The Chalice of Death

by Robert Silverberg

  “It seems we’ve found the Chalice after all!”

  “It seems that way,” Navarre said.

  He led the way and they penetrated deeper into the crypt. After about a hundred yards he stopped.

  “Look.”

  A wall had been cut in one side of the cave and a sheet of some massively thick plastic inserted as a window. And behind the window, floating easily in a cloudy solution of some gray-blue liquid, was a sleeping woman. Her eyes were closed, but her breasts rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Her hair was long and flowing; otherwise, she was similar to any of the three watchers.

  A lever of some gleaming metal projected about half a foot from the wall near her head. Carso reached for it, fingering the smooth metal questioningly. “Should we wake her up?”

  “Not yet. There are more down this way.”

  The next chamber was that of a man, strong and powerful, his muscles swelling along his relaxed arms and his heavy thighs. Beyond him, another woman; then another man, stiff and determined-looking even in sleep.

  “It goes on for miles,” Helna murmured. “Ten thousand of them.”

  “What an army!” Carso said. He seemed to be staring down the long bright corridor as if peering ahead into the years to come. “A legacy from our ancestors: the Chalice holds life indeed. Ten thousand Earthmen ready to spring to life.” His eyes brightened. “They could be the nucleus of the Second Galactic Empire.”

  “A bold idea,” Helna said. “I like it.”

  “We could begin with Earth itself,” Carso went on. “With these couples we could repopulate the planet with warriors. Then, conquer Kariad, Jorus—and that would be just the beginning!”

  “No,” Navarre broke in, quietly but firmly. “We are forgetting the experience of the old days. We—you—talk of building a Second Empire in a riotous suicidal mushroom of expansion. It’s fool’s talk to think of an Empire.”

  “What do you mean?” Carso asked in surprise.

  “Earth carved out a galactic empire once,” Navarre said. “You see the result. No; no Empire-building for us. We should be content to rebuild Earth alone, to have her take her place as a free and independent member of the galaxy. No more than that.” Navarre grinned broadly. “Enough of this. Domrik, Joroiran will be proud of us! He sent us to find the Chalice, and we succeeded!”

  Chapter Six

  Coming home to a planet that wasn’t home was a bleak, painful business, Hallam Navarre thought. The Earthman stood alone in the midst of the crowd at the Jorus City Spaceport, letting the familiar colors and smells of Jorus become part of him again. He wondered just how much had changed in his year’s absence.

  One thing was certain: Kausirn had solidified his position with Joroiran. Perhaps, thought Navarre, the Lyrellan had been making ready against the eventual return of Navarre from his wild quest. He would soon find out.

  He hailed a jetcab.

  “To the palace,” he said.

  The driver shot off toward the main district of Jorus City. They took the chief highway as far as the Street of the Lords, swung round into Central Plaza, and halted outside the palace.

  “One unit and six,” the driver said. Navarre handed the man a bill and two coins and sprang out. He paused for a moment at the approach to the palace, looking up.

  A year had gone by since the scheming Lyrellan had contrived to send him off on the fool’s errand of searching for the Chalice. It had been a busy year.

  Eight thousand of the reborn Earthmen from the Chalice Navarre had left on Earth, instructing them to marry and bring forth children. The remaining two thousand he had transported to the neighbor system of Procyon.

  His plan was that the years would pass, and children would be born, and children’s children. And a restored race of Earthmen would spring up to reunite their shattered home-world of thirty thousand years before.

  Navarre smiled. If only he could keep his plan a secret for a few years, until they were ready …

  Well, he thought, he would manage. But he was apprehensive about the sort of reception he would get in the Overlord’s palace, where once he had been the power behind the man on the throne.

  The place hadn’t changed much, physically. There were still the accursed fifty-two steps to climb, still the black-walled corridor guarded by bland monoptics from Triz. But he became conscious of the first change when he reached the Trizians.

  He chucked back the hood that covered his scalp, and, his status thus revealed, he started to go past. But one of the Trizians thrust out a horny palm and said, in a dull monotone voice, “Stop.”

  Navarre glared up angrily. “Have I been forgotten so quickly?”

  “State your name and purpose here, Earthman.”

  “I’m Hallam Navarre, Earthman to the Court. I’ve just returned from a long mission on behalf of His Majesty. I want to see him.”

  “Wait here,” the Trizian said. “I’ll check within.”

  He waited impatiently. After a few moments the Trizian returned, followed by two armed members of the Overlord’s personal guards—Daborians, tusked, vicious-looking seven-footers.

  “Well?” Navarre demanded.

  “I was unable to reach His Majesty. But the Lord Adviser wishes you brought to him for interrogation.”

  Navarre tensed. The Lord Adviser, eh? That undoubtedly meant Kausirn; the Lyrellan seemed to have coined a shiny new title for himself in Navarre’s absence.

  “Very well,” he said resignedly. “Take me to the Lord Adviser.”

  Kausirn was sitting behind a desk about ten feet wide, in a luxuriously-appointed office one level beneath the main throne room. His pale, ascetic face looked waxier than ever—a sign of health among the Lyrellans, Navarre knew.

  The Daborian guards at either side of Navarre nudged him roughly.

  “Kneel in the presence of the Lord Adviser, Earthman!”

  “That’ll be all right,” Kausirn said stiffly. He gestured dismissal to the guards with one dizzying wave of a ten-fingered hand. “Hello, Navarre. I hadn’t expected to be seeing you so soon.”

  “Nor I you, Kausirn. Or is it Milord I should address you as?”

  The Lyrellan smiled apologetically. “In your absence, Navarre, we thought it wise—the Overlord did, I mean—to consolidate your post and mine into one more lofty rank, and so the office of the Lord Adviser was created. Joroiran handles little of the tiresome routine of state now, by the way. He spends his days in contemplation and profound study.”

  That was a flat lie, Navarre thought. If ever a man had been born less fitted for a life of contemplation and profound study, that man was Joroiran VII, Overlord of Jorus.

  Aloud he said, “I suppose you’ll be happy to have some of the governmental burden lifted from your shoulders, Kausirn. I mean, now that I’m back.”

  The Lyrellan sighed and inspected his multitude of fingers. “This must yet be decided, Navarre.”

  “What?”

  “The workings of our government have been quite smooth in the time you have not been with us. Perhaps His Majesty will not see his way clear to restoring you to your past eminence, inasmuch as you’ve failed to bring him that which he sent you forth to find. I speak of the Chalice, of course, and the immortality he so greatly desires.”

  “And what makes you so sure I failed to find the Chalice?” Navarre demanded bluntly. “How do you know?”

  A faint smile crossed Kausirn’s cold face. “Obviously you were not successful. The Chalice is a myth—as both you and I knew before you undertook your little pleasure cruise around the universe.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Besides, if you had found the Chalice, would you bring it back for Joroiran, Earthman? No! You’d keep it for yourself!”

  Navarre shrugged. “As you say, Kausirn. I found no Chalices for His Majesty. Still, I don’t doubt but that he’ll welcome me back to his service. The Overlords of Jorus have always found the advice of an Earthman useful to them.”

  Stern frigidity replaced the mocking wa
rmth in Kausirn’s eyes. “He has no need of you, Navarre.”

  “Let him tell me that. I demand to see him!”

  “Today is Fourday,” Kausirn said quietly. “His Majesty holds public audiences on Threeday, as you should be well aware … unless you’ve forgotten. I suggest you return next week. If fate should fall upon you, you’ll have ample chance to plead your case before His Majesty and myself at that time.”

  Unbelievingly, Navarre said, “You forbid me to see him? You want me to come like a commoner to seek his ear at a public audience? You must be mad, Kausirn!”

  The Lyrellan shrugged humbly. “His Majesty is deep in meditation. I wouldn’t dare break in on his contemplations—particularly since he made a point of telling me only last week that government was much simpler for him, now that he had but one adviser. You seem to be superfluous, Navarre.”

  The alien had done his job well, Navarre thought grimly. He started forward. “I’ll see Joroiran with or without your word, Lyrellan! I don’t need—”

  Kausirn’s fingers flickered almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Navarre felt thick Daborian fingers clutch each of his arms. He was drawn backward, away from the Lyrellan.

  “Take the Earthman out of the palace,” Kausirn commanded. “And don’t let him back in.”

  There was nothing to be gained by resisting; these Daborians would cheerfully break his arms at the first sign of struggle. Navarre scowled darkly at the Lyrellan and let himself be hustled out of the Lord Adviser’s office, up the stairs, and out into the open.

  End of plan one, Navarre thought bitterly, as he sat on a broad bench in the plaza facing the Palace.

  He had hoped to regain his old position as Joroiran’s right-hand adviser, with the eventual intention of making use of the Joran fleet as the nucleus of the reborn Terran space navy.

  But Kausirn had moved swiftly and well, pushing Navarre completely out of influence.

  He had to gain the ear of the Overlord. But how, if Kausirn governed all approaches?

  Navarre looked up as a vendor came by, hawking confections.

  “One for you, Sir Earthman? A sweet puff, perhaps? A lemon tart?”

  Navarre shook his head. “Sorry, old one. I don’t crave sweets now.”

  He glanced down at his shoes, but the old vendor did not go away. He remained before the Earthman, peering intently at him as if deeply interested.

  Navarre sat patiently for a moment or two, and then, exasperated, said, “I told you, I don’t want anything. Will you go away, now?”

  “You are Hallam Navarre,” the old man said softly, ignoring the Earthman’s impatient outburst. “Returned at last!” The vendor dropped down on the bench alongside Navarre. “For weeks I have tried to see the Lyrellan, Kausirn, to plead my case. I have always been turned away. But now you have come back to Jorus—and justice with you!”

  Navarre eyed the old man curiously. “You have a suit to place before the Overlord?”

  “Nine weeks I have come to the Palace on Threeday, and nine times I have been passed over. I try—”

  Navarre held up one hand and said sadly, “I’m afraid my help would be doubtful at the moment. I have my own troubles with the Lyrellan.”

  “No!” The old man was pop-eyed with astonishment. “Even you! The many-fingered one weaves a tight web, then. I fear for Jorus, Earthman. I had hoped, seeing you …” His voice trailed off hopelessly.

  “Not a word of this to anyone,” Navarre cautioned. “But I have a private audience arranged with Joroiran for later this day. Perhaps things will improve after that.”

  “I hope so,” the vendor said fervently. “And then will you hear my suit? My name is Molko of Dorvil Street. Will you remember me?”

  “Of course.”

  Navarre rose and began to stroll back toward the palace. So, he thought, even the people were discontented and unhappy over the role the Lyrellan played in governing Jorus? Perhaps, Navarre reflected, I could turn that to some advantage.

  And as for the “private audience with Joroiran” he had just invented, possibly that could be brought about after all. Navarre pulled up his hood to shield his bald scalp from view, and walked more briskly toward the palace.

  Chapter Seven

  Seven generations of Navarres had served seven generations of the Joroiran Overlords of Jorus. The relationship could be traced back three hundred years, to brave Joroiran I, who, with Voight Navarre at his side, had cut his empire from the decaying carcass of the festering Starkings’ League which had succeeded Earth’s galactic empire.

  The Joroiran strain had weakened, evidently; the seventh of the line had allowed himself to be persuaded by an opportunistic Lyrellan to do without an Earthman’s advice. And so Navarre had been sent forth on the quest of the Chalice. But he knew he could use his seventh-generation familiarity with the palace surroundings to find his way back in.

  Hooded, cowled, deliberately rounding his shoulders, Navarre shuffled forward down the flowered path to the service entrance of the Overlord’s palace.

  Bowed diffidently, Navarre touched the entrance buzzer, then drew back his hand in mock fright. A televisor system within was, he knew, spying on him; he had put the practice into operation himself to ward off would-be assassins.

  A window in the door pivoted upward; a cold Joran face appeared—an unfamiliar face.

  “Yes?”

  “I am expected within.” Navarre constricted his throat so his voice would be little more than a choked whisper. “I am Molko of Dorvil Street, vendor of sweets to His Majesty. I wish to see the Royal Purchase Officer.”

  “Hmm. Well enough,” the guard grunted. “You can come in.”

  The burnished door hoisted. Navarre groaned complainingly and moved forward step by step, as if his legs were rotted by extreme age.

  “Get a move on, old man!”

  “I’m coming … patience, please! Patience!”

  The door clanged down hard behind him. He pulled his cowl down tighter around his ears. The Purchasing Office was on the third level, two flights upward, and the liftshaft was not far ahead.

  “I know the way,” he said to the guard. “You needn’t help me.”

  He tottered along the corridor until he reached the liftshaft, stepped in, and quickly pressed the stud labeled 2. A moment later he nudged the adjoining stud, the one marked 3.

  The liftshaft door slid noiselessly shut; the tube rose and stopped at the second level. Navarre stepped out, stepped back in, and pressed 7.

  Knowing the system was an immeasurable advantage to him. The stops of the liftshaft could be monitored from the first level; thus, if the old vendor were to claim to be going to 3 and should go to 7 instead—the Overlord’s floor—there would be cause for immediate suspicion. But he had carefully thrown confusion behind him, now. There was no certain way of knowing who it was who had seemed to enter the liftshaft on the second level.

  He waited patiently while the door opened and shut on the third level; then it went up to the seventh.

  Navarre emerged, shuffling wearily along the character of the old vendor. He knew precisely where Joroiran’s private study was located, and, more, he knew precisely how to get there. He counted his steps … eleven, twelve, thirteen. He paused thirteen steps from the liftshaft, leaned against the wall, waited.

  Counterweighted balances sighed softly and the wall swung open, offering a crevice perhaps wide enough for a cat to pass through. Navarre was taking no chances. He squeezed through and kicked the counterweight, sealing the corridor wall again.

  Now he found himself in an inner corridor. A televisor screen cast an invisible defensive web across the hall, but again Navarre had the considerable benefit of having devised the system himself. He neatly extracted a fuse from a concealed panel in the dark stone of the corridor wall, and walked ahead in confidence.

  Joroiran’s study door was unmarked by letter or number. Again, Navarre’s doing. He huddled deep into his robes, listened carefully for any sound of conversation
coming from within, and, hearing none, knocked three times, then once, then once again. It was a signal he had used with the Overlord for years.

  Silence for a moment. Then: “Who’s there?” in the hesitant, high-pitched voice of the Overlord.

  “Are you alone, Majesty?”

  Through the door came the petulant reply: “Who are you to ask questions of me? Speak up or I’ll summon the guards to deal with you!”

  It was Joroiran in his most typically blustery mood. Speaking in his natural voice Navarre said, “Have you forgotten this knock, Majesty?”

  He knocked again.

  Suspiciously, from within: “Is this a joke?”

  “No, Majesty. I have come back.” He threw back his hood and let Joroiran’s televisors pick up his face and shaven scalp.

  After a moment the door opened perhaps half an inch.

  “Navarre!” came the whisper from within. The opening widened, and Navarre found himself face to face with his sovereign, Joroiran VII of Jorus.

  The year had changed Joroiran, Navarre saw. The Overlord wore a shabby gray lounging-robe instead of his garments of state; without the elaborate strutwork that puffed out his frame when he appeared in public, he looked vaguely rat-like, a little bit of a man who had been thrust into a vast job by some ironic accident of birth.

  His eyes were ringed with dark shadows; his cheeks were hollower than Navarre remembered them to have been. He said, “Hello, Navarre,” in a tired, husky voice that had none of the one-time splendor of an Overlord.

  “I’m happy to be back, Sire. My journey was a long and tiring one. I hope I didn’t disturb your meditations by coming to you this way …”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh. Kausirn said you were too busy to be seen just now.” Navarre chose his words carefully. “He told me you had recently said I was superfluous.”

  Joroiran frowned. “I don’t recall your name having come up in discussion between us for the better part of a year,” he said. “I recall no such decision. You’ve always been a valuable adjunct to the Court.” The sudden pose of regality slipped away abruptly, and in a tired voice the Overlord said, “But then what I recall doesn’t matter. Navarre, I should never have sent you away from the court.”