by Dave Duncan
Graffias’s face had turned to bone, hard and yellow. He might believe in Rigel’s good intentions, but would he be willing to entrust his life to a babbling imp?
“There were other people shooting arrows at Spica, Izar, weren’t there?” Rigel asked, desperately hoping that the answer was yes. “And you couldn’t see which arrows came from which bows. But Graffias was just pretending. All his shots missed, didn’t they, halfling?”
“I tried to miss as much as I dared,” Graffias said. That would have to be his defense if he were brought to trial.
“And now you’re going to lead us to the portal?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And we’re all going to go join your mother, Izar.”
“I need a long drink of water,” Izar announced, having finished his business with the bucket. “Don’t think I’ve ever been this thirsty.”
Before Rigel could reply, an angry shout came from just outside the door. “What do you mean you can’t find them? You mean they’ve gone?”
Izar turned as pale as milk and his mouth stretched into a rictus of horror. Graffias looked little better. Rigel doubted if he did himself. The gap between the door and the jamb was too narrow to reveal the speaker, but he blocked the light all the way to the top of it. Only one starborn was tall enough to do that.
The reply was more distant, but still audible. “No, lord. I sealed the portal myself when I left last night, and now Tegmine is keeping watch to make sure nobody leaves. They have to be on the island somewhere.” That was Hadar’s voice.
Rigel shivered. His plan had been doomed from the start. He had never considered the possibility that the gang would lock Giauzar off from the outside world, trapping both Izar and his guards inside.
Vildiar said, “I do wish you’d find them, for stars’ sake! Or at least find Graffias. If Graffias has gotten away, I’ll toast your balls on a fork.”
“He can’t have escaped, lord. He’s a loser. He was heaving his guts out at Spica. My guess is that the guilt curse got him, and he went to feed the polliwogs.”
“Your guess is worthless, Hadar. The guilt curse never affects halflings and never leads to suicide. It just kills. I don’t care about Hassaleh, but I will be much happier if I know for certain that Botein, Graffias, Sadalbari, and Benetnash are all here in Giauzar when you and I leave.”
“I like you to be happy, Father.”
So that was how it was done? A command had just been issued and acknowledged, yet both would be deniable on the Star of Truth.
With a finger over his lips to indicate silence, Rigel tapped Izar’s shoulder and pointed to the bed. The imp spun around and raced back to it. He flopped onto the mattress, adjusted the end of the chain under his wrist, and closed his eyes. His ears did not go fully limp, but what a great kid! Rigel stepped behind the door. Graffias moved in behind him. He wore many amulets, any of which could be a sword in waiting. Rigel’s trust in the young halfling was being stretched very thin. Considering how hopeless the situation now seemed, Graffias had to be tempted to try to win back his daddy’s love by turning in Halfling Rigel’s corpse with a hole in its back.
The door began to open, and then stopped. Vildiar spoke again.
“I can’t wait here while you search the entire island. Change of plans: I’ll take the imp and leave first. I’ll be happiest if you keep everyone out of the way until I’m gone and if only you and Tegmine know I was here at all. If you can’t find Hassaleh, I shan’t mind if you leave without him. But I’d really like you to find Graffias or prove that he’s dead. And when you have the whole Spica crew in custody here, I’d like you to take the others and go. Today’s key to seal the portal is ‘Grumium.’ You need to say it three times; understand?”
“Yes, my lord. ‘Grumium’ three times.”
“When you’ve done that, I’d be happier if you moved the rest of the family to Zubenelgenubi. I’ll be at the funeral in Canopus. And remember that I want no one besides Tegmine to know I’ve been here. Go!”
The door swung open, and His Highness strode into the room, ducking under the lintel. He did not go over to the bed, perhaps not wanting to frighten the imp.
“Izar? Wake up, Son.”
Triumph! Rigel had only to raise his hand to that grotesquely long, bony back and then summon Saiph. One quick jab and the problem would be solved—the monster would be dead, and the portal would be accessible. Tegmine could not singlehandedly hold it against Saiph, even if Graffias didn’t defect back to his daddy’s team. Victory pulled from the jaws of disaster! But could Rigel Estell really kill Izar’s father right in front of him? Could he murder Vildiar in cold blood, evil though the starborn undoubtedly was? What would Talitha want him to do?
“Izar?” the prince said again. “I was very sorry to hear about what happened at Spica, Son. The people who did those terrible things are going to be punished.”
This was all a game! Vildiar must know Rigel was there. That discussion out in the corridor had been much too convenient. Rigel had always despised stories in which the villains discussed their plans right outside the hero’s hiding place. Such things never happened in real life; even in the Starlands that would be stretching fantasy too far.
The prince sighed. “I can tell that you’re not really asleep, Izar. I’m going to take you to your mother now, I promise. Why haven’t you tried to kill me yet, halfling?”
Izar shot off the bed on the far side and squeezed into a corner, as far from his father as he could get. His eyes stretched as big as his ears.
Vildiar turned around to stare down at Rigel from his impossible height, like a gardener inspecting a bug.
Before stamping on it.
“I was warned not to, my lord.”
“You have become a serious nuisance, mongrel. I warned you off last night. I shall not be as lenient next time.” He curled his lip at Graffias. “You didn’t take long to defect. Whose side are you on at the moment?”
“Justice’s,” Graffias mumbled, avoiding his father’s gaze. He had been tested too, and had failed. He should have tried to save his father by stabbing Rigel in the back when he had the chance. Backstabbing seemed to be out of fashion today.
“You were planning to betray us, your own family? Hadar was right when… But you heard. Answer my question, Halfling Rigel. Why didn’t you try to kill me?”
Rigel had no idea. Was he just too wimpishly scrupulous to stab someone from behind, even someone as odious as Vildiar? Was Vildiar’s magic powerful enough to neutralize Saiph? That was not what people had been telling him about his “ancestral” amulet.
“Because of what the Pythia told me, Your Highness.” Let the monster chew on that! Rigel was pleased to hear he had become a serious nuisance, and he wasn’t going to flinch under the giant elf’s anger. He turned to look at Graffias. “Was Hassaleh present at the Spica massacre?” he asked.
“No.”
“But you were. That’s why you matter and he doesn’t. So, Your Highness, when Hadar has collected all the Spica witnesses and sealed them in, how long will you shelter them from the queen’s justice?”
Vildiar studied him with the disgust due a well-trodden dog turd on a Persian rug. “Are you ignorant or just trying to be funny? A prince administers justice within his domain. What happened at Spica was unforgivable incompetence. The guilty will stay here until they have eaten all the polliwogs, or the polliwogs have eaten all of them, or they have eaten one another. I don’t care which comes first. If Her Majesty wants to send them to the Dark Cells, I will gladly turn them over to her.”
“Tough love? Fatherly discipline? I came to escort Izar back to his mother.”
“So did I.”
“I wanna go with Rigel!” Izar shouted.
His father shrugged. “As you will. Will you lead the way, halfling, or shall I?”
Nobody moved. Vildiar was making another of his lighting fast U-turns, like the one he had made in court when Kornephoros tried to sentence Rigel to death. Izar
was the key, of course. Had he not been here, the polliwogs would already be munching on Rigel and Graffias. But Vildiar could no longer deny knowledge of his son’s kidnapping, so he had to put himself on the side of the angels. He always had two roles to play and for now he was portraying the loving, caring father. Anyone who would believe that would try to buy pork in Jerusalem.
Rigel had an uncomfortable feeling that he was playing sixth in a Russian roulette tournament. “I think perhaps you had better lead, my lord.”
“And what happens at the portal?” Vildiar inquired scornfully. “Am I to be stabbed in the back or locked up here in Giauzar to die with the incompetents?”
“Neither,” Rigel said, “as long as you let us depart in peace.”
Vildiar ducked out the door without comment. Izar rushed to Rigel’s side and clasped his hand like a small child. They followed Graffias into the corridor and all three hurried after the tall starborn.
Rigel bent toward one of the imp’s big ears. “You remember Alsafi, Izar?” he whispered.
“Yes, Rigel.”
“Your mom is waiting there for you.”
“But you’re coming too!” Izar’s eyes sparkled as if he had been weeping, but that was just the Naos in him.
“I’m planning on it, but you will have to open the portal.”
They reached a large sitting room, furnished with rich rugs and a cluster of chairs and sofas. Its windows looked out onto a jungle faintly lit by predawn light, and opposite them stood a large double door, much like many of the other portals Rigel had seen. The storm trooper halfling who waited next to it walked forward to greet his father. It was Tegmine, who had accompanied Tarf and their father on the royal barge the previous day. He scowled at the sight of Rigel, and then sneered at Graffias.
“We should have left my darling baby brother in diapers, my lord.”
Vildiar ignored his comment. “Go and tell Hadar that I have located Graffias.” He watched his son leave before saying, “Does Izar know where his mother is?”
Rigel said, “Yes, my lord.”
“Then run along, son. I wish to speak with Rigel.”
Izar’s face fell like a shooting star.
“Rigel will follow you in a few moments,” his father said. “I promise.”
The imp opened the door, and disappeared into a swirl of salty wind and ocean scent. He left the portal open, but it closed itself behind him. Now the grown-ups could get down to serious business.
“You look bushed, halfling,” Vildiar said graciously. “Please sit down.” He scowled at Graffias. “You will be more comfortable standing, I expect. Now, Rigel, where did you meet the Pythia?”
Rigel sank into a delightfully soft, velvet-upholstered chair and promptly yawned. “Pardon me, my lord. I’ve been up all night. On Tarazed.”
“Cockatrices? Ingenious! Does that explain what happened to Hassaleh?” The Naos’s mind was sharper than razors.
“Yes. He was petrified, and he was attacked by one of the creatures in the lagoon before I could fish him out. It was an accident.”
The prince’s lips twisted into a cynical smile, one without humor. “My family has had a serious run of bad luck lately. I’ve never heard of the Pythia prophesying for a halfling before. What did she tell you?” He was being very sweet for a mass murderer—no bluster, no veiled threats, just princely courtesy. He had all the time in the world to get what he wanted, and he was content to wait. He was as deadly as a third rail.
Fighting more yawns, Rigel wished he had chosen a less comfortable chair. “She quoted a poem she knew I would recognize. It’s by William Shakespeare. You know of him, my lord?”
“I saw him act once. Tell me.”
Rigel said,
“It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The thronéd monarch better than his crown.
“ ‘Becomes’ means ‘adorns’ in this case, of course.”
Vildiar studied him with eyes of rainbow. He was taking the upstart halfling more seriously now than he had before, which was both flattering and terrifying. “I give up. What’s the answer?”
“Mercy. Or, rather, the attribute of being merciful. She was warning me not to stab you when I had the chance.”
“You didn’t have the chance. Saiph or not, I’d have burned you to ashes.”
“But I didn’t know that, did I? The Pythia did.”
“That doggerel does sound like the sort of thing that Jacobean scribbler spouted, and the Pythia is typically obscure in her prophecies, but your logic escapes me.” He paused, and then suddenly changed tack, “Who gave my son the killer amulet?”
Oops! “I am not at liberty to answer that, my lord.”
The giant was pacing aimlessly as he spoke. “Never once have I given Talitha cause to hate me, Rigel, but she does—virulently. She has a spiteful tongue and no scruples about telling the most appalling untruths. Despite what she has told you, I am not a monster. I admit I have faults, as we all do. I despised Kornephoros as an incompetent prude and Electra as a wastrel who has neglected her realm for decades. I am eager to show that I could be a better ruler. Is that so terrible?”
The end, perhaps not. The means, yes. Tactfully: “I am not competent to judge either the political problem or your noble self as the solution, my lord.”
Vildiar continued on as if he had not heard. “I enjoy earthling women, a shameful perversion that I have tried to shake off many times without success. But I am generous. I make sure that the women are willing beforehand and well provided for after, and any children that may result are given an education and lifelong employment.”
Miscegenation sounded like an expensive hobby, but no doubt all those eager young tweenlings managed to earn their keep somehow. Rigel fought desperately against another yawn.
The prince stopped close to him, and stared down at him again. “There are not so very many of them when you consider my age—about one every ten years or so. And they are not assassins and terrorists, as Talitha would have people believe. We all know that halflings can be dangerous, don’t we? Yesterday you broke into my domain, claiming to have authority from a queen who hadn’t been seen since before you were born. Of course my sons challenged an intruder they knew to be armed—what would you expect? Before they even had time to open the paper you claimed was a royal warrant, you drew your sword and disemboweled my son Tarf. Only magic stopped him from dying instantly, and you finished him off later, him and two others. You started the fight. Who bears the blood guilt, Rigel?”
Rigel was in very serious trouble. And Vildiar was standing with one foot between his, so that he couldn’t even rise from his chair.
“Your daughter was the first to draw, my lord. That was folly when she knew I wore the ancestral Saiph. Shall we discuss Spica?”
“Spica?” Opalescent eyebrows rose. “By all means, let us discuss Spica. Talitha disobeyed the regent’s express orders by sending our child to her domain instead of taking him to Canopus. When she was informed of this, my daughter Botein—who is Izar’s half sister, of course, and known to him—went to Spica to explain the situation to the imp’s attendant, Baham Starborn. Baham agreed to escort the boy to Canopus as the regent had commanded, but Izar invoked a Lesath! You know the term? An especially baneful amulet. It is a capital offense to own or make a Lesath. To give one to a child is utter madness.”
“The amulet did not slaughter the entire population of Spica, my lord.”
“But it began the bloodshed. I told you how the perpetrators will be punished, but is it a wonder that they went berserk? Three of their siblings were killed in front of their eyes, and Botein herself was horribly savaged. The wonder is that they did not kill Izar out of hand. If the imp had not been given that Lesath, not one drop of blood would have been shed.”
Rigel could n
ot bandy words with the starborn. He was out of his league, and every cell in his body ached with fatigue. “Well, he did not get it from me, my lord.” He set his hands on the arms of the chair to show that he wished to rise.
Vildiar did not budge. “Even so, here you are, trespassing in my domain again, and now another one of my sons has died. And you dare to call me murderer?”
“By your leave, Halfling Graffias and I will go now, for I must escort my sponsor to her father’s funeral.”
The prince shrugged, stepping out of Rigel’s way. “You are an extraordinarily resourceful youngster, Halfling Rigel. I do wish that you had accepted me as your sponsor yesterday. If you ever change your mind, I will be happy to take you on. I promise that there will be no revenge. And despite all the lies you have been fed, there will be no murders, either.” He looked across at Graffias. “You wish to go with him, Son?”
Graffias nodded several times before he managed to whisper, “Yes, Father.”
“And you hope to buy your life by selling your brothers’ and sisters’?”
It would not take Vildiar long to talk the turncoat into a complete 360 degree revolution. Rigel hauled himself upright.
“I have promised him a royal pardon, my lord.”
“Did you, now?” Vildiar tried, but he could no more depict surprise than could his lookalikes on Easter Island. “On your own authority?”
Dangerous question! Royal blood did not turn a halfling into a prince and never would, even if Electra was ever willing to reveal her outrageous secret in public.
“Having just returned Izar to his mother, I am certain that I have enough influence.”
The resulting stare went on dangerously long as the prince tried to guess just how much Rigel knew and how much royal favor he might possess.
“Nice helmet,” Vildiar said at last. “Take Graffias by all means, but you will need to find another sponsor for him, and he is a pathetic thing, even for a half-breed. This has gone on long enough. I must go to Canopus.”