A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows df-7

by Poul Anderson

  “I must confess it was a complete surprise when a Naval patrol entered my lodgings and declared an intention to take me in custody. Under the circumstances, sir, I felt conformity would be imprudent. I endeavored not to damage irreparably men who wore his Majesty’s uniform, and in due course will return the borrowed blaster you observe me wearing. Thereupon I took refuge with a gentleman I suspected of vehement anti-Terran sentiments. May I respectfully request his name and the names of his associates be omitted from your official cognizance? Besides their hospitality and helpfulness toward me, they exhibited no more than a misguided zeal for the welfare of this planet, and indeed I was the occasion of their first overt unlawful act. They sheltered me only after I had convinced them I was a revolutionary for my own society, and that my public designation as a Merseian agent was a calumny which the Imperialists could be expected to employ against their kind too. They were persuaded rather easily; I would not recommend them for the Intelligence Corps. I got from them clothes, disguise materials, equipment convertible to surveillance purposes, and went about collecting data for myself.

  “They do possess a rudimentary organization. Through this, via a phone call, my host learned that a large delegation of zmays was moving on the Capitol. Recalling Donna Vymezal’s accounts of her background, and trusting she and you had not perished after all, I thought you might be here. To have this deduction confirmed was … most gratifying, sir.”

  Flandry chewed his lip for a while before he said “Those were Imperials who came to arrest you? Not Dennitzans?”

  “No, sir, not Dennitzans. There could be no mistake.” Chives spoke mutedly. His thin green fingers hauled the cowl closer around his face.

  “You went unmolested for days, and then in a blink—” Flandry’s speech chopped off. They were at their goal.

  Well into Old Town, the party passed between two many-balconied mansions, out onto a plateau of Royal Hill. Constitution Square opened before them, broad, slate-flagged, benches, flowerbeds, trees—empty, empty. In the middle was a big fountain, granite catchbasin, Toman Obilich and Vladimir locked in bronze combat, water dancing white but its sound and spray borne off by the wind. Westward buildings stood well apart, giving a view down across roofs to Lake Stoyan, metal-bright shimmer and shiver beyond the curve of the world. Directly across the square was the Capitol, a sprawling, porticoed marble mass beneath a gilt dome whose point upheld an argent star. A pair of kilometers further on, a rock lifted nearly sheer, helmeted with the battlements and banners of the Zamok.

  Flandry’s gaze flickered. He identified a large hotel, office buildings, cafes, fashionable stores, everything antiquated but dignified, the gray stones wearing well; how many Constitution Squares had he known in his life? But this lay deserted under wind, chill, and hasty cloud shadows. A militia squad stood six men on the Capitol verandah, six flanking the bottom of the stairs; their capes flapped, their rifles gleamed whenever a sunbeam smote and then went dull again. Aircraft circled far overhead. Otherwise none save the newcomers were in sight. Yet surely watchers waited behind yonder shut doors, yonder blank panes: proprietors, caretakers, maybe a few police—a few, since the turmoil was elsewhere in town and no disturbance expected here. Who besides? He walked as if through a labyrinth of mirages. Nothing was wholly what he sensed, except the blaster butt under his hand and a stray russet lock of Kossara’s hair.

  She had no such dreads. As they trod into the plaza, he heard her whisper, “Here we go, my brave beloved. They’ll sing of you for a thousand years.”

  He shoved hesitation out of his mind and readied himself to fight.

  But no clash came. Despite what they told him when the move was being planned, he’d more or less awaited behavior like that when a gaggle of demonstrators wanted to invade a legislative session on any human planet he knew—prohibition, resistance, then either a riot or one of the sides yielding. If officialdom conceded in order to avoid the riot, it would be grudgingly, after prolonged haggling; and whatever protesters were admitted would enter under strict conditions, well guarded, to meet indignant stares.

  Dennitza, though, had institutionalized if not quite legalized procedures like the ispravka. Through the officer he met on the way, Ywodh had explained his band’s intent. Word had quickly reached the Chief Justice. Four hundred zmays would not lightly descend on Zorkagrad, claiming to represent the whole Obala; they could be trusted to be mannerly and not take an unreasonable time to make their points; urged by Kyrwedhin, a majority in the third house of the Skupshtina endorsed their demand. No guns greeted them, aside from those of the corporal’s guard at the entrance; and they bore their own arms inside.

  Up the stairs—past armored doors that recalled the Troubles—through an echoful lobby—into a central chamber where the parliament in joint session waited—Flandry raked his glance around, seeking menaces to his woman and shelters for her.

  The room was a half ellipsoid. At the far-end focus, a dais bore the Gospodar’s lectern, a long desk, and several occupied chairs. To right and left, tiers held the seats of members, widely spaced. Skylights cast fleetingness of weather into steadiness of fluorescents, making the polished marble floor seem to stir. On gilt mural panels were painted the saints and heroes of Dennitza. The lawmakers sat according to their groupings, Lords in rainbow robes, Folk in tunics and trousers or in gowns, Zmayi in leather and metal. After the outdoors, Flandry breathed an air which felt curdled by fear and fury.

  Banners dipped to an old man in black who sat behind the lectern. Slowly the fishers advanced, while unseen telescanners watched on behalf of the world. In the middle of the floor, the ychans halted. Silence encompassed them. Flandry’s pulse thuttered.

  “Zdravo,” said the Chief Justice, and added a courteous Eriau “Hydhref.” His hand forgot stateliness, plucked at his white beard. “We have … let you in … for unity’s sake. My understanding is, your delegation wishes to speak relevantly to the present crisis—a viewpoint which might else go unheard. You in turn will, will understand why we must limit your time to fifteen minutes.”

  Ywodh bowed, palms downward, tail curved. Straightening, he let his quarterdeck basso roll. “We thank the assembly. I’ll need less than that; but I think you’ll then want to give us more.” Flandry’s eyes picked out Kyrwedhin. Weird, that the sole Dennitzan up there whom he knew should bear Merseian genes. “Worthies and world,” Ywodh was saying, “you’ve heard many a tale of late: how the Emperor wants to crush us, how a new war is nearly on us because of his folly or his scheming to slough us off, how his agents rightly or wrongly charged the Gospodar’s niece Kossara Vymezal with treason and—absolutely wrongly—sold her for a slave, how they’ve taken the Gospodar himself prisoner on the same excuse, how they must have destroyed the whole homestead of his brother-in-law the voivode of Dubina Dolyina to grind out any spark of free spirit, how our last choices left are ruin or revolution—You’ve heard this.

  “I say each piece of it is false.” He flung an arm in signal. With a showmanship that humans would have had to rehearse, his followers opened their ranks. “And here to gaff the lies is Kossara Vymezal, sister’s daughter to Bodin Miyatovich our Gospodar!”

  She bounded from among them, across the floor, onto the dais, to take her place between the antlers of the lectern. A moan lifted out of the benched humans, as if the fall wind had made entry; the zmayi uttered a surflike rumble. “What, what, what is this?” quavered the Chief Justice. Nobody paid him heed. Kossara raised her head and cried forth so the room rang:

  “Hear me, folk! I’m not back from the dead, but I am back from hell, and I bear witness. The devils are not Terrans but Merseians and their creatures. My savior was, is, not a Dennitzan but a Terran. Those who shout, ‘Independence!’ are traitors not to the Empire but to Dennitza. Their single wish is to set humans at each other’s throats, till the Roidhun arrives and picks our bones. Hear my story and judge.”

  Flandry walked toward her, Chives beside him. He wished it weren’t too disturbi
ng to run. Nike of Samothrace had not borne a higher or more defenseless pride than she did. They took stance beneath her, facing the outer door. Her tones marched triumphant:

  “—I escaped the dishonor intended me by the grace of God and the decency of this man you see here, Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of his Majesty’s service. Let me tell what happened from the beginning. Have I your leave, worthies?”

  “Aye!”

  Gunshots answered. Screams flew ragged. A blaster bolt flared outside the chamber.

  Flandry’s weapon jumped free. The tiers of the Skupshtina turned into a yelling scramble. Fifty-odd men pounded through the doorway. Clad like ordinary Dennitzans, all looked hard and many looked foreign. They bore firearms.

  “Get down, Kossara!” Flandry shouted. Through him ripped: Yes, the enemy did have an emergency force hidden in a building near the square, and somebody in this room used a minicom to bring them. The Revolutionary Committee—they’ll take over, they’ll proclaim her an impostor—

  He and Chives were on the dais. She hadn’t flattened herself under the lectern. She had gone to one knee behind it, sidearm in hand, ready to snipe. The attackers were deploying around the room. Two dashed by either side of the clustered, bewildered fishers.

  Their blaster beams leaped, convergent on the stand. Its wood exploded in flame, its horns toppled. Kossara dropped her pistol and fell back.

  Chives pounced zigzag. A bolt seared and crashed within centimeters of him. He ignored it; he was taking aim. The first assassin’s head became a fireball. The second crumpled, grabbed at the stump of a leg, writhed and shrieked a short while. Chives reached the next nearest, wrapped his tail around that man’s neck and squeezed, got an elbow-beaking single-arm lock on another, hauled him around for a shield and commenced systematic shooting.

  “I say,” he called through the din to Ywodh, “you chaps might pitch in a bit, don’t you know.”

  The steadcaptain bellowed. His slugthrower hissed. A male beside him harpooned a foeman’s belly. Then heedless of guns, four hundred big seafarers joined battle.

  Flandry knelt by Kossara. From bosom to waist was seared bloody wreckage. He half raised her. She groped after him with hands and eyes. “Dominic, darling,” he barely heard, “I wish—” He heard no more.

  For an instant he imagined revival, life-support machinery, cloning … No. He’d never get her to a hospital before the brain was gone beyond any calling back of the spirit. Never.

  He lowered her. I won’t think yet. No time. I’d better get into that fight. The ychans don’t realize we need a few prisoners.

  Dusk fell early in fall. Above the lake smoldered a sunset remnant. Otherwise blue-black dimness drowned the land. Overhead trembled a few stars; and had he looked from his office window aloft in the Zamok, Flandry could have seen city lights, spiderwebs along streets and single glows from homes. Wind mumbled at the panes.

  Finally granted a rest, he sat back from desk and control board, feeling his chair shape its embrace to his contours. Despite the drugs which suppressed grief, stimulated metabolism, and thus kept him going, weariness weighted every cell. He had turned off the fluoros. His cigarette end shone red. He couldn’t taste the smoke, maybe because the dark had that effect, maybe because tongue and palate were scorched.

  Well, went his clockwork thought, that takes care of the main business. He had just been in direct conversation with Admiral da Costa. The Terran commander appeared reasonably well convinced of the good faith of the provisional government whose master, for all practical purposes, Flandry had been throughout this afternoon. Tomorrow be would discuss the Gospodar’s release. And as far as could be gauged, the Dennitzan people were accepting the fact they had been betrayed. They’d want a full account, of course, buttressed by evidence; and they wouldn’t exactly become enthusiastic Imperialists; but the danger of revolution followed by civil war seemed past.

  So maybe tomorrow I can let these chemicals drain out of me, let go my grip and let in my dead. Tonight the knowledge that there was no more Kossara reached him only like the wind, an endless voice beyond the windows. She had been spared that, he believed, had put mourning quite from her for the last span, being upheld by urgency rather than a need to go through motions, by youth and hope, by his presence beside her. Whereas I—ah, well, I can carry on. She’d’ve wanted me to.

  The door chimed. What the deuce? His guards had kept him alone among electronic ghosts. Whoever got past them at last in person must be authoritative and persuasive. He waved at an admit plate and to turn the lights back on. Their brightness hurt his eyes.

  A slim green form in a white kilt entered, bearing a tray where stood teapot, cup, plates and bowls of food. “Your dinner, sir,” Chives announced.

  “I’m not hungry,” said the clockwork. “I didn’t ask for—”

  “No, sir. I took the liberty.” Chives set his burden down on the desk. “Allow me to remind you, we require your physical fitness.”

  Her planet did. “Very good, Chives.” Flandry got down some soup and black bread. The Shalmuan waited unobtrusively.

  “That did help,” the man agreed. “You know, give me the proper pill and I might sleep.”

  “You—you may not wish it for the nonce, sir.”

  “What?” Flandry sharpened his regard. Chives had lost composure. He stood head lowered, tail a-droop, hands hard clasped: miserable.

  “Go on,” Flandry said. “You’ve gotten me nourished. Tell me.”

  The voice scissored off words: “It concerns those personnel, sir, whom you recall the townsmen took into custody.”

  “Yes. I ordered them detained, well treated, till we can check them out individually. What of them?”

  “I have discovered they include one whom I, while a fugitive, ascertained had come to Zorkagrad several days earlier. To be frank, sir, this merely confirmed my suspicion that such had been the case. I must have been denounced by a party who recognized your speedster at the port and obtained the inspectors’ record of me. This knowledge must then have made him draw conclusions and recommend actions with respect to Voivode Vymezal.”

  “Well?”

  “Needless to say, sir, I make no specific accusations. The guilt could lie elsewhere than in the party I am thinking of.”

  “Not measurably likely, among populations the size we’ve got.” Beneath the drumhead of imposed emotionlessness, Flandry felt his body stiffen. “Who?”

  Seldom did he see Chives’ face distorted. “Lieutenant Commander Dominic Hazeltine, sir. Your son.”

  XVIII

  Two militiamen escorted the prisoner into the office. “You may go,” Flandry told them.

  They stared unsurely from him, standing slumped against night in a window, to the strong young man they guarded. “Go,” Flandry repeated. “Wait outside with my servant. I’ll call on the intercom when I want you.”

  They saluted and obeyed. Flandry and Hazeltine regarded each other, mute, until the door had closed. The older saw an Imperial undress uniform, still neat upon an erect frame, and a countenance half Persis’ where pride overmastered fear. The younger saw haggardness clad in a soiled coverall.

  “Well,” Flandry said at last. Hazeltine extended a hand. Flandry looked past it. “Have a seat,” he invited. “Care for a drink?” He indicated bottle and glasses on his desk. “I remember you like Scotch.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Hazeltine spoke as low, free of the croak in the opposite throat. He smiled, and smiled again after they had both sat down holding their tumblers. Raising his, he proposed, “Here’s to us. Damn few like us, and they’re all dead.”

  They had used the ancient toast often before. This time Flandry did not respond. Hazeltine watched him a moment, grimaced, and tossed off a swallow. Then Flandry drank.

  Hazeltine leaned forward. His words shook. “Father, you don’t believe that vapor about me. Do you?”

  Flandry took out his cigarette case. “I don’t know what else to believe.” He flipped back the lid. “S
omebody who knew Chives and the Hooligan fingered him. The date of your arrival fits in.” He chose a cigarette. “And thinking back, I find the coincidence a trifle much that you called my attention to Kossara Vymezal precisely when she’d reached Terra. I was a pretty safe bet to skyhoot her off to Diomedes, where she as an inconvenient witness and I as an inconvenient investigator could be burked in a way that’d maximize trouble.” He puffed the tobacco into lighting, inhaled, streamed smoke till it veiled him, and sighed: “You were overeager. You should have waited till she’d been used at least a few days, and a reputable Dennitzan arranged for to learn about this.”

  “I didn’t—No, what are you saying?” Hazeltine cried.

  Flandry toyed with the case. “As was,” he continued levelly, “the only word which could be sent, since the Gospodar would require proof and is no fool … the word was merely she’d been sold for a slave. Well, ample provocation. Where were you, between leaving Terra and landing here? Did you maybe report straight to Aycharaych?”

  Hazeltine banged his glass down on the chair arm. “Lies!” he shouted. Red and white throbbed across his visage. “Listen, I’m your son. I swear to you by—”

  “Never mind. And don’t waste good liquor. If I’d settled on Dennitza as I planned, the price we’d’ve paid for Scotch—” Flandry gave his lips a respite from the cigarette. He waved it. “How were you recruited? By the Merseians, I mean. Couldn’t be brainscrub. I know the signs too well. Blackmail? No, implausible. You’re a bright lad who wouldn’t get suckered into that first mistake they corral you by—a brave lad who’d sneer at threats. But sometime during the contacts you made in line of duty—”

  Hazeltine’s breath rasped. “I didn’t! How can I prove to you, Father, I didn’t?”

  “Simple,” Flandry said. “You must have routine narco immunization. But we can hypnoprobe you.”