Princess Valerie's War

by Terry Mancour

  The fever had broken long before they’d made port, but even though the nerves on his face were dead to the touch, now, he felt a constant pain. And his eye -- the real pain hadn’t set in for a few days, as the caustic chemical had worked its way into his eyeball. What remained was a half-eaten orb that allowed him to see only a thoroughly distorted image, a dark and tattered veil. And it ached so badly now that the pain he’d felt when he’d lost his right hand seemed tame, by comparison.

  He had come to Jagannath because it was a nominally friendly port, and he still had some allies here. And he needed allies, badly. After his latest unsuccessful attempt at taking the throne of Tanith, he had lost nearly all of his assets. His most loyal Merthans, the ships he’d called in favors to secure, the weapons he’d bought at a dear price, all gone, now. He had his ship . . . and a small crew of villains too loyal or stupid to see him for the wreck he was . . . but that was all. He didn’t have enough in his pockets to pay the port fees that would allow him to escape to somewhere better or purchase the plutonium he’d need to get there. Wherever ‘there’ might be. In fact, within a couple of days the port authority would likely impound his ship, and then where would he be?

  The problem was, no one wanted to be Garvan Spasso’s friend any more. Not when they could be his capturer. The news of the increase in the price on his head had preceded him, thanks to a disappointing stop at Mertha that had delayed him. He had hoped to collect the emergency cache of money, weapons, and other valuables that his neobarb partners had been keeping in trust for him. But he found only a kilometer-sized radioactive crater where once his retainer’s castle had stood, a few dying survivors of the blast and a hysterically sobbing queen lingering near the edges, and no money to carry him through. He’d picked up the queen and the healthiest of the survivors, scavenged what supplies he could on Mertha, and made his way to a distant port where he’d hoped that no one had heard of Garvan Spasso in a while.

  Jaganath had been his last hope: his plan had been to put into the freeport under a false name, flying false colors, borrow or scrounge up enough money to buy fuel, ammunition, and supplies, maybe hire a couple of destitute scoundrels with no scruples and sound trigger-fingers, and get out of port before his reputation caught up with him. The scout ship he possessed was no warship, but it would be sufficient to shake down a couple of small villages, perhaps on Melkarth or Nergal or some other gods-forsaken world where they couldn’t argue with automatic weapons.

  Chicken stealing. His mind was loathe to even form the words, but he couldn’t avoid it. Chicken stealing. That’s what he’d been reduced to, once again. After twelve years of struggle, he found himself in the same place he’d started: reduced to robbing the neobarbs for their shiny baubles. Only this time, he didn’t even have a crap boat like the Lamia. Or a decent crew. No self-respecting Space Viking would see his tiny ship and his sordid reputation as an asset, so teaming up wasn’t even an option. Not that he could even consider trying to trust his fellow Chicken Thieves.

  A Gilgamesher had arrived three hundred hours before Spasso with news of his disasterous raid on Tanith, and with her she carried news that the price on his head had doubled. He hadn’t won any friends for kidnapping a baby, either – it had been a bold, audacious plan, and if it had worked the brat would have come to no harm and he would have had the throne.

  Even low-rent scoundrels who skulked around the port like Three-Finger Willy Christchurch of the Tunnelsnake, Brownie Munroe of the Gadfly, and Mateo Shirlen of the Cold Victory, men he’d drunk and fought and whored with for years couldn’t ignore the bounty on his head. Jaganath was replete with chicken thieves of their caliber, men in ships under a thousand feet – not real Space Vikings, but scavengers who lived on the margins of the trade. He’d seen them at their usual haunt closer to the spaceport, the Black Crow Lounge, and gotten out before they recognized him. Half of the port would have gone mad, had they recognized Spasso or his ship, to claim all that money his enemies had put on his head. The other half would have quietly cheered as he was lead off in chains. To men like these, Garvan Spasso was worth far more dead than alive.

  So he sat here in Slago’s and drank the bitter native hooch, keeping out of the public eye, conserving what coin he had, and meditating on his regrets.

  There were plenty, stretching back decades. He relived them all, every poor decision, every cautious victory, every magnificent triumph, every ignoble defeat. He relived them all, a long, tawdry life of ambition and disappointment. Sometimes the despair got to him so much he considered chewing on the barrel of his pistol and moving on to his next incarnation. But something wouldn’t let him. At least not until he’d drank up the last of his coin.

  Then one afternoon, a man sat down across the table from him. A well-dressed man, in the style of the Sword Worlds. The clothing was tasteful and understated, the dress dagger and pistol at his belt of high quality, but serviceable. His boots, alone, would have been worth everything Spasso carried on him, and he had a plain-looking mantle of expensive-looking brown cloth, embroidered at the hem and collar in black designs, intricately stitched. On his tunic he bore a small knight’s star of unfamiliar design. Yet despite his finery, he did not betray a sense of unease, as any man of means might by haunting a dive like Slago’s. That was intriguing. It also might mean he was a bounty hunter, despite his knighthood.

  “Count Spasso,” he said, respectfully, bowing as he approached. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency. May I sit?”

  “I’m not Spasso,” Spasso grunted as he eyed the man nervously. He had a price on his head -- a high price -- and there were whole planets who would be eager to collect it. Unlike most men in his position, he hadn’t drawn his pistol and set it handily on the table when he’d arrived. Unlike most men, he had a six-shot .38 built into his prosthetic right hand that most people didn’t know about, making a pistol redundant. “Name is Vigneux. What do you want?” he asked, bluntly. “And who the Nifflheim are you?”

  “I am Sir Antony Stuart,” the man said, with a bow. “I wanted to pay my respects and express my sympathy over your recent disappointments. ‘Mr. Vigneux’.”

  “Which one?” Spasso scoffed. “My thirteenth name-day party? Failing my astrogation exam the first time? Rogering that poxy doxy on Hoth?”

  “Your plan to liberate the Realm of Tanith,” Sir Antony said, quietly. “It’s unfortunate that it failed . . . yet . . .”

  “Yet?” Spasso burst out, frustrated. “There is no yet. That was my final throw. I’m finished. I’d be tempted to turn my ownself in for the reward, if I had the courage.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Count,” Antony soothed. “You did remarkably well with very little resources. You managed to sneak an invasion force past a considerable defensive line. You landed troops on the ground. You nearly invested the city. If the Tanith fleet—”

  “Yes, I know, I know,” Spasso said, waving the words away with disgust. “If they hadn’t gotten back, I would have had a chance. Bloody neobarbs – he armed them! That idiot gave advanced weapons to a bunch of neobarbarian savages! They tore my people up, too. Disgraceful!” He sagged. “But here I am, blaming the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, when I should be blaming myself.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Excellency,” Sir Antony said, patting his prosthetic warmly. “You displayed a lot of talent, there. And you did some amazing work on Gram, too.”

  “Gram?” Spasso said, perking up. “Don’t speak to me about Gram. I’ve had it with bloody Gram. I’ve got the damned former Queen of Gram on my ship, now. Found her standing outside of a blast zone on Mertha, just bawling like a baby. Picked up a flux, too – puked the whole way here, from the radiation. In my bloody cabin, too. Place still stinks worse than this one. Don’t speak to me about Gram. Wish I’d never heard of the place.”

  “Count Spasso, what would you say if I told you that . . . certain parties are far more concerned with the initiative and daring
you showed than its eventual failure?”

  “I’d say those certain parties were drinkin’ doubles,” Spasso said, gruffly.

  Sir Antony smiled indulgently. “There are those in positions of power who would make use of a man of your talents, Count Spasso. Who would pay handsomely for you to do . . . well, a number of things. Things you’ve displayed a profound talent for.”

  “Unseemly things, then,” Spasso said. “I don’t think you’re discussing my ability to dance.”

  “Just so,” agreed the knight. “A man like you – a captain, a count, a conqueror – a man can go far, if he has the right backing. And I represent someone who thinks we have just the right job for you.”

  “Is that so?” Spasso said, disbelieving. “Well, that ain’t the first ball of crap I’ve stepped over today, but it may well be the biggest!”

  “I assure you, Count, I’m completely serious. As a token of my good faith, I took the liberty of paying your port fees for you before I came here.”

  “You . . . what?”

  “Call and check in with the port authority, if you like. But you’re free to go.”

  “Why in nine hells would you do that?”

  “It would be difficult for you to get to your new position if you didn’t have a ship,” shrugged the knight. “I figured it would be more expedient if you didn’t have to deal with that.”

  “And the fact I don’t have two stellars to rub together . . .”

  “Exactly. I’ve paid for fuel, too. Enough to get you where you need to be. And you have a thousand-stellar credit at the port authority store, so you may draw provisions.”

  “So what sort of job is this?” he asked, carefully. “The kind where I get a big paycheck, and then you get an even bigger one for turning me over to Trask? Or I merely get my throat slit for a job well-done?”

  “Oh, hardly. We’re as upset by Trask as you – maybe more. It’s a pity you didn’t succeed, you would have made a far more agreeable ruler than Lucas Trask. But you may earn another shot at him, if you play your cards right. Not now, but eventually. In the meantime . . . well, are you familiar with Milton?”

  “Lars Milton, the first mate of the Kingmaker?” Spasso asked, confused. Lars was a decent fellow, though a bit dull, and well thought-of by most of his comrades. But if there were enough stellars in it, Spasso would be willing to kill him.

  “No, Count,” the knight smiled, indulgently. “The author of Paradise Lost.”

  “Ah. I think I read that once, a lifetime ago. Why?”

  “There’s a famous quote from it, one that Lucifer says. I think it applies here.”

  “And what would this burning piece of profound wisdom be, Sir Antony?” Spasso asked, rolling his eyes.

  “ ‘Tis better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven,’ “ the knight quoted. “That’s the sort of arrangement we’re speaking of.”

  Spasso eyed the man carefully, and weighing his options discovered he had none. It didn’t cost anything to listen.

  “Tell me more,” he sighed. “You’ve got my attention.”