Collected Short Fiction, page 110
The full colonel outranked Regan—but rank meant nothing in a situation like this.
He enjoyed the colonel’s momentary discomfiture. The officer was obviously in the same trap. He hadn’t meant for Regan to hear what was obviously a personal opinion, but he couldn’t deny it now.
“I said,” the colonel replied evenly, “that I did not feel your promotion was justified. I mean no personal antagonism; I am thinking of the good of the service.”
A nice dodge, Regan thought approvingly. The man was not backing down; he was simply trying to shift the purpose of the duel. He would no longer be defending his personal honor, for now the honor of the service would be at stake.
Regan decided to go him one better. “I make no claims of my own, Colonel, but am I to presume that you imply bad judgment on the part of His Supreme Nobility, whose decision it was to promote me?”
The colonel’s face went white. He’d made a mistake and he knew it, but there was no way out for him at this stage of the game. “This seems to have resolved itself into a personal difficulty, sir,” he said.
“Indeed it has, sir,” replied Regan.
The colonel glanced at the officer standing next to him. “Will you oblige me, Major?
Regan smiled and turned to the commander. “My Lord Commander, would you appoint me a second?”
The commander, he knew, would have to appoint a noble. No duelist could have a noble second unless his opponent also had a noble second; otherwise, it would be possible for a noble to strike down his man’s opponent at an opportune moment, and a quick sword stroke would cover up the mental death.
Commander Larthin appointed a major who was standing nearby.
“He’s a good man,” Larthin whispered. “You can trust him.”
The four of them walked through the suddenly quiet ballroom and out to the adjoining balcony. The night air was cool and tangy, and overhead the bright glitter of the Cluster gave ample illumination.
They surveyed the balcony, drawing up an impromptu set of rules to cover the duel, and then the two combatants drew. Regan saw the shining flicker of the other man’s rapier, and knew that this duel was in earnest.
The colonel drove in sharply, but Regan beat back the thrust and sliced downward, cutting the air with his sword. He drove forward, but found himself parried. The colonel was a good swordsman, no doubt about it.
But was he good enough? Regan felt the thrill of combat run through him; he stamped with his foot and lunged in the same moment.
The sword slipped through the colonel’s guard and incised a long, jagged streak at the side of the man’s throat. “First blood,” Regan cried.
The touch seemed to intensify the colonel’s attack. He came pressing inward and beat down Regan’s guard long enough to pink him in the shoulder. A driblet of blood stained Dane’s bright uniform.
“A touch for me, upstart!”
Dane grinned. “That evens us,” he said. He feinted, dodged, and whipped his wrist over in a lightning-fast disengagement that the colonel only barely managed to parry. This was no mean antagonist, Dane thought, shaking his head to keep the sweat from rolling down his brow into his eyes.
He gripped the hilt more tightly and wove forward for another offensive maneuver. As he drove toward the colonel’s heart, the Jillanian parried the thrust and stepped nimbly aside. Regan leaped back as the colonel’s blade came in for a counterthrust.
Then, as Regan parried the blow, something struck his mind. It was like a bolt of lightning trying to penetrate a thick glass shield; it didn’t hurt, but he could feel what had almost happened. Someone—a noble—had tried to kill him!
Regan faltered for a moment, and the colonel sprang forward with a long, savage thrust. Regan parried, disengaged, and followed with a lunge.
He hadn’t thought it would be successful; the colonel appeared much too clever to be fooled by a simple maneuver like that. But Regan was wrong!
The blade went through so smoothly that Regan hardly felt the pressure. The colonel had just long enough to look terribly astonished before he died.
Regan stood there for a moment, looking at the dead man. Then he turned and strode away, leaving the seconds to finish up with the details. He walked back to the ballroom alone, but he no longer felt like dancing. The colonel had been the first man Regan had ever killed personally. Blasting a spaceship is one thing, and spitting a man on a steel blade is another.
REGAN sat in his room in the officers’ quarters that night, thinking furiously. Everything had seemed to go wrong. He had thought that perhaps such a ceremonial occasion as this would bring him face-to-face with Gwyll of Jillane. It hadn’t; the hunchback had stayed in his own rooms, sending his daughter out to do the honors. And then—
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Regan said.
He rose from his chair as Noble Commander Larthin entered. “Sit down, Colonel,” the nobleman said. He was still wearing his evening finery, and his long, refined face was pale and weary.
At Larthin’s gesture, Regan sat once again. The commander sank into a pneumochair opposite him. “That was an excellent job you did tonight, my boy.”
“Thank you, my Lord Commander.” Regan wondered if it hadn’t been the commander who had sent that bolt of mental energy against him during the duel. Larthin had been acting especially friendly since the Battle of Ballin’s Star, but still . . .
The nobleman spread his hands and tapped his fingertips together, as though formulating his next words with extra care. “You’re a Vegan,” he said at last. “I understand that is in the Main Galaxy somewhere.”
Regan nodded.
“Now, mind you, I have nothing against you—quite the contrary; I’m for you all the way. But there are certain jealous officers in the service—as you saw this evening.”
“Was it jealousy, sir?”
“It’s unusual for an officer to rise as rapidly as you have, though it’s not unknown,” Larthin said. He paused for a second, again choosing his words. “I’ll he frank with you, Colonel: you don’t have long to live. That duel this evening was set up; Colonel Marten was one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom of Jillane. He picked that fight on purpose, although it was handled most adroitly. He was supposed to win. He didn’t. Someone else will try the next time.”
“I see,” Regan said emotionlessly.
“But the next time, it will be different. There are some noblemen who are jealous, too, and—well . . .”
“Go on, sir.”
“From now on, you’ll have to be treading as though you were walking on eggs. If some nobleman has the slightest excuse, he’ll nail you with his Power. Most of us can’t kill, but the constant mental pressure can be fatal in the end.”
Regan stood up slowly, fingering the newly-won Star of Jillane on his breast. “I appreciate this, sir.”
Larthin smiled unhappily.
“Your worst danger is still unmentioned. It’s the possibility that some commoner will challenge you, and some nobleman will hit you just as a thrust is coming. It’s happened before, I’m sorry to say.”
Suddenly, Regan Realized that there was no way out. If he stayed, it would be eventually revealed that he was actually a nobleman. One nobleman had tried to kill him directly already, and had failed. He might attribute his failure to accident—the first time. But if Dane Regan stood up to repeated mental thrusts, it would quickly become apparent that he was not the commoner he pretended to be.
And when that happened, the sword and the Power would be thrown overboard. Someone would ambush him with a disruptor pistol.
He stood there, frowning, staring down at the patient, serious face of Lord Commander Larthin. Regan realized that by going about things Jorg’s way, he had been led astray.
The old man had told him: “Be cautious. Be careful. Hide your mental powers and pretend to be an ordinary man. Work your way up slowly, never losing sight of your objective. And then, at the right time, strike!”
But it hadn’t worked. It was the wrong way entirely. After a year of biding his time, he was worse off than before. Being a hero, even if it was done honestly, was the wrong way. He had made too many enemies.
There was another flaw in Jorg’s reasoning too. The old man had taught him to hate the hunchbacked Gwyll of Jillane because Gwyll had killed his father and cheated him out of his rightful heritage to the throne of Jillane. But how culpable was Gwyll, really? Wasn’t he simply doing what the others of this culture were doing—and succeeding at it?
Regan stood up. His decision was made.
“Thank you, my Lord Commander. I’ll think over what you said.”
The commander lifted himself from his chair. “I hope you will, Colonel; I’d hate to see a good man die.”
He nodded politely and walked out without another word.
AFTER the commander had left, Regan changed into a fresh dress uniform, donned the Star of Jillane, and strode over to the Officers’ Club.
A hush swept over the brightly-bespangled Jillanians as he entered. They all knew the outcome of the duel that had marred the ball earlier that evening, and no doubt many of them bore deep resentment against the killer of Colonel Marten.
He approached a table at which three swarthy officers were engaged in a low-voiced discussion.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
The man on his left, a thick-bodied captain, glanced up coolly. “Suit yourself.”
Regan drew forth a chair and sat down. The three at the table exchanged glances, but said nothing that might lead to a challenge. Regan snared a passing waiter, and ordered a drink.
A few moments later, it arrived. He stared at the moist-looking amber cylinder for a moment, then raised it to his lips. He let a mouthful of liquor pass his lips, swallowing just a few drops—don’t want to dull my reflexes now, he thought—and expelled the rest of the liquor from his mouth noisily.
“Pfaaagh! What bilge-water!”
The liquor sprayed out over the costly uniform of the captain seated opposite him. The man was too astonished to react for almost a full second, and sat there, dripping, his uniform ruined, while Regan stood up and grabbed the waiter’s arm.
“Look here, fellow, what was in that drink?”
“Why, the finest rye we had, sir. Rye and dolch-water, wasn’t that your order?” Regan continued to haggle for a couple of seconds more, then gave the waiter a swift kick and turned back to his table. “The stuff they try to serve these days,” he remarked casually.
And then, as if for the first time, he noticed the livid face of the officer opposite him. “Oh, how unfortunate,” Regan said. “You seem to have spilled your drink.”
“Not quite,” the man said icily. He stood up. “I shall consider your act as a premeditated insult, in view of your lack of apology.”
“Are you challenging me?” Regan demanded.
“It rather looks that way,” said the captain.
For the second time that night, Regan found himself in a duel—this one, deliberately provoked by himself. He allowed the duel to proceed for about ten quick exchanges of thrusts, discovering in that time that the captain was a merely competent swordsman whom he could finish off any time he so chose. He did not so choose, though.
Quickly, he took control of the captain’s mind and the minds of the two seconds.
See the image? There’s your sword, fellow, thrusting into my gizzard.
The three men went back into the club firmly convinced that the captain had killed Lieutenant Colonel Dane Regan. The news spread rapidly that the rising young officer had been lamentably snuffed out—but there were few wet eyes in Jillane that night. Dane Regan, in his short career in the Army of Jillane, had not precisely made himself popular, and his sudden death left a good many men—nobles and commoners alike—breathing more freely in relief.
Later that evening, an unscheduled flight left the planet of Jillane, bearing on it the man who had been Dane Regan.
CHAPTER IV
IT WAS the same day that the aged Emperor died that a ship settled itself to the landing field in the city of Prellin on the planet Jillane.
From it, there debarked a most resplendently-dressed figure. His clothing glittered with jewels and fine fabrics; his face was haughty, and bore not the slightest resemblance to the face of a certain Dane Regan who had been killed in a duel some two years before. But the mind behind it was the same.
This gentleman, it seemed, was one Prince Danirr of Loksann, a title which was questioned by the officer behind the desk at the spaceport.
“Prince? Is that a name or a title?”
“A title,” said Regan coldly.
“What does it mean?”
“It means that I rank just below a king,” Regan explained with patient disdain.
The officer blinked. “I see, sir. And you’re from Loksann. Uh—what is Loksann?”
Regan lifted an eyebrow superciliously. “Dear me! You people are barbaric out here, aren’t you? Loksann, my dear fellow, happens to be a globular cluster on the other side of the galaxy.” It was an out-and-out lie—but a carefully calculated one.
“I see,” the official said. “Then—then you rank just below the King of Loksann?”
“No,” Regan corrected haughtily. “I rule Loksann. I rank just below the King of the Twelve Clusters.”
That would sound like an awful lot of territory to the official, but he said nothing. The Prince’s papers were in order. They should have been; Regan had spent plenty of painstaking time forging them.
When he was cleared at the spaceport, Regan headed for the palace of Gwyll of Jillane. No detours this time; no extraneous foolishness whatever. He went directly to the point.
As he had hoped, his reputation had preceded him. At the palace gate, the electronic portals opened, and a nobleman was there to meet him.
“Prince Danirr? You are most welcome. Come with me.”
Regan followed the nobleman into a large suite of rooms. He was led into one room which was windowless, but well lit. There were several chairs scattered around, and a soft, comfortable couch. Regan strode in, knowing exactly what would happen.
It did.
The door behind him slid shut, and there was the subtle click of an electrolock. Regan paid no attention; he walked to the couch and sat down. There was a magazine on the nearby table, which he picked up and began to read idly, without paying close attention to the pages he glanced at.
At the same time, he “listened” with his mind.
This, he soon learned, was something that had never happened before in the long history of the Empire Cluster. For nearly a thousand years, no foreign dignitary had ever visited the Cluster—why should it happen now? The nobles of Jillane were, to say the least, disturbed. For ten centuries, they had gone their way untroubled—and now, here was a representative from, not the Main Galaxy, but the other side of the galaxy! He came from some culture at least fifty thousand light-years away! Regan’s sensitive mind picked up emanations of uneasiness.
Gwyll of Jillane was looking through a visiscreen at him. He could tell that.
“He looks harmless enough, but—” The old King’s hands clasped each other.
He’s scared silly, Regan thought.
Old Gwyll didn’t deserve his crown, and he knew it. And for that reason, he was suspicious of everyone. The young Vegan he had had killed two years before worried him. The man had not faltered when a bolt of mental energy hit him, and yet he had died later that night in an ordinary duel of no consequence.
It was a puzzle Gwyll had not yet fathomed—and here was another.
Regan waited more or less patiently while Gwyll considered the situation. Finally, Gwyll reached a decision. He turned to the nobleman beside him.
“Tell him I am ill,” he said. “The voting will take place in a few days; when I am Emperor, I will talk to him.”
Regan smiled openly, but those who were watching him thought it was something funny he had seen in the magazine he was reading.
PRINCE DANIRR of Loksann strode into the Imperial Hotel of Pellin, trailing a cloak of fiery red silk. His flamboyant clothing made him noticeable wherever he went, and his conduct made him doubly so. He had no bodyguards; he strode in alone as though he owned the place.
He walked up to the clerk at the desk. “Prince Danirr of Loksann. I want the biggest suite in the hotel.”
The clerk blinked; he was obviously impressed. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said hesitantly. “The Grand Suite is already reserved. We have a—”
“Cancel the reservation,” said Regan. He produced a glistening stack of hundred-stellor coins. “I’ll take the suite.”
He got the suite.
It would serve as his headquarters for his short but colorful second stay on Jillane.
It was a rambling, high-ceilinged affair with soft, clinging drapes and carpets a foot thick. The rent was astronomical, but that didn’t matter to Regan. If he gained the prize he sought, a few thousand stellors would not matter—and if he failed, it likewise would not matter.
He established himself, ordered a sumptuous meal, and then dialed the visiscope for news. The screen lit up, and a robot voice said, “Your questions, noble sir?”
Regan leaned forward and glared at the faceless eye of the screen. “The election for Emperor—when is it?”
“The Hundred Kings will meet in five days, sir,” the bland voice said.
“Who is considered the most likely choice?”
“Our King Gwyll is considered most probable to be selected, sir.”
“Fine,” Regan said. He paused for a moment, thinking.
Finally, he said, “And how soon after the election will the coronation be held?”
“Within three days, noble sir.”
That gives me eight days, Regan thought. Eight days.
“One more question,” he said. “What are the present whereabouts of the Lady Raleen of Jillane?”
The robot was silent for a moment, as it checked its files. Then it said: “The Lady Raleen is at present in the city of Noricel. She plans to stay there for the next week.”
