King of Swords (The Starfolk)

by Dave Duncan

  Unlike the swarthy Hadar, Mintaka had fair coloring and blue eyes. He was as slender as an elf, but small-eared and short even by human standards. Mutt and Jeff. Hired killers, both.

  Meanwhile Rigel was clasping a hysterical child. One glance at Talitha confirmed that he had just met the enemy. This was why her child needed a bodyguard.

  “Izar!” he said. “That is no way to behave. You remember when I was crawling along the swan’s neck and the dragonflies were attacking me? Well? Do you?”

  Mumble: “Yes.”

  “When you told your grandfather about it, you said I wasn’t scared at all, but you were wrong, Izar. I was, terribly, horribly scared.” He waited for a moment, but everyone else was waiting too. “But I did what I had to do. And that’s what being brave means. It means doing what’s right even when you’re frightened, and you don’t want to do it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Sniff. “Mm.”

  “Now what should you have done when Prince Vildiar came into the room? Even if you were scared, what would a brave boy have done?”

  Silence. The imp was as jumpy as a cricket in a blender.

  “You should have greeted him politely, to show everyone how well your mother has taught you. Shouldn’t you have, Izar?”

  A chin nodded against his shoulder.

  “Then do it now. I’ll come with you.” At least he’d be able to get off his knees. He rose, keeping hold of Izar’s hand, and led him over to Vildiar, who was frowning at this unexpected partnership. The prince was bizarrely tall, even for a starborn—close to two and a half meters, Rigel guessed—and absurdly slender, as if he had been stretched like hot taffy. His hair and eyes shone in rainbow brilliance, emphasizing the fish-belly pallor of his skin. He was the least human of the starfolk Rigel had met so far, and yet there was something oddly familiar about his scowling, emaciated face.

  Izar released Rigel’s hand so that he could spread his arms for a starfolk bow. In a small and shaky voice he whispered, “May the stars shine on you forever, noble Father.” But when he straightened up, he kept his eyes lowered.

  “And may our progeny outnumber the stars, Imp Izar,” Vildiar retorted. That was not the correct formula. His two henchmen chuckled at their lord’s wit, but nobody else did.

  Rigel gave Izar a gentle push. “Why don’t you go and stand out of the way beside your mother?”

  Izar ran.

  Rigel bowed to the prince and strolled back to where he had started. He didn’t kneel again. Saiph had almost stopped quivering—now that was interesting! He glanced at the regent-heir and decided that the Ancient One had caught every speck of that little dustup. Even a narrow-minded, prehistoric bluestocking like him had to wonder why a boy would be so terrified of his father.

  “Prince,” Kornephoros said, “we must return to our guests. Outline briefly the petition you presented to me earlier.”

  Vildiar made a half bow to him, but his words were aimed at Talitha. “I informed Your Highness of your daughter’s whorish behavior at Alrisha. I requested that she be forced to surrender the unsponsored halfling she abducted so that he could be dealt with as the law requires. I also stressed to Your Highness the poor moral environment that she is providing for my son, and the reckless disregard for his safety she displayed during her flight from Alrisha.”

  Talitha looked ready to fry him the way she had fried the dragonflies. “Perhaps you suggested that Izar would be happier at Phegda, where he could play with all of his brothers and sisters?”

  The implications of that speech hit Rigel like a falling piano. Talitha was implying that Vildiar was breeding his team of halfling assassins. And why not? Starfolk had all the time in the world and the prince undoubtedly owned large herds of human livestock he could choose from. Mintaka and Hadar were physically dissimilar, but they could be just half brothers. It was obvious by now that halflings displayed their mixed heritage in many different ways. The problem with hired guns was that they could always choose to point their weapons in the wrong direction, whereas even illegitimate and sterile sons would probably feel some family loyalty. What Vildiar was doing was undoubtedly illegal, but the prince was probably immune to prosecution as long as he kept on the regent’s good side, where he obviously was at the moment.

  Suddenly the rest of the orchestra came crashing down too. How could Rigel have missed it? The regent does whatever the prince tells him! Obviously, if Vildiar had pruned the Naos royalty from thirty down to three, the regent-heir must know that he was the storm troopers’ most probable next victim. For Kornephoros to refuse Vildiar anything now would be tantamount to suicide; the boys would come calling immediately. Vildiar wanted Saiph for his death squad and the regent-heir would see that he got it. If he was willing to sacrifice his daughter’s reputation and his grandson’s happiness, he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to throw an unknown halfling under the bus.

  Izar screamed, “No! No! Don’t send me back to Phegda!” and tried to climb into his mother’s lap. He was much too large to be held like that.

  “Izar,” Rigel said. “Would it help if I came to Phegda with you?”

  He felt Saiph practically spin around his wrist, but a dumb amulet might not understand that sometimes it was better to pull than to push. Besides, it was well worth the risk to watch how everyone reacted—Vildiar and his SS brutes’ smirks turned to frowns as they tried to puzzle out what the halfling was up to, Talitha looked completely baffled, Izar’s face was bright with relief and gratitude, and an unmistakable flush of anger rose on ancient Kornephoros’s boyish face.

  “Are you giving me orders, halfling, or just instructing me in how to rule?”

  “I humbly beg Your Highness’s pardon. I was distracted by the boy’s distress.”

  Kornephoros growled, but Rigel’s ploy had made sending Izar to Phegda a much harder option for him: His grandson wanted a bodyguard when sent to visit his dad? And if Rigel did not turn up in court, then Talitha’s claims would be proven correct. That might not help the late Rigel Halfling, but it would expose Kornephoros as Vildiar’s lackey. Did the man have any pride left at all?

  “Fomalhaut Starborn?”

  The mage stepped forward. “Highness?” Was that a hint of a smile playing on his thin lips?

  “If I return your prisoner to you, can you hold him?”

  “That is largely up to him, I posit, my lord, because, while I have means of controlling most fugitives, I would be loath to wield them against an amulet as ancestral as Saiph, but if the halfling comprehends now that, while he is powerful, he is by no means invincible and submission to properly appointed proceedings remains his best, and indeed his only, chance for a comfortable future life, whereas resistance or flight will inevitably bring him afoul of the state and have serious, conceivably fatal, consequences, then no untoward or regrettable events should occur.”

  After working his way through the word forest, Rigel decided that it required a response from him. “I do understand those things, my lord. My intention was never to avoid the hearing and Her Highness never suggested that possibility to me. I gladly give you my parole, for whatever a halfling’s solemn word may be worth to you—on the understanding, of course, that your lordship will see me safely delivered to the court.”

  The storm troopers snarled, and Vildiar said, “Watch your tongue, mongrel.”

  The regent rose as if his time had run out. “Halfling, we return you to the custody of Fomalhaut Starborn, an old and trusted friend and one of the most potent mages in the realm. He will accompany you and the earthling woman to Canopus tomorrow.” But he still had not solved the custody problem, and he chose to procrastinate. “Fomalhaut, why don’t you take the imp also and bring him to the barge in the morning? We can discuss this over breakfast.”

  Rigel offered a hand and Izar rushed to him, still teary, but happy again. Rigel glanced to Talitha, who nodded. He raised an eyebrow to Vildiar and suddenly remembered where he’d seen that face before. It could have been the mod
el for all those arrogant, scowling giant stone heads on Easter Island. Instead of staring eternally out to sea, though, this one was looking down at Rigel with the dispassionate, calculating look of a homeowner inspecting mouse droppings while planning what to do about the mouse.

  Chapter 17

  Before dawn, Rigel went for a swim.

  After the meeting in the Gazebo, Fomalhaut had escorted his prisoners through a portal to a guesthouse in the Dziban domain, a “modest” twelve-or-so-room cottage on the edge of a lake with a beech forest behind it. This morning an invigorating rime of frost silvered the grass, luminous fish swam in the dark waters, and great sandstone boulders cried out to be dived off of. The previous evening Rigel had swum all the way across the lake, but this morning he stayed close to shore in case he was summoned.

  Mira emerged from the house, took one breath of fresh morning air, and immediately vanished back inside. Then Izar came streaking across the shingle and plunged into the water like an otter. He wanted to see Rigel do “the most difficult, scariest” dive he could. Rigel told him he would need a diving board for that and disappeared underwater. About two minutes later, he grabbed the imp’s feet from below and pulled him under in mid-scream.

  After that anything went.

  Fomalhaut was a problem. The regent-heir trusted and praised him, but he was a Vildiar underling and had almost certainly engineered the massacre in Nanaimo. He was normally long-winded, sometimes curt to the point of rudeness, always arrogant, and could well be Rigel’s unscrupulous father.

  Suddenly, the starborn himself appeared, and came to stand by the edge of the lake, watching his guests frolic as the sun rose over the forest, backlighting his hair in gold and his ears in pink.

  Rigel said, “Race you there!” and let Izar win.

  Gasping for breath, the imp made the correct bow and greeting to his host. Rigel waded out behind him and contented himself with a deep human bow, which seemed more reasonable for a nonperson, and provoked no snarl of correction.

  Fomalhaut looked down at Izar. “Show me how strong you are now.”

  The boy frowned. “My noble mother has warned me not to—”

  “Your grandsire said I was trustworthy. I am asking for your own good.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Izar screwed up his face in concentration. A pebble rose from the beach and floated in midair. A second joined it. A third, much larger, rose a few centimeters and then all three fell back with a clatter.

  “Very impressive! You are well into the blue, very close to green.”

  Izar flushed bright red with delight.

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “No, my lord.” Izar shot a worried glance in Rigel’s direction and mumbled, “Well, just a small one. He does tricks.”

  “Then I shall give you one now. He’s no play dog, though; he’s a guardian who will perform only one trick. He will defend you the way that Saiph defends Halfling Rigel. He will respond instantly if you are attacked, although he differs from a sword amulet in that he cannot be made to attack anyone. Also, you will need to use power to put him away again. Can you put an orange in a bottle?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord! A small orange.”

  “Then you should be strong enough to control… um, this one… or maybe even this…” Fomalhaut began pulling rings off his thumb, which held six or seven. He replaced all but the last one. “This is made from human bone, by the way, and you must never take it off, Starling Izar, or your dog could escape your control the next time you call him. Which finger will it go on?”

  With his eyes shining almost as bright as his mother’s, Izar offered his left pinkie. The simple white circlet closed around it as snugly as it had on Fomalhaut’s thumb.

  “His name,” Fomalhaut said, “is Turais, but you must not speak that word until I tell you to. Like I said, Turais will never attack unless you’re attacked, at which time he will appear automatically, but he will appear when you pronounce his name, and will threaten anyone who seems to be bothering you. I warn you not to expect a lapdog, because the sight of Turais can scare yesterday’s breakfast out of the toughest thug.

  “The cogitation required to put Turais away is very similar to what’s needed to impel an orange into a bottle. You can tell him ‘Go home!’ or ‘Heel!’ or anything you like, but what matters is that the power of your will compels him back into the ring, so if you are ready, we can introduce the two of you now. Halfling, you stand over there—no, farther back. We don’t want the guardian to sense your amulet.”

  Rigel hesitated, then obeyed. If a “great” mage were up to no good, there was not much a guitarist with a sword could do about it.

  “If you find yourself in trouble, I will help you, Izar,” Fomalhaut said. “But if you can’t control him, you will have to be satisfied with a much smaller dog. Now say his name, point at me with the ring finger, and he will appear to warn me off.”

  Izar took a deep breath, extended his left hand, and said, “Turais!”

  If the thing that materialized beside him was a dog, that was mainly because he was the wrong shape to be a lion. His shaggy coat was the color of frost on winter trees, his eyes glowed gold flame, and he could undoubtedly snack on timber wolves. Without moving from his place at Izar’s side, he bared teeth the size of chisels at the mage and growled in a rock-grinding rumble that Rigel could feel through the soles of his feet.

  Fomalhaut retreated a few feet and the noise stopped. The mage took a step forward and it resumed, even louder. Turais edged forward. Again the mage retreated and peace was restored.

  “You see? You may pat him.”

  Beaming, Izar rubbed the beast’s shaggy ears. Barely even raising his head, Turais projected a black tongue the size of a shoe and spread slobber all over the imp’s face. Izar squealed with delight and wiped it off with his arm.

  But then Turais noticed Rigel and raised a ruff like a hayfield. He growled again and bared his great fangs in Rigel’s direction.

  “Put Turais away, imp!” Fomalhaut shouted. “He has sensed Saiph.”

  “Heel, Turais!” Izar frowned and showed his teeth as he concentrated. “Heel, I say!”

  Drooling, Turais slunk around him and began to stalk Rigel, who now had to decide just how far to trust the mage. Saiph made the decision for him, flashing into view as a long, narrow rapier.

  “Put him away, imp! He will try to take the halfling’s arm off, and then Saiph will kill him.”

  Izar’s face twisted in agony. “Turais, go home!”

  The giant dog continued its deadly advance, gathering itself to spring.

  “Last chance, Izar!”

  “Turais, heel!” Izar screamed. The monster became transparent, flickered in and out a few times, and then vanished for good. Izar burst into tears.

  Fomalhaut stepped over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done! Very well done! You were well up in green there, mage.”

  The imp choked, coughed, and said, “I was?”

  “Easily. Not being his overlord, I would have needed to use red magic to stop Turais and that would have killed him, but from now on you won’t have any trouble controlling him as long as you don’t treat him as a toy or call him up just to impress your friends.”

  “No, my lord. I would never! But is he going to attack Rigel every time I call him?”

  “Oh! No, I think Turais will remember the lesson you just gave him and will accept the halfling as a friend in the future.”

  Rigel put his sword away. Given the benefit of the doubt, Fomalhaut had deliberately frightened the boy in order to teach him an important lesson. The alternative was that he enjoyed terrifying imps.

  “Oh, and one last thing. If Turais ever kills, you must let him feed before you put him away.”

  “Feed?” Izar said faintly. Almond eyes stretched wider than papayas.

  “Turais is serious magic, imp. He’s not a toy.” The starborn glanced at the height of the sun above the trees. “Take him over there, well away from the halflin
g, and let him get to know you. Wrestle with him. He will never hurt his overlord, no matter what you do.”

  Izar shot off, his feet barely touching the ground. Rigel waited to hear what was about to be revealed for his private benefit. He did not have to wait long.

  “Halfling, you are in mortal danger. You are mixed up in matters far beyond your comprehension or control, and have antagonized the two most exalted starborn in the realm. Both Vildiar and Kornephoros want to squash you like a beetle, and one or the other almost certainly will before this day is out. Talitha can no more protect you than Izar could. Historically, mortals who blunder into the affairs of the starborn have very short life spans—a day or two at most. It was my misjudgment to bring you here, and I am willing to make reparation by extroverting you now, while you are still free to go.”

  “Wearing what I am wearing now, I assume? To Times Square, Trafalgar Square, or Tiananmen Square?”

  Amber eyes blazed. “Insolent puppy! I will put you into the menswear department of a large store, after hours, in an English-speaking country, funded with a bag of cut gemstones. You and Saiph can vanish into the teeming anthill of Earth and peace will be restored to the Starlands. The alternative is a very early death. I speak with authority you cannot possibly comprehend.”

  All his life Rigel Estell had done his best to avoid confrontation. His reaction to attention had always been to disappear into the undergrowth. But now he could not hide and would not hide. He offered a small bow. “Yes, I was impertinent and I apologize. Your offer is most generous, but I cannot accept. I have sworn to serve the princess as well as I am able and I must stand by my oath. I do have Saiph.”

  “Not for long, I think” Fomalhaut sneered. “Your lust for the princess will cost you your life. Believe me, for I have ways of knowing. But if that is your decision, we must dress you for your court appearance, then find the earthling woman and be on our way.”