The Sedmons pursed their lips. "Just 'Sedmon,' please, whichever of us you are addressing—or however many at once," murmured the one on the right. A moment later, his clone said, a bit reluctantly, "In that case, I believe we are going to have to tell them the truth. Most of it, at least. My identity will have to be fudged, of course, beyond what's needed to make the offer of payment believable. But I think we can leave the specific details regarding the Nanite plague on the vague side. As well as your exact identities, beyond being agents for the Empress. I see no reason to mention Karres at all."
The proposal should have made Pausert very unhappy. In fact, it did the opposite. Logic and cunning maneuver be damned. His instincts told him that Himbo Petey, Richard Cravan, and Dame Ethulassia were to be trusted in a matter of this sort. Besides, the duplicity they had been engaged in was chafing at him more and more. "I'm for it," he said immediately.
Hulik sighed. "It goes entirely against all my training," she said, "But I feel the same."
Hantis shrugged. "At this point, there is danger either way. But Himbo might order us off his ship, and keep ours!"
"This is a mining world," retorted the left-hand Sedmon. "If we cannot buy an old freighter, I would be very much surprised."
Pausert winced. He had grown very attached to the Venture. "Well, we could probably buy our way off, though that much activity might alert the people we're trying to hide from."
"I don't think he'll dump us," the Leewit said suddenly. "Himbo Petey, I mean. And I'd feel better telling him, too."
Goth nodded, Vezzarn shrugged, and the grik-dog simply grunted.
"It seems unanimous," said the right-hand Sedmon. "I suggest, then, that you tell him. Now, if possible."
"Me?" Pausert asked. "What about you?"
"It seems prudent that we remain an unknown," the Sedmons said together. "In fact," added the left-hand one, "we intend to send one of us back to our own ship to remain there for the duration. It is not a wise idea for us both to be seen at the same time."
"It didn't ever occur to you to pass yourself off as perfectly ordinary twins, did it?" Goth asked, sardonically. "I don't know, sometimes. All that supposed intelligence—"
The Sedmons looked stricken. "Twins?" they said together. "But do twins—"
"Sort of," said Vezzarn thoughtfully, tapping his finger against his glass. "Not a real psionic bond, like the Hospitalers seem to have given you. But twins sometimes do act together, talk together—know when each other's in trouble. Why, I remember a couple of girls in a social-club back on Nardis that—"
Hulik coughed; Vezzarn flushed, and cut off whatever he was going to say.
"Very well, then," the Sedmons said. "We will come with you—but not as ourselves. Agents for the bank, perhaps."
"I don't care how you come," said Pausert flatly, "so long as you have some way of proving to Himbo Petey that you have access to enough money to commission his ship for this 'cultural cruise.' Because if you can't do that, you might as well unlock our account so we can cut loose and take our chances."
"That," said the Sedmons, "would be a bad idea."
* * *
Himbo Petey looked from Hantis to Pausert and back again, his eyes narrowed. Pausert expected an explosion, but he wasn't getting one. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or more worried.
"Well," Petey said at last. "If that doesn't beat anything I've ever heard."
"But it certainly explains some otherwise inexplicable things, Himbo," said Richard Cravan thoughtfully. "Mind you, I am less than pleased with their lack of candor up to this point. On the other hand, I can understand why they prevaricated."
"Sure, so can I," growled Petey, "But I still don't like it, not one bit. 'Gainst my showboat principles."
"You have to admit that not knowing hasn't harmed you or the showboat," Hulik pointed out reasonably.
"And you're serious about paying the Petey B to go on this inner-system tour, are you?" Himbo Petey licked his lips. "I dunno. I just don't know. It'd mean guaranteed pay, no matter what the box office took in, and that's not to be sneezed at. But I dunno . . ."
"Himbie!" cried Ethulassia, seizing his arm urgently and drawing him close. "I like the idea!" She and Cravan exchanged a quick glance, and Ethulassia nodded slightly. As she did so—the Dame was no mean magician herself—The Incredible Bosom seemed to expand still further.
"Himbo," Cravan said, his eyes taking on something of an unholy glow. "You know how my one dream has been to take my company and these plays to the central worlds. You know how sure I've been that we could hold our own against any other theatrical company there. This is our chance! This is our chance to prove what we can do, who we are, and at no risk at all to you, financial or otherwise. Please, Himbo! Please! I have never truly begged you for anything before this, but I am begging you now—please let us do this!"
Himbo Petey looked from Ethulassia to Cravan, then to Pausert, then the Sedmons, then back to Cravan. "Well—"
Cravan seized his hand and pumped it. "Thank you, Himbo! Thank you! You are making my dream come true!"
Petey hemmed and hawed a little, looking pleased but embarrassed. "But we don't leave here until we've earned everything there is to earn here," he added hastily. "Damned if I will! Showboat principles are showboat principles."
"We do not disagree," said the right-hand Sedmon earnestly. "It would seem odd if we did. And ah—er—" he coughed. "Our own disguise—perhaps 'bona fides' is a more salubrious term—needs to be established. We think perhaps our ship should be added to the frame, and a job found for us. Temporarily, of course."
"Of course," Himbo agreed. He cocked an eyebrow at Pausert and Hulik. "Suggestions?"
"Mentalist act," said Hulik instantly.
"Cage-sweeper," said Pausert, just as quickly.
The Sedmons gave the captain a look which did not bode well for Pausert's fate and fortune, should he ever find himself back on Uldune again. But he couldn't pass up the opportunity. Once in a lifetime, that was. Besides, he was still a little peeved about the episode on Pidoon.
CHAPTER 23
Of course, the Sedmons were not made into cage-sweepers. They would have been entirely useless at the job, for one thing. They were accustomed to having people following them about, picking up what they absentmindedly dropped, not cleaning up other creatures' messes. Old habits are too hard to break. Much as Pausert would have enjoyed watching the Sedmons try to cope, even he had to admit that.
No, as Hulik had suggested, the Sedmons got a mentalist act; it was easy enough for them to do, and a good talker made up for their inexperience.
They also got a make-work job as Dame Ethulassia's assistants in wardrobe. Not that they were any good at sewing and the like, but they could at least check in the costumes that needed repairs and cleaning, and check out the ones to replace them. "Wardrobe" covered, not only the thespians, but the entire company, so there was enough work to make them look busy, at least.
The Sedmons had agreed initially to the plan not to leave until every last mael had been milked from the miners, simply to resolve the initial situation. But they had always assumed they could, eventually, persuade the Showmaster otherwise.
They were wrong. Absolutely and completely wrong. No argument, no persuasion, not all of the Sedmons' diplomatic experience served. Himbo Petey was not going to budge from this planet as long as there was money to be made there, and no matter what the Sedmons said to him, he was adamant on that score. It seemed—the Sedmons were quite astonished, actually—that the man took his ridiculous "showboat principles" in deadly earnest. It was like dealing with a religious zealot!
The Sedmons were left with the depressing feeling that receipts were never going to drop off, that the Petey B would be here forever. They had to get out of here! Somewhere out there the Nanite plague had started, they were sure of it. Too many things were going wrong out there, and it chafed at the Sedmons that although the other four had the best information services in the galaxy
at their disposal, there just was not enough information coming in. Why else would Karres have disappeared again? They had to leave, and yet, it seemed that Himbo Petey's people would never want to.
And, for a while, it looked as if their worst fears might be right. Miners continued to pack the stalls, the Big Top, and the theater, and accolades continued to come in. Hulik was the recipient of quite a few of those, especially when she played Juliet or Helene.
And that was another source of fretting, for the Daal. When that happened, when the gifts and inevitable marriage proposals appeared backstage . . . The emotions stirred up were something the Sedmons were ill equipped to handle.
But Hulik always sent the same answer to the proposals, a politely, even kindly worded refusal, and the Sedmons relaxed. There was time, apparently.
Time, yes—and now time spent in Hulik's company. The experience only confirmed what had sent them across the galaxy in the first place. It hadn't been the danger of the Nanite plague. Not really.
The Sedmons were in love. Hulik do Eldel was, impossibly enough, the most important person in the universe to them, as important as any one of their six selves.
Maybe more.
The only problem was, they hadn't the faintest idea what to do about it.
How could they propose any sort of alliance with a woman, any woman? What sort of woman would consider such a thing? What had always seemed to be their greatest strength, their very nature, now seemed to be the greatest of curses.
Nevertheless, they could not, would not leave. Aside from any other considerations, this mad longing for her kept them at her side.
Surely, with enough time, they would think of something.
Or Hulik would accept one of those proposals.
Or they would fall out of love. Such things could happen . . . however unlikely it seemed.
And it seemed more and more unlikely with every passing day. Before long, the Sedmons were in a perpetual agony of indecision. What to do? What to do?
* * *
After two weeks, however, audiences for the sideshow acts finally began to drop down to more normal levels, and some acts stopped getting any attention at all. The exotic dancers—in fact, any act featuring a pretty female—remained popular, but some of the rest began to cut back or close. It was obvious why it was happening, of course; you could only watch a comedic escapism act so many times before you got tired of it.
But the theater stayed packed, and Cravan made up for the drop-off in attendance at the sideshows by putting all four of the old plays back into production. Those who had closed their sideshow acts quickly found places to fill there. Even the Sedmons were recruited for nonspeaking roles.
Two weeks became four. The Sedmons still had not thought of a way to approach Hulik.
They began to think that they never would. And in all of their lives, they could not remember feeling such despair.
They actually indulged in daydreams, imagining scenarios in which they rescued Hulik and her companions from thugs of varying design. The costumes changed, though the scenes remained pretty much the same. They even dreamed such things at night, and in fact, almost came to long for such a thing to happen. At least it would give an opportunity to speak!
It became worse when new ships arrived, bearing new miners. Would one of them win Hulik's heart? Or had it already been given? Perhaps to one of the thespians?
That last thought was the worst of all.
* * *
Pausert went through his limbering exercises as he had done so many times, although by now he was no longer nervous about that part of his role as Mercutio. His body knew every choreographed movement so thoroughly that he could have done his fight scenes blindfolded or drunk. So all that mattered was his own preparation, warming up his muscles so that he wouldn't injure himself.
Himbo Petey had confided to the thespians that it was getting to be time to move along, he knew the signs, and Cravan agreed with him. The advertisements would go out tonight: Last four days onplanet! See your favorites again for the final time! There were several potential problems, not the least of which was the possibility of developing jealousy between those whose acts had lasted past the novelty stage, and those whose acts had not.
But even the thespians were beginning to see signs of the contempt bred by familiarity. Early in the run, the audiences had been forgiving. But now, if someone fumbled a line or a prop, there was a subtle grumbling; even, on occasion, outright raspberries.
So there it was. Time to go. The announcement of last days would bring a final influx of customers and cash, and then they would lift. And now they would be heading in the direction where they needed to go. Hubwards. Towards the Empress, to deliver their message. And what then? Pausert only wished he knew. He could not imagine how even the Empress could do anything about the Nanite plague, but who was he to assume he knew anything at all?
He heard the start of the music for Act Three, and swaggered onto the stage as the curtain rose.
Benvolio fanned himself with his hand, and spoke the first lines of Act 3. "I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, and, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl; for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring."
Pausert made a face and waggled his finger in Benvolio's face. "Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need." He raised his eyes heavenward, as if asking for patience.
They traded jibes until Tybalt entered, Vonard Kleesp playing the role with his usual swaggering panache. Benvolio exclaimed: "By my head, here come the Capulets!" He flung himself down on the steps of a prop-fountain, right in their way. "By my heel, I care not."
And that was when Pausert relled vatch.
Not that Silver-eyes hadn't been around, quite faithfully. It was just that the vatch hadn't made its presence known during one of the plays for quite some time. It had been quite scrupulous, in fact, about not making itself a nuisance.
Suddenly, from the aura the vatch was emitting, Pausert realized that Silver-eyes had not come here in play or jest.
Trouble! Trouble! Trouble! shrilled the vatch.
A sudden commotion erupted backstage.
Vonard Kleesp's eyes narrowed.
* * *
There is one sound that no fencer every forgets, if he's heard it once. It is the sudden snap of the protected tip of a fencing blade being broken off. It is the sound that says: someone has a deadly blade in his hands now, a length of steel that can kill you.
It was the sound that Pausert—and everyone else—heard at that moment.
"Move, and you die," said Kleesp softly.
So, of course, Pausert moved.
He rolled out of immediate striking distance, desperately trying to get his own blade free at the same time. It got tangled up in his cloak, though, and as he shot to his feet, he saw Kleesp coming at him and he thought it was all over—
But like a miracle—vatch-style miracle, he realized—the cloak flung itself off his blade, wrapped itself around his free hand, giving him a "shield" of the sort that street-fencers would use.
And there was a lot more noise going on backstage. Pausert didn't have time to think much about it, but his initial assumption that Vonard Kleesp had simply gone mad due to the effects of his alcoholism vanished. This was foul play of some sort, not lunacy.
Kleesp lunged. The tip ripped cloth on his hose and Pausert felt warm wetness on his thigh. Then the blade licked across his upper arm. Penetrating, and being pulled free.
The captain tried to get into the most sensible position which a man with a buttoned foil can take when facing a murderer with a naked blade. That position was somewhere a long way off.
Unfortunately, short of jumping into the audience, Pausert had run out of space to go to. So, he parried the next lunge, wishing desperately it was r
eally as easy to convert a foil into a live blade as the three-dee made it out to be. It wasn't, or there would have been a lot of dead fencers every year. Kleesp had obviously prepared his sword ahead of time. Pausert had no such advantage. Standing on the tip and giving it a sharp jerk upwards was a futile pastime—unless you had a handy metal vise under your shoes. The soft rubber sole on the buskins he was wearing certainly wouldn't do the job.
So he did what the sword could do—parry. He managed to force Kleesp's blade up, so he could grapple the man. Pausert dropped the foil, and, snatching at the base of the naked blade with his cloaked hand, clung to Kleesp's shirtfront with the other.
It was the last thing the murderous actor had expected.
"What in the name of Patham's Seventh Hell are you playing at, damn you?" Pausert hissed into his ear. "Drop the sword and back off."
Kleesp wrestled with manic strength. "I'm going to kill you and be a wealthy man, Pausert," he hissed back. "The Agandar's fortune belongs to me, since I was his lieutenant. You think I spent this much time tracking it down and setting my trap just to walk away? Not a chance."
He managed to wrench his blade free, but he was still too close to use it effectively. And before he could back away, Pausert had him in a bear hug. Whatever else, the captain wasn't letting his armed opponent go.
Kleesp tried to headbutt the captain, but Pausert had been in too many brawls as a junior naval officer. He met the headbutt with one of his own—harder and better placed. Kleesp grunted softly and, for a moment, seemed to weaken. Off-balance, they stumbled against the one of the prop pillars at the edge of the stage. The prop, never intended to withstand such impact, promptly collapsed.
They fell to the floor together. Kleesp's foil was jarred out of his hand when they hit the stage, skittering a few feet away.
Pausert felt a momentary surge of elation. Then—somehow—Kleesp managed to break the captain's bear hug and roll clear. The actor-assassin scrabbled for his foil and came back to his feet, weapon in hand. He lunged at Pausert in a single smooth motion. Pausert dove out of the way and landed, painfully, on another foil. He'd barely managed to take it in hand before Kleesp was onto him again.
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