Can't you block them off?"

  "Or at least give us umbrellas?" Floyt suggested.

  "The garderobes have been marked out of service," Gute explained with rising impatience. "So now, be about your work. Work hard; behave; do not be nuisances. It isn't too late for you to be assigned to the Wild Hunt."

  "Dig in, Ho," Alacrity urged. "It'll put hair on your chest."

  Floy
t gave in. "Right-o; just pretend they're daisies."

  Saying he'd be back soon, Gute left, closing the door behind him. Rank odors might be part of castle life, but the attitude around the citadel seemed to be one of realism in moderation.

  The air was thick, and their eyes stung a bit at first, but aside from that the job wasn't all that bad. Still, Floyt cast occasional apprehensive glances at the holes overhead. They wedged their torches into sockets drilled into the stone and set to work.

  "Could be worse," Alacrity commented after a while.

  "And how would you know?"

  "Worked on a honeywagon once when I was a kid. When we were hard up."

  "What's next?" Floyt said.

  "When we get it all shoveled, we sweep the place out, I guess."

  "No, no! I mean us! And Astraea Imprimatur, and especially about Dincrist. Alacrity, I'm not doing a very good job of not thinking what he's going to do with us when he gets his hands on us."

  "Me either. Well, it sounds like we have a little breathing space, anyway. Just be glad Constance and Skate aren't keeping us entertained."

  "Granted, but that could change any time."

  "All we can do is keep our ears open, find out how things work. There are always angles."

  "Alacrity! Do you think there might be another Inheritor here? Besides Dincrist, I mean? I could appeal for help—" Floyt was suddenly crestfallen. "But then, we don't even know where my Inheritor's belt is."

  "Shh!" Alacrity hissed quietly, having heard voices floating down through the holes in one of the garderobes. They were the processed voices of Betters.

  "Empty, right enough," one said. "Just the place."

  "Fine, fine," said a second. "Damned fine idea, m'lord, to get away from that uproar for a while."

  "I must say, much as I cherish tradition, the Nightwatch Fete makes one realize there's such a thing as too much ceremony. Care for a lick or two of synaptiflake?"

  "Don't mind if I do, even if the purists wouldn't approve. Nobody here but us, eh, baron?"

  There was a moment's silence. An unmasked man's voice said, "Ah, that's better! Kind of you to offer, m'lord!"

  Alacrity and Floyt were leaning on their shovels. Alacrity motioned Floyt to be still; Gute had warned them not to be nuisances. And, he told himself, intelligence info is where you find it. He stuck out his tongue and pointed to its tip, where a synaptiflake would be placed to melt. Floyt nodded comprehension.

  They heard gasps as the flake-surge hit the two Betters; Alacrity felt a twinge of envy.

  "Phew! Not bad, eh?"

  "Oh, premiere stuff, Baron, premiere. Would you care for a cigar? They're from Ascension."

  "Thank you, no. It's a wee bit rank in here for me, but do go ahead."

  The baron's voice sound like that of an older and quite cultured man, Alacrity decided; his companion's, indeterminate. A few seconds later, a spent match—a real, primeval, wooden lucifer—came arcing down through a hole, leaving a thin thread of smoke, to hiss out nearby in layered aristocrat poop.

  "Will you be racing, Matterse?" the man called the baron asked casually.

  "Wouldn't dream of missing a regatta," Matterse answered stoutly.

  "As I was saying, that fellow Dincrist, the one from the Orion Compound, will be the one to beat this time. I can't see how Praxis even permitted him to enter; a damned upstart from the word go."

  "Ah, well then, blood will no doubt tell," Matterse posited. "Can't say I care much for that Sile person of his, though," he added thoughtfully.

  "Quite. While I've got you here for a moment, Matterse, there's something I wanted to ask you. It's in the nature of what might be called a clarification. I hope you won't think I'm speaking out of turn … "

  The other hastened to fill the meaningful pause. "No such thing, sir! Please do go on."

  "It's just that rumors have reached me that you plan to petition for a Royal Charter of House when we get back to Styx."

  Matterse's answer was very stiff. "With all deference, m'lord—that is a private matter. May I ask how you heard such a thing? Has Marita perhaps been speaking out of turn?"

  "What Marita did or didn't say is hardly the issue, young man! We of the High Seat have to be extremely careful about who we admit to our ranks. And there are more applicants clamoring after charters all the time."

  "Er, yes, that's true, but in my case—"

  "Splendid; I'm glad you understand. Now, about this claim of yours to the old Blood Royal: your lineage is Matterse out of Morstrube, from the Second Ship, is it not? That makes you a peer, m'boy, but never Blood Royal."

  "Ah, yes, but," Matterse hastened, "I've recently had a genealogy done, of my family tree and ancestors before the ship left the Solar system."

  Alacrity looked to Floyt; this was his specialty. Floyt simply raised his eyebrows in the wavering torchlight, the cloth hiding the rest of his face.

  "My ancestor resettled on Luna," Matterse was saying, sounding well rehearsed. "He was originally of the Rose line, but was forced to divest himself of his title in the Lunar Abjuration of 2534." He hesitated, then said, "Er, do you mind if I … "

  "Eh? Ah, I suppose not."

  "That's what the place is for, eh, m'lord?" More briskly,

  Matterse went on, "So, with this new information—I have certified copies of the original documents—I should think I would qualify—"

  As Alacrity was wondering what all the doubletalk meant, hoping the two would start talking about Dincrist again, he and Floyt found out what the lesser subject had been. A yellow stream of urine poured down from above, splattering in the dung, splashing their gumboots.

  They jumped back with a curse. Floyt, unable to endure any more, ripped down his cloth and, coughing once, screamed up hoarsely, "You cheap, contemptible, unthinking, incontinent bastard! And not only that, there was no such thing as the Abjuration of twenty-five-goddamn thirty-four!"

  Alacrity looked at his friend glumly. "As if the shit wasn't deep enough … "

  Chapter 11

  Wit's End

  It turned out that there were certain modern conveniences available to denizens of the citadel. Prominent among these was one that summoned other castle denizens dressed as warriors—and Gute. All the Betters of the citadel seemed to be products of selective breeding, nutritional programs, and genetic manipulation, standing a half head and more taller than Alacrity.

  The two unwilling manuremen found themselves gazing up through the early-morning sunlight, with Gute off to one side.

  On a low-railed pergola a few meters above them, two Betters peered down upon them from within massive war casques decked with exotic plumage. Each had one of the beautifully made gauntlets tucked in his belt.

  "Which is the one who dared raise his voice to us?" demanded the mask that resembled a hissing serpent, in Terranglish. There was no identifying the voice, but Alacrity assumed that Matterse would defer to the baron. While the breakabout was speculating on possible ways to get out of this one—without much hope—Floyt settled the matter.

  "Ah, that would be me. You see, I was just startled, that's all. Heh. I'm really very, very sorry and it won't happen again, I assure you. Sirs."

  The other Better, in a mask modeled on a snarling feline of some sort, broke in, shouting, "What was that you had the audacity to yell?"

  "Nothing!" Alacrity blurted. "We just said, 'Hey, what's going on?' or words to that effect!"

  " 'Words to that effect,' " mused the baron somewhere behind his mask, a contemplative god. The two captives held their breath, waiting for the worst.

  "Very well," the baron decided. "We cannot in all fairness punish you for being surprised, can we?"

  Matterse choked outraged nonwords. The baron turned to him—turning his entire upper body, since his bulky mask wasn't jointed. "You may go, sir. I will deal with these."

  "But I—they insulted me. Are we to be obliged to accept that here? In the very citadel?" His long fingers clenched on the railing and he
looked down on them through mirrored eyepieces.

  The baron raised a hand rather lazily. "My dear young friend, I doubt very much these lowmen even know where they are. And it ill behooves us to be wasteful of strong young serviles, eh? I'll just make it a point that the central labor pool be more thorough in instructing its crews."

  Matterse still seemed undecided.

  "Go see to the guests," the baron said. "They'll be wondering what's happened to us."

  The two Betters moved out of sight. Disappointed onlookers drifted back to whatever they'd been doing, deprived of some good old-fashioned, medieval-style fun at the expense of the lower orders. Floyt dared hope the incident was over, and he'd come through unscathed. Even Gute seemed unsure.

  But a moment later, the baron reappeared at the courtyard door, having removed his towering headgear. His imposing height aside, he wasn't much different from a Terran of middle age.

  The baron's head of thick, curly black hair was touched with white—not gray—at the temples, and there were streaks of it in his beard, which projected in two menacing spikes, the middle of his chin being clean shaven. His black eyes were direct and piercing, but his lashes incongruously long and curled, almost girlish. His ceremonial gauntlet, of scarlet mesh and scale armor, had long, glittering, hooked silver claws. He might be a decadent nobleman or oligarch, but the big body looked to be in excellent shape.

  He'd stopped some distance away, having caught their scent. He motioned negligently to Gute. "Wait over there by the gate."

  Gute, surprised, clearly knew better than to argue. Ducking his head obediently, he trotted off. The baron looked the two over.

  "Now, which of you mentioned the abjuration? Speak up; I've no time for nonsense."

  "I did. Sir," Floyt confessed.

  "Ah; I thought so. And how do you know so much about history and genealogy? Or were you just ranting?"

  "It was a sort of a hobby of mine, Baron, back on—back where I came from."