King of Swords (The Starfolk)

by Dave Duncan

  “It has, although everything Electra has achieved so far demonstrates that her powers continue to wane. She sent her palace guard and this murderous tweenling of yours to storm my residence and kill three valued halflings. You were not the only one wronged today. And now your semi-intelligent horse has slain my priceless pegasus.”

  “So if you did not come to demand ransom for Izar, why are you here?”

  “Ah, yes,” Vildiar said sadly. “In the midst of all this useless recrimination I forgot my original purpose. I am the bearer of very bad news, Talitha dear. Your father is grievously stricken. I promised the queen I would find you and bring you to Canopus as soon as possible.”

  “Stricken? What sort of stricken?”

  The giant shrugged. “They are not sure. Some sort of curse or poison. He is in terrible pain and not expected to live.”

  Chapter 28

  Talitha and Vildiar hurried off through the portal. Rigel hung back, staying between the prince and the centaur to discourage any attempts at revenge for the killing of the pegasus. He could easily imagine the starborn hurling a sneaky fireball as a parting shot. He worried about the bodies in Spica needing burial or cremation or whatever the starfolk did at funerals. Who was going to look after them?

  When he emerged into Ascella Square, he found it brightly lit by a near-full moon and the ear lights of a melee of sphinxes, starborn, and halflings. Among them stood several human servants—most of them wearing livery that might have graced Hollywood Regency romances—and unicorns harnessed to small two-wheeled gigs little larger than the sulkies used in harness racing. As he watched, Talitha was being driven away in one. He let Menkent precede him down the steps into the crowd, then made sure that the house door was locked before following him. The centaur hurried off into the crowd, probably looking for something else to eat.

  The smells of Canopus were already familiar, a blend of spices, desert dust, horses, sweaty people, and a faint tang of the sea. Palm trees showed dark against the moonlit sky.

  “Halfling Rigel.”

  Rigel turned to face the speaker. “Sphinx Praecipua.”

  “Come with me. You are included on the list.”

  “What list?”

  The guard’s beard twitched in annoyance. “The list of persons who are summoned to the palace.”

  That was good news, for Rigel would certainly have gotten lost on his own. He was in serious need of both food and rest, and he suspected that this night was far from over. “Thank you. There has been a massacre at the princess’s domain—more than twenty people murdered. Who will attend to those bodies and investigate the crime?”

  “Her Highness has already reported the matter to us. We have it in hand.” Praecipua halted at one of the gigs. The unicorn flicked its ears uneasily, as if detecting the scent of a large carnivore nearby.

  “What news of the heir?” Rigel asked.

  “There has been no announcement about His Highness’s condition,” the guard said guardedly.

  “Halfling!” Prince Vildiar had folded his great length into another one of the gigs and was beckoning to him.

  Rigel walked over and offered an insolently small bow. “Your Highness?”

  “You testified this morning that you are ignorant of your parentage.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then it is time you heard the true story. Get in.” Vildiar took the reins from his driver, who obediently dismounted.

  Saiph did not react, so whatever lay behind this surprising invitation was not immediate revenge for Tarf, Adhil, and Muscida. Rigel took the driver’s place, and off they went. The prince set a dignified pace into the dark-shrouded streets, steering with his hands between his knees, which stuck up as high as Rigel’s helmet.

  “Back in the year of orange stars, the regent-heir proposed that his daughter and I enter into a pairing, which is a legal agreement to produce and rear a child. Talitha was—”

  “When was that, my lord? I am not familiar with your calendar.”

  “Or good manners. Do not interrupt your betters. Twenty-three years ago. Talitha was not yet of legal age and very immature. Normally I do not pair with children, but His Highness was concerned about the shortage of Naos in the realm. You are aware of Naos, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We seem to have become rarer over the last couple of millennia and we had recently lost many fine Naos in an unfortunate series of accidents. Such clusters of bad events do happen in nature, like falling stars or droughts, and only the ignorant seek evil, unnatural explanations for them. I agreed to the pairing. Talitha proved less willing, but she has always been headstrong. As a minor, she should have obeyed her father; as a Naos, she was forbidden from entering into a pairing without the consent of the monarch. The same rule applies to me, although neither Electra nor Procyon before her ever refused my requests.”

  That was hardly surprising, given his murderous reputation. The unicorn was trotting along in its own shadow, cast far ahead by light from an amulet in the prince’s right ear. The street was a dark canyon, too deep for moonlight to penetrate, but bats wheeled and whistled overhead, and somewhere a hopeful swain was singing a love song. Someone ought to throw a chamber pot at him.

  Vildiar continued his sad sermon. “Talitha was young, as I said, and headstrong. She sought to block the pairing by doing the unthinkable—she deliberately conceived a child by an earthling. In your world’s terms, that is worse than a high status lady giving herself to a beggar in an alley. It is almost as vile as bestiality.”

  Rigel did not ask whether the same taboo applied to starborn males and human females, because he already knew the answer and did not want to be evicted from the sulky and left to walk.

  “The pairing ceremony had to be cancelled, of course. The scandal would have been tremendous—even worse than we initially thought, because she had refused to name the father. We eventually discovered that he could have been any one of several minor mudling servants in Dziban. I am afraid that you will never uncover that half of your parentage.”

  “Half is better than nothing. It is exciting to learn that I have royal blood in my veins.”

  Vildiar shot him a suspicious glance, and then went back to watching the road.

  “The child was born in the year of red pelicans. It… you… obviously had human ears and your other physical features that would allow you to pass for human. We consequently arranged for a skilled mage to take you to Earth and give you to a woman who had just lost a baby. I would have been within my rights to refuse to have anything to do with Talitha, but the scandal had been successfully suppressed, so I accepted the regent-heir’s wishes and paired with her as soon as she recovered from your birth. She bore Izar in black butterflies, two years after you. By mutual consent we let the pairing lapse at the end of its primary term. The rest you know.”

  “Not all, Your Highness. Who put Saiph around my cute little wrist?”

  “Talitha, of course.” Vildiar lowered opalescent eyebrows in a frown. “This morning that decrepit halfling said that Queen Electra was the last to check it out of the archives store. She did come and go more in those days, but I have no recollection of her being anywhere in the Starlands as late as that. Her last sighting before this morning, that I recall, was at a pairing celebration back in the year of violet fists. She continued to attend pairing parties long after most other topics had palled for her, so I am sure she would have become involved in the matter I just disclosed to you if she’d been around to hear of it.”

  “But—”

  “The Star punishes deliberate lies. Honest mistakes it ignores. The curator reported what he saw in his records. He thought he remembered the queen’s visit, but it was a long time ago, and he is aging, as your sort do. Wasat must have been thinking of some other trip she made in search of some other amulet. His wrongful testimony this morning was a considerable surprise to both the regent-heir and myself, and undoubtedly to Talitha as well—a huge relief, in fact, because w
e were braced for the scandal of the century.”

  Izar had not inherited all his creative talent from his mother.

  Rigel tried not to display his skepticism too openly. “I have seen the archives store, my lord, and I am astonished that even my sponsor could manage to steal anything from there. She is a starborn of great talents, but how did she manage such a feat?”

  “Easily. A princess has the right to borrow low-grade amulets from the royal collection. I expect Talitha made some excuse to visit the archives, stole Saiph while the old man’s back was turned, and forged the queen’s name in the ledger when signing for some minor amulet or other. When she was allowed to hold you for a few moments after your birth, she palmed the amulet and slipped it onto your wrist. After that, it could not be removed.”

  A touching tale, but a violin accompaniment would have added pathos.

  The sulky jiggled along an avenue of gigantic seated statues, so huge that only their moonlit toes and shins were visible from the road below them. Then it turned into the palace by an entrance that Rigel had not seen before. The unicorn’s hooves clinked across a great courtyard, and it pulled to a stop in front of a doorway. Vildiar reined in at the steps. A sphinx bowed to him, touching his beard to the ground.

  “Three days ago,” Rigel said, thinking that it felt like years, “Fomalhaut Starborn introverted me from Earth. How did he find me, and why was he looking for me?”

  “For that you will have to ask the mage himself, halfling.”

  “He refuses to talk to me.”

  “Not surprising. I never speak to halflings myself, but I have made a reluctant exception in your case. If you recall that the mage delivered you straight to your natural mother at Alrisha, then I think you can deduce the most likely explanation. I suggest you ask the sphinxes to find you a place to sleep tonight. Your mother will be busy tending to her sick father. If she wants you, the harpies will find you. Now you understand, of course, why she has been taking such an interest in you, and why she could not possibly tell you the true reason.”

  “And why I felt so attracted to her.” Rigel dismounted. “It is strange how instincts work, isn’t it? Thank you for your kindness and the illuminating story, Your Highness. You have explained a lot that I wanted to know.”

  He bowed and watched the prince drive away.

  “Male ungulate excrement!”

  The sphinx said, “What?”

  “Just a passing opinion. Do harpies fly by night?”

  “Certainly. There is a perching wall over there.” He pointed with his tail.

  “Thank you.” Rigel walked to the place indicated, which had a fusty smell, like a henhouse. He said, “Harpy!”

  Several minutes passed before a familiar flapping announced a bird’s arrival.

  “What crap is this?” it squawked. “Dragged off my roost in the middle of the night to wait on a freaking ignorant half-breed with its head in a bucket?”

  Rigel produced Saiph. “Go tell the queen it’s time that she and I had a little chat, and if you say one more word I’ll fillet you. Go!”

  He found a marble bench that looked appealingly comfortable to him in his present condition. He stretched out, primed what Izar would call his “self” to awaken when spoken to, and made the world disappear.

  Chapter 29

  Halfling Rigel?”

  Rigel opened his eyes and sat up with a wince—he was as stiff as a hockey stick. The moon had covered about an hour’s worth of sky. The man standing over him was human, wearing a jeweled collar of office with the cotton gown and head covering of a mudling.

  “I am.”

  “What business do you have with Her Majesty that needs disturb her at this time of night?”

  He was a youngish man, with a solid build, as far as could be seen under his robe, and quite tall for a mudling. Rigel rose to his full 196½ centimeters and looked down on him.

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “I am Alfred, Her Majesty’s private secretary.”

  “And did the harpy I sent speak to her or to you?”

  “To her, of course.”

  “Then so will I.”

  “Follow me.” The man turned and stalked away, following a light from a finger amulet.

  Rigel caught up in two strides to walk alongside him. “How long have you been her private secretary?”

  “I do not see how that concerns you, halfling.” But the man’s expression showed more amusement than annoyance.

  “It doesn’t. I was just thinking that if she appointed you before she disappeared twenty-odd years ago, your workload must have increased rather drastically in the last few hours.”

  “And the stars are many.” A Starlands agreement, no doubt.

  “How is Regent-heir Kornephoros?”

  “Dying.”

  Alfred opened a door. A rush of cooler air and unfamiliar scents proved that it was a portal, and Rigel stepped through into somewhere very different from the palace at Canopus. Instead of monumental stone, it had hardwood floors, plaster cornices, and thick rugs. The windows were hung with heavy drapes, the walls lined with gilt-framed pictures and animal head trophies. It smelled of dust and old polish. He was led to a long flight of stairs.

  “Where in the world is this?”

  “We’re still in the Starlands, and still in the royal domain. This is Balmoral, a royal retreat, pseudo-Victoriana kitsch. Her Majesty commanded that you wait in here.” Alfred opened another door and went ahead to turn on several lamps that were passable imitations of gaslights. They illuminated a vast four-poster bed, two stuffed armchairs, a marble-topped washstand, and two ugly, oversized wood chests. The air was stale, smelling of dust and mildew, and the only charitable thing to say about the gloomy paintings of cloud-racked moors that covered the walls was that they hid some of the wallpaper.

  “What happened to whoever imagined this place?” Rigel asked.

  “He was extroverted to the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Glad to hear it. I have not eaten since early this morning, and murder makes me hungry.”

  Alfred smiled. “Me too. I shall see what I can do.”

  He departed, closing the door behind him.

  Curious! Why would a royal private secretary be so tolerant of a lowly halfling’s sassing? It would be interesting to know exactly what instructions the queen had given him. Rigel flopped into one of the velour chairs, which smelled distinctly musty, and prepared to salivate for an hour while someone made him a cockroach sandwich.

  He hadn’t reckoned on the power of magic. In a few minutes Alfred returned, wheeling a trolley laden with steaks, hotcakes, fried eggs over easy, hash browns, pie and ice cream, and a large decanter of orange juice.

  Imagine that! Rigel ate it all, and was barely finished before the door opened and Electra entered.

  He hauled himself off the chair and bowed.

  At first she didn’t even look at him. “Jesus, what a mess!” she said, as if speaking to herself. “And I used to find running the Starlands boring.” She walked over to the washstand and poured water from the urn into the basin. “In all my 1,776 years, I have never witnessed such a fuckup.” She rinsed her face with her hands, then turned to face him.

  “Hello, Rigel.”

  “Hello, Mom.”

  She half-smiled, half-nodded. “Sit. You look beat. I sure as hell feel it.”

  “How’s the prince?”

  “Still dying, but he won’t be much longer.”

  Why was he dying? He didn’t ask. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. Kornephoros was one pissy, stuck-up elf, and you wanted to kick his butt real hard.”

  And often. “I am sorry for Talitha’s sake. This is a bad time for you too. Our talk can wait.” He had been given the confirmation he came for.

  “No.” She waved him back into his chair. “It can’t. This is important; you’re important. You love Talitha?”

  Not the question he had expected. “If it were poss
ible for a halfling to aspire to love a starborn, I would throw my heart at her feet.”

  “And who would clean up the mess? I asked her about you.” She hauled open the draperies on the four-poster. “Close your eyes.”

  He closed. “And?”

  “The hots. No shit. She’s head over her pretty little heels for you. She’s yours any time you make your move, I’d say. You can look now.” Her Majesty was in bed, with the covers pulled up to her waist and her discarded wrap lying on the floor. She arranged the pillows and leaned back on them, looking at least 1,750 years younger than she really was. A billion stars sparkled on her shoulders and neck.

  He concentrated on the wallpaper. “It sounds as if the princess’s life doesn’t need any more complications right now.”

  Electra made a little sideways, how-about-that? motion of her head. “That’s not a stereotypical male response. You’re a good man, Rigel Estell.”

  “And you’re a good woman, Mira Silvas.”

  She smiled politely—amused, but not very. “Just a hunch or did I give myself away?”

  “Queen Electra was the last one known to have handled Saiph, and she turned up in Canopus right when I did. It was completely obvious after you explained what a Cujam was, because the mob in the store attacked both of us. Mira also happens to be the name of a star.”

  “I meant how did I give myself away when I was Mira?”

  “You were wrong. No one specific thing; there were just too many little things that didn’t make sense. You claimed you were hiding out, but you’d come to an unpopulated area when everyone knows cities offer safer cover. You claimed to have a license to carry your handgun, and it’s just about impossible to get one in Canada. No US license would be valid there, and a detective would know that. You had it with you when you were just sitting by a campfire, as if you were expecting trouble, but you had left the campground gate open, which would advertise to anyone looking for you that there was someone there. Saiph gave me no warning of the bear attack, so I wasn’t in danger. You said you had bought the Winnebago, but it had rental company plates and no rental company name sticker, so it was obviously stolen, which explains why you didn’t care about getting blood in it. The floor was clean as a whistle, but there had been a lot of rain, all over the island, so there should have been more mud. You were leaving fingerprints everywhere and a detective’s prints would be on file with the FBI and Interpol. You had silk and needles handy, but you didn’t look like a petit point sort of gal.”