Make Ready shrugged. "They'll be lucky to catch me."
"So?" The healer smiled. "How do you dodge them?"
Make Ready grinned in reminiscence. "Over the side of the houseboat—with breathing straws."
Grumm mopped his plate with a wedge of bread, unimpressed. "In that scum?"
Make Ready filled his mouth again. He recalled Rexy Donovan emerging from a skulking session foamy as a toothpaste ad. Make Ready sniffed. "It ain't always scummy. Weekends, it's clean."
They finished eating, and Grumm took him into the dispensary. The healer boiled a panful of water over a gas jet, and put in some instruments to sterilize. He dabbed stinging antiseptic on Make Ready's blackened finger.
Make Ready bit his lip, and made no sound.
Grumm took up his forceps, gripped a fragment of epidermis, and tugged.
Make Ready screamed.
Unperturbed, Grumm put down the forceps. "Tain't ready yet, lad. You'll have to come back tomorrow."
Make Ready nursed the tender digit. "You ain't going to chop it off, then?"
The healer packed away his instruments. He whistled a little tune. "What's your dad's name, lad?"
Make Ready stared hard at his finger. What had his father's identity to do with a possibly gangreeny finger? He said, "My mère told me he was called Messer Jones."
Grumm nodded, as though comprehending more than he had been told. "And your mère? What's she called?"
"I don't remember much about her. She was a Lonten Franchy called Semmy Laduce. They let her out of prison to come here."
Grumm latched his bag, and stowed it under the table. Lontaine France still used Omkrit III as a combined rubbish dump and penal planet. He decided not to ask what crime Make Ready's mother had committed. He said, "Did your mère work as a chamber maid at the Castle on Rue des Percées?"
Make Ready's mouth hardened. The healer was getting far too warm. He mumbled, "Don't remember no Castle."
In Make Ready's memory, the Castle Hotel's domestic quarters had been a warm nest. He had lived there with his mother until old enough to be wished onto a band of roving chip smugglers.
"Well, where did you live?"
After the Castle, where? The smugglers had been like gypsies, wandering the realms of Arcadia, from Mary Cage to Montynose, to Entendy, to Varek, to the Far Nighlands and then round them all again. He had stayed with them, absorbing the illicit mysteries of electronics, until, weary of the surreptitious life, he had run off with a gang of street thieves in Kelmet, his home town.
He muttered, "We shifted around a lot." Grumm stared at him, eyes calculating. "Do you know that your father might—just might—have been a paragon!"
Make Ready ignored the bait. The mère had always insisted that his DNA was out of the top drawer . . . as if it mattered. Personally, he didn't care if his genes came off a second-hand stall. The dogniks hadn't queried his ancestry.
Grumm persisted. "But don't let that bother you, lad. There's a deal more unrecombined DNA about on Omkrit III than folk credit." He paused. "You don't know where your mère is?"
Make Ready fidgeted with his sore finger. What had all this to do with whether Grumm chopped it off or not? He said, "I haven't seen her for years."
Grumm's expression softened. "We'll manage without her. If your father was who I suspect, you could be an aristo." The healer scratched his head. "Maybe you'd better stay the night here. We can try that finger again tomorrow."
Make Ready's suspicions grew into convictions. Grumm was too interested in parents. A real dognik growl rumbled in his throat. "What do you know about my father? Do you know who he was?"
Grumm ignored the warning signals. "I might, lad. I'm just not sure enough to call 'em facts. You kip on the sofa tonight. We'll talk some more in the morning."
Duke Corwen Persay was told the news of his child's inadequacies when he returned from shooting. He stared, haggard, at the geneticist. "Is it me?"
Greville faced him, eyes expressionless. "No, sire. The infant's DNA was defective. The finger code was impaired."
"Well, if the fault's not mine—whose is it?"
Greville's face was impassive. "I have long had doubts, sire. I feel we were fortunate with Lord Mardy's conception. Perhaps Dame Dimsina should not be permitted to breed again."
The duke was silent for a moment. "Very well. And the child?"
"I gave it to Laporte, sire."
The duke heaved a convulsive sigh. He pulled off his gloves and shooting jacket. The fingerstall on his right hand had come loose. He retied the knot. "Please tell Lord Mardy I would like a word with him."
On Whernmoor, five hundred kilometers to the north, where Duke Corwen's levees strove to stem the chelonian tide, General Lord Cledger Persay had begun to suspect he was in difficulties. The pocket brigade despatched by the duke to halt the turtlebacks was irritatingly outnumbered. And, from an aerial inspection, Lord Cledger had just learned, was also being outmaneuvered.
In the grounds of Dormenville's only school, where the general had set up headquarters, soldiers of headquarters troop winched his captive balloon to earth.
"Steady with that basket!" roared a sashed and epauletted lieutenant to the crew of four-arms on the guide ropes. "Mind you don't shake his lordship!"
The bullet-proof basket came within reach of extended hands, and was eased to safety.
General Lord Cledger Persay cocked a leg over the side, and vaulted to the ground. Young Lord Cledger was proud of his fitness, his command, and his uncle Corwen's trust. He stabbed a leather-stalled finger at the troop-lined ridge above the township, addressing his equerry. "The bastards are as thick as bilberries on the far side of that hill!"
A cannon in the battery which had dug into the football field roared as he spoke, lobbing one of his lordship's explosive novelties over the ridge. His lordship gave the equerry's ears time to stop ringing, then swung up his arm to point east. "The bastards have also infiltrated along our left flank!"
While the lieutenant stood, stricken by the revelation, Lord Cledger brought his arm round in a half circle. "And on our right flank, too!"
He frowned. "Tell the major we are evacuating immediately. Lord Markey's bombardiers will provide covering fire to troops withdrawing from the ridge. Send a message with my instructions. We can't hold this position another hour!"
The equerry jerked like a marionette. "At once, milord. Er—where are we evacuating to?"
Lord Cledger dragged a map from his belt case. A nearby corporal bent to give him a back. The general spread his map on the corporal, searching it diligently. He stabbed the chart. "Here! We'll stand on the Lemon river, by the bridge." He stared about him. "Where's that captain of sappers? I want that bridge mined."
General Lord Cledger Persay's headquarters troop moved out of Dormenville within twenty minutes, followed by a hurriedly unemplaced field gun battery. Lord Cledger rode at their head on his all white gremgaur, blue and silver banner flying. Captain Fogelman's unit of mounted skirmishers, fuming smokepots hanging from their stirrups, waited behind to escort the retreating infantry as they fell back from the ridge. Dormenville was left to be sacked by the turtlebacks.
At the Lemon river bridge, Lord Cledger had his balloon put up again in an attempt to see over the billowing smoke which refused to blow away when it was no longer needed. As the dun-colored bubble rose above the dark billows, an enterprising chelonian sharpshooter in the branches of a tree which poked shrapnel-torn foliage through the smoke chanced a long shot, and brought the Lord Cledger down with a bullet through the head . . .
Word of the Persay babe's death—but not that of Lord Cledger at Whernmoor—was being shouted in the street when Make Ready awoke the following morning. Grumm sent him out to buy a paper. Make Ready returned, head in the pages.
"Dame Dimsina's child died soon after birth," he reported. "It lived long enough to be helixed by the duke's pastor. Funeral's tomorrow."
Grumm snatched the paper. "I'll do my own readi
ng, if you don't mind!" The medsin studied the printed columns. Nowhere was it reported that the duke's annalist, lyricist, obstetrician, tutor, priest and midwife were now confined to the Chateau at his lordship's pleasure. Nor was there mention of a wet nurse, too anxious to return to her own child, who now bobbed silently down to Garbage. Persay secrets were dangerous possessions. But Grumm had his suspicions. Infant deaths were abnormal on Omkrit III. But the Persays could get their DNA cocked up as easy as anyone else.
The medsin threw down the paper. "Here, lad—let's have another squint at that finger."
Make Ready held out his hand. He was no longer fooled. Grumm knew the cause of the blackened tip.
The healer peered at the finger, making no attempt to detach any dead skin. "Hmm! Still not ready, lad. Reckon you'd better hang on here a while."
Make Ready studied his digit. Not ready for what? Grumm had used the expression twice. Why was his finger so important to the healer? Why was he anxious to let a scruffy dognik stay in his house? And would he let the dognik go, if he didn't want to stay?
Make Ready said, "Am I a prisoner, Messer Grumm?"
The healer raised his eyebrows. Make Ready felt like a germ under a microscope. Grumm frowned. "Where'd you get that idea, lad?"
Make Ready scowled back. "Am I, sir?"
Grumm's face grew gloomy. "You can buzz off any time you like. But you'll be sorry if you do."
Make Ready's eyes became accusing slits. "You knew my finger wouldn't be ready this morning!"
Grumm avoided his gaze. "Suppose I did?"
Make Ready's voice was triumphant. "Ready for what? You tell me!"
Grumm squirmed on his seat. "I suppose you'll have to be told, sooner or later. If my guess is right, your sire's name wasn't Jones—it was Persay, the Grand Maitre himself. And that what's bugging you is the Persay doigt!"
Make Ready caught his breath. His finger the Persay doigt?
For generations Persay digiteurs had defended Mary Cage against invaders from Entendy, Varek, and Montynose. He glanced anxiously at the blackened digit. "But that would make me . . ."
Grumm grinned. "Precisely, my little lord. A pettiduc, in the argot. More precisely, a precious little bastard. But we need expert opinion. I'll admit it crossed my mind to make a dublin or two out of your affliction, but this morning's news alters matters. If the duke's lost his new heir, he might look favorably on a byblow what already has the Persay doigt. What do you say? Would you like to be the duke's son? I've a contact at the Chateau that could pronounce for sure on your finger."
His tongue wouldn't move. Grumm was mad. Him—a duke?
Grumm let the boy stew. If Mary Cage didn't get another digiteur—and Healer Grumm peripheral benefits—out of this gambit, Healer Grumm would stand to be kicked!
Lord Mardy Persay knocked at the door of his father's study. From the haggard air, the duke had spent the night brooding. He motioned his son to a chair. "You heard the bad news?"
"About the child?"
The duke snarled. "No, you fool. About young Cledger getting himself killed at Whernmoor."
Lord Mardy nodded. "Bregonif told me. I suppose you want me to go out there, and pull the chestnuts out of the fire for you?"
Duke Corwen scowled. "Someone has to take his place. We can't let Colly Caswell's turtlebacks walk all over us. And you're the only digiteur I have to spare. But, before you take off—I want advice from you. We still require a backup heir for the duchy. I haven't the heart to try for another natural son. In any case, where would I go? Greville rules out your mère."
Lord Mardy examined his shiny toecaps. "Back to the cell banks, I imagine. Where else?"
The duke thumped his desk. "You haven't absorbed much in twenty years, Mardy. We don't let clones inherit." Lord Corwen sighed. "Though rules are made to be broken. Whom do you suggest?"
His son shrugged. "Whoever you like, sir."
The duke's lips compressed. "It ain't who I like! You're supposed to take an interest. Great Helix—it'll be your duchy when they put me in a bottle. Consider who's eligible. Your great grandpère? He's entitled to another term after fifty years in the bank. But he was a flop as Grand Maitre. His only sensible act was siring my father. We can't let him at the controls again."
Lord Mardy tried to show interest. "Further back, then?"
The duke frowned. "That's Bregonifs period. And he's been twice round already—although only me and Greville know it. Brecon IV was a pain in the derrière when he was boss. Greville chipped the doigt sequence out of his DNA before we cloned him the second time. His time's nearly up, anyway. I've already warned him."
"I mean back before Brecon IV, sir."
The duke gaped in alarm. "You wouldn't clone those murderous madmen! Lontaine France was still dumping its illicit experiments here in those days. Your grandpère six times removed had a wolf's head, and ate children. Greville needed three generations to excise that lupus sequence from the family's genes."
Lord Mardy's eyebrows lifted. "Greville? In those days?"
The duke waved away the query. "Larry Greville has his own way of surviving. As long as he takes care of the Persays, I don't ask no questions. He's got us as near standard as anyone would wish to be."
Lord Mardy became engrossed in his fingertips. "Are you sure you really want my advice, sir?"
The duke blew a gust of breath. "Dammit, Mardy— you're right. It's my job, and I'm shirking it. I just wish Dimsina's child had matched up to our requirements. I don't fancy a clone succeeding me. I want my own progeny in the driving seat."
Lord Mardy found a smile. "You still have me, father."
His parent cackled. "By the Helix, son—so I do, so I do. Don't I tend to overlook the obvious?" He paused. "Now, don't go acting reckless up at Whernmoor. Use your pikemen. They're steady. And the shellbacks don't like cold steel. Give them a bloody nose, and come home safe. Colly Caswell should know better than to try to invade me!"
Lord Mardy rose. "I'll take good care, father."
His father rose. "I'll talk to Larry Greville, then."
The duke stumped off to the laboratory. Greville would advise him on whom to reincorporate. The Persay's welfare was the man's prime concern. He could rely on Larry Greville.
Make Ready didn't doubt the healer's ability to achieve such a bizarre objective. As a child, Make Ready had ignored his mère's fantasies of a paragon lineage. Was he truly a Persay bastard? Or was it just a genetic accident which had produced a facsimile Persay doigt? What matter, if the results were identical?
He said, "Would I have to stay at the Chateau?" It would be a blow to leave the dogniks and the houseboat.
"You'd be better away from that scummy sewer." Grumm's expression was virtuous, as though Make Ready's welfare were his only concern.
Make Ready sulked. "It ain't all scummy. There's a channel over by the far bank where we swim."
Grumm shuddered. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Dogniks is different to us near-standards. Their bodies can cope with disease. I'm a medsin—I know."
Make Ready let it pass. His dognik friends were cleaner than most of Kelmet's citizens. He said, "Who do we contact at the Chateau?"
Grumm's face went blank. "My business, lad. You tell me if you want me to get him here to see that doigt of yours."
Oh, what the Helix! He could slide out if things got too hot. It might be a lark to confront the Grand Maitre with a bastard he had forgotten!
Make Ready met the healer's gaze with innocent eyes. "Okay, Messer Grumm. I'll give it a go."
Lord Mardy Persay was in no hurry to dash off to Whernmoor. Cledger's second in command had reported that the Persay force was holding on the Lemon river, with the bridge still unblown. Dalliance at Haut Chateau was a deal more attractive than campaigning in the northern boondocks with an army of sweaty four-arms. And there were other ways of killing cats . . .
Lord Mardy headed for the Chateau's telecommunications centre. He found the duty corporal at his desk outside th
e aviary. The man saluted with an upper arm, while unsuccessfully attempting to conceal a comic book behind his back with the lower ones.
"At ease, corporal," Mardy ordered, smiling. "This visit ain't official until I put on my cap."
The corporal stared, noting that Lord Mardy carried no cap. He relaxed. "Can I help you, sir."
Mardy pointed his stalled index finger at the aviary door. "Can you get a message into Entendu for me?"
The corporal straightened. "That's easy, sir. I have a couple of Entendy birds in there. Would you want to get in touch with the earl himself? The birds are from his stable."
Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War Page 40