by Isaac Asimov
“But–but–what did he say?”
“He said–straight out of a video, Father–he said, ‘Ha! A spirited wench! I like her all the better for that!’ and two servants helped him stagger to his feet. But he didn’t try to breathe in my face again.”
Hinrik doubled into a chair, leaned forward and regarded Artemisia earnestly. “You could go through the motions of marrying him, couldn’t you? You needn’t be in earnest. Why not merely, for the sake of political expediency–”
“How do you mean, not in earnest, Father? Shall I cross the fingers of my left hand while signing the contract with my right?”
Hinrik looked confused. “No, of course not. What good would that do? How would crossing fingers alter the validity of the contract? Really, Arta, I’m surprised at your stupidity.”
Artemisia sighed. “What do you mean, then?”
“Mean by what? You see, you’ve disrupted things. I can’t keep my mind on matters properly when you argue with me. What was I saying?”
“I was merely to pretend I was getting married, or something. Remember?”
“Oh yes. I mean, you needn’t take it too seriously, you see.”
“I can have lovers, I suppose.”
Hinrik stiffened and frowned. “Arta! I brought you up to be a modest, self-respecting girl. So did your mother. How can you say such things? It’s shameful.”
“But isn’t that what you mean?”
“I can say it. I am a man, a mature man. A girl like you ought not to repeat it.”
“Well, I have repeated it and it’s out in the open. I don’t mind lovers. I’ll probably have to have them if I’m forced to marry for reasons of state, but there are limits.” She placed her hands upon her hips, and the cape-like sleeves of her gown slithered away from her tanned and dimpled shoulders. “What will I do between lovers? He’ll still be my husband and I just can’t bear that particular thought.”
“But he’s an old man, my dear. Life with him would be short.”
“Not short enough, thank you. Five minutes ago he had young blood. Remember?”
Hinrik spread his hands wide and let them drop. “Arta, the man is a Tyrannian, and a powerful one. He is in good odor at the Khan’s court.”
“The Khan might think it’s a good odor. He probably would. He probably stinks himself.”
Hinrik’s mouth was an O of horror. Automatically, he looked over his shoulder. Then he said hoarsely, “Don’t ever say anything like that again.”
“I will if I feel like it. Besides, the man has had three wives already.” She forestalled him. “Not the Khan, the man you want me to marry.”
“But they’re dead,” Hinrik explained earnestly. “Arta, they’re not alive. Don’t think that. How can you imagine I would let my daughter marry a bigamist? We’ll have him produce documents. He married them consecutively, not simultaneously, and they’re dead now, entirely dead, all of them.”
“It’s no wonder.”
“Oh, bless my soul, what shall I do?” He made a last effort at dignity. “Arta, it is the price of being a Hinriad and a Director’s daughter.”
“I didn’t ask to be a Hinriad and a Director’s daughter.”
“That has nothing to do with it. It is just that the history of all the Galaxy, Arta, shows that there are occasions when reasons of state, the safety of planets, the best interests of peoples require that, uh–”
“That some poor girl prostitute herself.”
“Oh, this vulgarity! Someday, you’ll see–someday you’ll say something of the sort in public.”
“Well, that’s what it is, and I won’t do it. I’d rather die. I’d rather do anything. And I will.”
The Director got to his feet and held out his arms to her. His lips trembled and he said nothing. She ran to him in a sudden agony of tears and clung desperately to him. “I can’t, Daddy. I can’t. Don’t make me.”
He patted her awkwardly. “But if you don’t, what will happen? If the Tyranni are displeased, they will remove me, imprison me, maybe even exec–” He gagged on the word. “These are very unhappy times, Arta–very unhappy. The Rancher of Widemos was condemned last week and I believe he has been executed. You remember him, Arta? He was at court half a year ago. A big man, with a round head and deep-set eyes. You were frightened of him at first.”
“I remember.”
“Well, he is probably dead. And who knows? Myself next, perhaps. Your poor, harmless old father next. It is a bad time. He was at our court and that’s very suspicious.”
She suddenly held herself out at arm’s length. “Why should it be suspicious? You weren’t involved with him, were you?”
“I? Indeed not. But if we openly insult the Khan of Tyrann by refusing an alliance with one of his favorites, they may choose to think even that.”
Hinrik’s hand wringing was interrupted by the muted buzz of the extension. He started uneasily.
“I’ll take it in my own room. You just rest. You’ll feel better after a nap. You’ll see, you’ll see. It’s just that you’re a little on edge now.”
Artemisia looked after him and frowned. Her’ face was intensely thoughtful, and for minutes only the gentle tide of her breasts betrayed life.
There was the sound of stumbling feet at the door, and she turned.
“What is it?” The tone was sharper than she had intended.
It was Hinrik, his face sallow with fear. “Major Andros was calling.”
“Of the Outer Police?” Hinrik could only nod.
Artemisia cried, “Surely, he’s not–” She paused reluctantly at the threshold of putting the horrible thought into words, but waited in vain for enlightenment.
“There is a young man who wants an audience. I don’t know him. Why should he come here? He’s from Earth.” He was gasping for breath and staggered as he spoke, as though his mind were on a turntable and he had to follow it in its gyrations.
The girl ran to him and seized his elbow. She said sharply, “Sit down, Father. Tell me what has happened.” She took him and some of the panic drained out of his face.
“I don’t know exactly,” he whispered. “There’s a young man coming here with details concerning a plot on my life. On my life. And they tell me I ought to listen to him.”
He smiled foolishly. “I’m loved by the people. No one would want to kill me. Would they? Would they?”
He was watching her eagerly, and relaxed when she said, “Of course no one would want to kill you.”
Then he was tense again. “Do you think it might be they?”
“Who?”
He leaned over to whisper. “The Tyranni. The Rancher of Widemos was here yesterday, and they killed him.” His voice ascended the scale. “And now they’re sending someone over to kill me.”
Artemisia gripped his shoulder with such force that his mind turned to the present pain.
She said, “Father! Sit quietly! Not a word! Listen to me. No one will kill you. Do you hear me? No one will kill you. It was six months ago that the Rancher was here. Do you remember? Wasn’t it six months ago? Think!”
“So long?” whispered the Director. “Yes, yes, it must have been so.”
“Now you stay here and rest. You’re overwrought. I’ll see the young man myself and then I’ll bring him to you if it’s safe;”
“Will you, Arta? Will you? He won’t hurt a woman. Surely he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”
She bent suddenly and kissed his cheek.
“Be careful,” he murmured, and closed his eyes wearily.
Six: That Wears a Crown
BIRON FARRILL WAITED uneasily in one of the outer buildings on the Palace Grounds. For the first time in his life he experienced the deflating sensation of being a provincial.
Widemos Hall, where he had grown up, had been beautiful in his eyes, and now his memory endowed it with merely barbaric glitter. Its curved lines, its filigree work, its curiously wrought turrets, its elaborate “false windows”–He winced at the thought of them.
But this–this was different.
The Palace Grounds of Rhodia were no mere lump of’ ostentation built by the petty lords of a cattle kingdom; nor were they the childlike expression of a fading and dying world. They were the culmination, in stone, of the Hinriad dynasty.
The buildings were strong and quiet. Their lines were straight and vertical, lengthening toward the center of each structure, yet avoiding anything as effeminate as a spire effect. They held a bluntness about them, yet lifted into a climax that affected the onlooker without revealing their method of doing so at a casual glance. They were reserved, self-contained, proud.
And as each building was, so was the group as a whole, the huge Palace Central becoming a crescendo. One by one, even the few artificialities remaining in the masculine Rhodian style had dropped away. The very “false windows,” so valued as decoration and so useless in a building of artificial light and ventilation, were done away with. And that, somehow, without loss.
It was only line and plane, a geometrical abstraction that led the eye upward to the sky.
The Tyrannian major stopped briefly at his side as he left the inner room.
“You will be received now,” he said.
Biron nodded, and after a while a larger man in a uniform of scarlet and tan clicked heels before him. It struck Biron with sudden force that those who had the real power did not need the outward show and could be satisfied with slate blue. He recalled the splendid formality of a Rancher’s life and bit his lip at the thought of its futility.
“Biron Malaine?” asked the Rhodian guard, and Biron rose to follow.
There was a little gleaming monorail carriage that was suspended delicately by diamagnetic forces upon a single ruddy shaft of metal. Biron had never seen one before. He paused before entering.
The little carriage, big enough for five or six at the most, swayed with the wind, a graceful teardrop returning the gleam of Rhodia’s splendid sun. The single rail was slender, scarcely more than a cable, and ran the length of the carriage’s underside without touching. Biron bent and saw blue sky all the length between them. For a moment, as he watched, a lifting gust of wind raised it, so that it hovered a full inch above the rail, as though impatient for flight and tearing at the invisible force field that held it. Then it fluttered back to the rail, closer and still closer, but never touching.
“Get in,” said the guard behind him impatiently, and Biron climbed two steps into the carriage.
The steps remained long enough for the guard to follow, then lifted quietly and smoothly into place, forming no break in the carriage’s even exterior.
Biron became aware that the outer opacity of the carriage was an illusion. Once within, he found himself sitting in a transparent bubble. At the motion of a small control, the carriage lifted upward. It climbed the heights easily, buffeting the atmosphere which whistled past. For one moment, Biron caught the panorama of the Palace Grounds from the apex of the arc.
The structures became a gorgeous whole (could they–have been originally conceived other than as an air view?), laced by the shining copper threads, along one or two of which the graceful carriage bubbles skimmed.
He felt himself pressed forward, and the carriage came to a dancing halt. The entire run had lasted less than two minutes.
A door stood open before him. He entered and it closed behind him. There was no one in the room, which was small and bare. For the moment, no one was pushing him, but he felt no comfort because of it. He was under no illusions. Ever since that damned night, others had forced his moves.
Jonti had placed him on the ship. The Tyrannian Commissioner had placed him here. And each move had increased the measure of his desperation.
It was obvious to Biron that the Tyrannian had not been fooled. It had been too easy to get away from him. The Commissioner might have called the Terrestrial Consul. He might have hyper-waved Earth, or taken his retinal patterns. These things were routine; they could not have been omitted accidentally.
He remembered Jonti’s analysis of affairs. Some of it might still be valid. The Tyranni would not kill him outright to create another martyr. But Hinrik was their puppet, and he was as capable as they of ordering an execution. And then he would have been killed by one of his own, and the Tyranni would merely be disdainful onlookers.
Biron clenched his fists tightly. He was tall and strong, but he was unarmed. The men who would come for him would have blasters and neuronic whips. He found himself backing against the wall.
He whirled quickly at the small sound of the opening door to his left. The man who entered was armed and uniformed but there was a girl with him. He relaxed a bit. It was only a girl with him. At another time he might have observed the girl closely, since she was worth observation and approval, but at the moment she was only a girl.
They approached together, stopping some six feet away. He kept his eye on the guard’s blaster.
The girl said to the guard, “I’ll speak to him first, Lieutenant.”
There was a little vertical line between her eyes as she turned to him. She said, “Are you the man who has this story of an assassination plot against the Director?”
Biron said, “I was told I would see the Director.”
“That is impossible. If you have anything to say, say it to me. If your information is truthful and useful, you will be well treated.”
“May I ask you who you are? How do I know you are authorized to speak for the Director?”
The girl seemed annoyed. “I am his daughter. Please answer my questions. Are you from outside the System?”
“I am from Earth.” Biron paused, then added, “Your Grace.”
The addition pleased her. “Where is that?”
“It is a small planet of the Sirian Sector, Your Grace.”
“And what is your name?”
“Biron Malaine, Your Grace.”
She stared at him thoughtfully. “From Earth? Can you pilot a space ship?”
Biron almost smiled. She was testing him. She knew very well that space navigation was one of the forbidden sciences in the Tyranni-controlled worlds.
He said, “Yes, Your Grace.” He could prove that when the performance test came, if they let him live that long. Space navigation was not a forbidden science on Earth, and in four years one could learn much.
She said, “Very well. And your story?”
He made his decision suddenly. To the guard alone, he would not have dared. But this was a girl, and if she were not lying, if she really were the Director’s daughter, she might be a persuasive factor on his behalf.
He said, “There is no assassination plot, Your Grace.”
The girl was startled. She turned impatiently to her companion. “Would you take over, Lieutenant? Get the truth out of him.”
Biron took a step forward and met the cold thrust of the guard’s blaster. He said urgently, “Wait, Your Grace. Listen to me! It was the only way to see the Director. Don’t you understand?”
He raised his voice and sent it after her retreating form. “Will you tell His Excellency, at least, that I am Biron Farrill and claim my sanctuary right?”
It was a feeble straw at which to clutch. The old feudal customs had been losing their force with the generations even before the Tyranni came. Now they were archaisms. But there was nothing else. Nothing.
She turned, and her eyebrows were arched. “Are you claiming now to be of the aristocratic order? A moment ago your name was Malaine.”
A new voice sounded unexpectedly. “So it was, but it is the second name which is correct. You are Biron Farrill indeed, my good sir. Of course you are. The resemblance is unmistakable.”.
A small, smiling man stood in the doorway. His eyes, widely spaced and brilliant, were taking in all of Biron with an amused sharpness. He cocked his narrow face upward at Biron’s height and said to the girl, “Don’t you recognize him, too, Artemisia?”
Artemisia hurried to him, her voice troubled. “Uncle Oil, What are you d
oing here?”
“Taking care of my interests, Artemisia. Remember that if there were an assassination, I would be the closest of the Hinriads to the possible succession.” Gillbret oth Hinriad winked elaborately, then added, “Oh, get the lieutenant out of here. There isn’t any danger.”
She ignored that and said, “Have you been sounding the communicator again?”
“But yes. Would you deprive me of an amusement? It is pleasant to eavesdrop on them.”
“Not if they catch you.”
“The danger is part of the game, my dear. The amusing part. After all, the Tyranni do not hesitate to sound the. Palace. We can’t do much without their knowing. Well, turnabout, you know. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“No, I’m not,” she said shortly. “This is none of your business.”
“Then I’ll introduce you. When I heard his name, I stopped listening and came in.” He moved past Artemisia, stepped up to Biron, inspected him with an impersonal smile, and said, “This, is Biron Farrill.”
“I have said so myself,” said Biron. More than half his attention was upon the lieutenant, who still held his blaster in firing position.
“But you have not added that you are the son of the Rancher of Widemos.”
“I would have but for your interruption. In any case, you’ve got the story now. Obviously, I had to get away from the Tyranni, and that without giving them my real name.” Biron waited. This was it, he felt. If the next move was not an immediate arrest, there was still a trifling chance.
Artemisia said, “I see. This is a matter for the Director. You are sure there is no plot of any sort, then.”
“None, Your Grace.”
“Good. Uncle Gil, will you remain with Mr. Farrill? Lieutenant, will you come with me?”
Biron felt weak. He would have liked to sit down, but no suggestion to that effect was made by Gillbret, who still inspected him with an almost clinical interest.
“The Rancher’s son! Amusing!”
Biron brought his attention downward. He was tired of cautious monosyllables and careful phrases. He said abruptly, “Yes, the Rancher’s son. It is a congenital situation. Can I help you in any other way?”