He stood up. "Excuse me," he said. "I have an appointment elsewhere in the city. You can reach me at my usual address if you need me for anything."
It took him the better part of a day to get to see the Chief Steward of Moaris Keep and explain to him that he had been unavoidably detained in the far worlds, and that he fully intended to re-enter the Moaris' service and perform his duties loyally and faithfully. After quite some wrangling he was reinstated as one of the Second Stewards, and given functions to carry out in the daily life of the sprawling residence that was Moaris Keep.
Several days passed before he caught as much as a glimpse of the Lady Moaris. That did not surprise him; the Keep covered fifteen acres of Borlaam City, and Lord and Lady occupied private quarters on the uppermost level, the rest of the huge place being devoted to libraries, ballrooms, art galleries, and other housings, for the Moaris treasures, all of these rooms requiring a daily cleaning by the household staff.
He saw her finally as he was passing through the fifth-level hallway in search of the ramp that would take him to his next task, cataloguing the paintings of the sixth-level gallery. He heard a rustle of crinoline first, and then she proceeded down the hall, flanked on each side by copper-colored Toppidan giants and in front and back by glistening-gowned ladies-in-waiting.
The Lady Moaris herself wore sheer garments that limned the shapely lines of her body. Her face was sad; it seemed to Herndon, as he saw her from afar, that she was under some considerable strain.
He stepped to one side to let the procession go past; but she saw him, and glanced quickly to the side at which he stood. Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized him. He did not dare a smile. He waited until she had moved on, but inwardly he gloated. It was not difficult to read the expression in her eyes.
Later that day, a blind Agozlid servant came up to him and silently handed him a sealed note. Herndon pocketed it, waiting until he was alone in a corridor that was safe from the Lord Moaris' spy-rays. He knew it was safe; the spy-ray in that corridor had been defective, and he himself had removed it that morning, meaning to replace it later in the day.
He broke the seal. The note said simply:I have waited a month for you. Come to me tonight; M. is to spend the night at the Seigneur's palace. Karla will admit you.
The photonically-sensitized ink faded from sight in a moment; the paper was blank. He thrust it in a disposal hatch, smiling.
He quietly made his way toward the eleventh-level chamber of the Lady Moaris when the Keep had darkened for the night. Her lady-in-waiting Karla was on duty, the bronze-haired one who had served as go-between aboard theLord Nathiir. Now she wore night robes of translucent silk; a test of his fidelity, no doubt. Herndon carefully kept his eyes from her body and said, "I am expected."
"Yes. Come with me."
It seemed to him that the look in her eyes was a strange one: desire, jealousy, hatred perhaps? But she turned and led him within, down corridors lit only with a faint nightglow. She nudged an opener; a door before him flickered and was momentarily nullified. He stepped through and it returned to the solid state behind him.
The Lady Moaris was waiting.
She wore only the filmiest of gowns, and the longing was evident in her eyes. Herndon said, "Is this safe?"
"It is. Moaris is away at Krellig's." Her lip curled in a bitter scowl. "He spends half his nights there, toying with the Seigneur's cast-off women. The room is sealed against spy-rays. There's no way he can find out you've been here."
"And the girl—Karla? You trust her?"
"As much as I can trust anyone." Her arms sought his shoulders. "My rogue," she murmured. "Why did you leave us at Molleccogg?"
"Business of my own, milady."
"I missed you. Molleccogg was a bore without you."
Herndon smiled gravely. "Believe me, I didn't leave you because I chose to. But I had sworn to carry out duty elsewhere."
She pulled him urgently to her. Herndon felt pity for this lonely noblewoman, first in rank among the ladies of the court, condemned to seek lovers among the stewards and grooms.
"Anything I have is yours," she promised him. "Ask for anything! Anything!"
"There is one prize you might secure for me," Herndon said grimly.
"Name it. The cost doesn't matter."
"There is no cost," Herndon said. "I simply seek an invitation to the court of the Seigneur. You can secure this through your husband. Will you do it for me?"
"Of course," she whispered. She clung to him hungrily. "I'll speak to Moaris—tomorrow."
CHAPTER VI
At the end of the week, Herndon visited the Avenue of Bronze and learned from Bollar Benjin that sales of the starstones proceeded well, that the arrangement under royal patronage was a happy one, and that they would soon be relieved of most of their stock. It would, therefore, be necessary for him to make another trip to Vyapore during the next several weeks. He agreed, but requested an advance of two months' salary.
"I don't see why not," Benjin agreed. "You're a valuable man, and we have the money to spare."
He handed over a draft for ten thousand stellors. Herndon thanked him gravely, promised to contact him when it was time for him to make the journey to Vyapore and left.
That night he departed for Meld XVII, where he sought out the surgeon who had altered his features after his flight from sacked Zonnigog. He requested certain internal modifications. The surgeon was reluctant, saying the operation was a risky one, very difficult, and entailed a fifty per cent chance of total failure, but Herndon was stubborn.
It cost him twenty-five thousand stellors, nearly all the money he had, but he considered the investment a worthy one. He returned to Borlaam the next day. A week had elapsed since his departure.
He presented himself at Moaris Keep, resumed his duties, and once again spent the night with the Lady Moaris. She told him that she had wangled a promise from her husband, and that he was soon to be invited to court. Moaris had not questioned her motives, and she said the invitation was a certainty.
Some days later a message was delivered to him, addressed to Barr Herndon of Zonnigog. It was in the hand of the private secretary to Moaris, and it said that the Lord Moaris had chosen to exert his patronage in favor of Barr Herndon, and that Herndon would be expected to pay his respects to the Seigneur Krellig.
The invitation from the Seigneur came later in the day, borne by a resplendent Toppidan footman, commanding him to present himself at the court reception the following evening, on pain of displeasing the Seigneur. Herndon exulted. He had attained the pinnacle of Borlaamese success, now; he was to be allowed into the presence of the sovereign. This was the culmination of all his planning.
He dressed in the court robes that he had purchased weeks before for just such an event—robes that had cost him more than a thousand stellors, sumptuous with inlaid precious gems and rare metals. He visited a tonsorial parlor and had an artificial beard affixed, in the fashion of many courtiers who disliked growing beards but who desired to wear them at ceremonial state functions. He was bathed and combed, perfumed, and otherwise prepared for his debut at court. He also made certain that the surgical modifications performed on him by the Meldian doctor would be effective when the time came.
The shadows of evening dropped. The moons of Borlaam rose, dancing brightly across the sky. The evening fireworks display cast brilliant light through the winter sky, signifying that this was the birthmonth of Borlaam's Seigneur.
Herndon sent for the carriage he had hired. It arrived, a magnificent four-tube model bright with gilt paint, and he left his shabby dwelling-place. The carriage soared into the night sky; twelve minutes later, it descended in the courtyard of the Grand Palace of Borlaam, that monstrous heap of masonry that glowered down at the capital city from the impregnable vantage-point of the Hill of Fire.
Floodlights illuminated the Grand Palace. Another man might have been stirred by the imposing sight; Herndon merely felt an upwelling of anger. Once his family had lived in a palace too: not of this size, to be sure, for the people of Zonnigog were modest and unpretentious in their desires. But it had been a palace all the same, until the armies of Krellig razed it.
He dismounted from his carriage and presented his invitation to the haughty Seigneurial guards on duty. They admitted him, after checking to see that he carried no concealed weapons, and he was conducted to an antechamber in which he found the Lord Moaris.
"So you're Herndon," Moaris said speculatively. He squinted and tugged at his beard.
Herndon compelled himself to kneel. "I thank you for the honor your Grace bestows upon me this night."
"You needn't thank me," Moaris grunted. "My wife asked for your name to be put on my invitation list. But I suppose you know all that. You look familiar, Herndon. Where have I seen you before?"
Presumably Moaris knew that Herndon had been employed in his own service. But he merely said, "I once had the honor of bidding against you for a captive proteus in the slave market, milord."
A flicker of recognition crossed Moaris' seamed face, and he smiled coldly. "I seem to remember," he said.
A gong sounded.
"We mustn't keep the Seigneur waiting," said Moaris. "Come."
Together, they went forward to the Grand Chamber of the Seigneur of Borlaam.
Moaris entered first, as befitted his rank, and took his place to the left of the monarch, who sat on a raised throne decked with violet and gold. Herndon knew protocol; he knelt immediately.
"Rise," the Seigneur commanded. His voice was a dry whisper, feathery-sounding, barely audible and yet commanding all the same. Herndon rose and stared levelly at Krellig.
The monarch was a tiny man, dried and fleshless; he seemed almost to be a humpback. Two beady, terrifying eyes glittered from a wrinkled, world-weary face. Krellig's lips were thin and bloodless, his nose a savage slash, his chin wedge-shaped.
Herndon let his eyes rove. The hall was huge, as he had expected; vast pillars supported the ceiling, and rows of courtiers flanked the walls. There were women, dozens of them: the Seigneur's mistresses, no doubt.
In the middle of the hall hung suspended something that looked to be a giant cage, completely cloaked in thick draperies of red velvet. Some pet of the Seigneur's probably lurked within: a vicious pet, Herndon theorized, possibly a Villidoni gyrfalcon with honed talons.
"Welcome to the court," the Seigneur murmured. "You are the guest of my friend Moaris, eh?"
"I am, Sire," Herndon said. In the quietness of the hall his voice echoed cracklingly.
"Moaris is to provide us all with some amusement this evening," remarked the monarch. The little man chuckled in anticipatory glee. "We are very grateful to your sponsor, the Lord Moaris, for the pleasure he is to bring us this night."
Herndon frowned. He wondered obscurely whether he was to be the source of amusement. He stood his ground unafraid; before the evening had ended, he himself would be amused at the expense of the others.
"Raise the curtain," Krellig commanded.
Instantly two Toppidan slaves emerged from the corners of the throneroom and jerked simultaneously on heavy cords that controlled the curtain over the cage. Slowly the thick folds of velvet lifted, revealing, as Herndon had suspected, a cage.
There was a girl in the cage.
She hung suspended by her wrists from a bar mounted at the roof of the cage. She was naked; the bar revolved, turning her like an animal trussed to a spit. Herndon froze, not daring to move, staring in sudden astonishment at the slim bare body dangling there.
It was a body he knew well.
The girl in the cage was the Lady Moaris.
Seigneur Krellig smiled benignly; he murmured in a gentle voice, "Moaris, the show is yours and the audience awaits. Don't keep us waiting."
Moaris slowly moved toward the center of the ballroom floor. The marble under his feet was brightly polished and reflected him; his boots thundered as he walked.
He turned, facing Krellig, and said in a calm, controlled tone, "Ladies and gentlemen of the Seigneur's court, I beg leave to transact a little of my domestic business before your eyes. The lady in the cage, as most of you, I believe, are aware, is my wife."
A ripple of hastily-hushed comment was emitted by the men and women of the court. Moaris gestured and a spotlight flashed upward, illuminating the woman in the cage.
Herndon saw that her wrists were cruelly pinioned and that the blue veins stood out in sharp relief against her pale arms. She swung in a small circle as the bar above her turned in its endless rotation. Beads of sweat trickled down her back and down her stomach, and the harsh sobbing intake of her breath was audible in the silence.
Moaris said casually, "My wife has been unfaithful to me. A trusted servant informed me of this not long ago: she has cheated me several times with no less a personage than an obscure member of our household, a groom or a lackey or some other person. When I questioned her, she did not deny this accusation. The Seigneur"—Moaris bowed in a throneward direction—"has granted me permission to chastise her here, to provide me with greater satisfaction and you with a moment of amusement."
Herndon did not move. He watched as Moaris drew from his sash a glittering little heat-gun. Calmly the nobleman adjusted the aperture to minimum. He gestured; a side of the cage slid upward, giving him free target.
He lifted the heat-gun.
Flick!
A bright tongue of flame licked out—and the girl in the cage uttered a little moan as a pencil-thin line was seared across her flanks.
Flick!
Again the beam played across her body.Flick!Again. Lines of pain were traced across her breasts, her throat, her knees, her back. She revolved helplessly as Moaris amused himself, carving line after line along her body with the heat-ray. It was only with an effort that Herndon held still. The members of the court chuckled as the Lady Moaris writhed and danced in an effort to escape the inexorable lash of the beam.
Moaris was an expert. He sketched patterns on her body, always taking care that the heat never penetrated below the upper surface of the flesh. It was a form of torture that might endure for hours, until the blood bubbled in her veins and she died.
Herndon realized the Seigneur was peering at him. "Do you find this courtly amusement to your taste, Herndon?" Krellig asked.
"Not quite, Sire." A hum of surprise rose that such a newcomer to the court should dare to contradict the Seigneur. "I would prefer a quicker death for the lady."
"And rob us of our sport?" Krellig asked.
"I would indeed do that," said Herndon. Suddenly he thrust open his jewelled cloak; the Seigneur cowered back as if he expected a weapon to come forth, but Herndon merely touched a plate in his chest, activating the device that the Meldian had implanted in his body. The neuronic mesh functioned in reverse; gathering a charge of deadly force, it sent the bolt surging along Herndon's hand. A bright arc of fire leaped from Herndon's pointing finger and surrounded the girl in the cage.
"Barr!" she screamed, breaking her silence at last, and died.
Again Herndon discharged the neuronic force, and Moaris, his hands singed, dropped his heat-gun.
"Allow me to introduce myself," Herndon said, as Krellig stared white-faced at him and the nobles of the court huddled together in fright. "I am Barr Herndon, son of the First Earl of Zonnigog. Somewhat over a year ago a courtier's jest roused you to lay waste to your fief of Zonnigog and put my family to the sword. I have not forgotten that day."
"Seize him!" Krellig shrieked.
"Anyone who touches me will be blasted with the fire," Herndon said. "Any weapon directed at me will recoil upon its owner. Hold your peace and let me finish.
"I am also Barr Herndon, Second Steward to Lord Moaris, and the lover of the woman who died before you. It must comfort you, Moaris, to know that the man who cuckolded you was no mere groom, but a noble of Zonnigog.
"I am also," Herndon went on, in the dead silence, "Barr Herndon the spacerogue, driven to take up a mercenary's trade by the destruction of my household. In that capacity I became a smuggler of starstones, and"—he bowed—"through an ironic twist, found myself owing a debt of fealty to none other than you, Seigneur.
"I hereby revoke that oath of fealty, Krellig—and for the crime of breaking an oath to my monarch, I sentence myself to death. But also, Krellig, I order a sentence of death upon your head for the wanton attack upon my homeland. And you, Moaris—for your cruel and barbaric treatment of this woman whom you never loved, you must die too.
"And all of you—you onlookers and sycophants, you courtiers and parasites, you too must die. And you, the court clowns, the dancing bears and captive life-forms of far worlds, I will kill you too, as once I killed a slave proteus—not out of hatred, but simply to spare you from further torment."
He paused. The hall was terribly silent; then someone to the right of the throne shouted, "He's crazy! Let's get out of here!"
He dashed for the great doors, which had been closed. Herndon let him get within ten feet of safety, then blasted him down with a discharge of life-force. The mechanism within his body recharged itself, drawing its power from the hatred within him and discharging through his fingertips.
Herndon smiled at Lord Moaris, pale now. He said, "I'll be more generous to you than you to your Lady. A quick death for you."
He hurled a bolt of force at the nobleman. Moaris recoiled, but there was no hiding possible; he stood bathed in light for a moment, and then the charred husk dropped to the ground.
A second bolt raked the crowd of courtiers. A third Herndon aimed at the throne; the costly hangings of the throne-area caught first, and Krellig half-rose before the bolt of force caught him and hurled him back dead.
Herndon stood alone in the middle of the floor. His quest was at its end; he had achieved his vengeance. All but the last: on himself, for having broken the oath he had involuntarily sworn to the Seigneur.
Life held no further meaning for him. It was odious to consider returning to a spacerogue's career, and only death offered absolution from his oaths.
He directed a blazing beam of force at one of the great pillars that supported the throneroom's ceiling. It blackened, then buckled. He blasted apart another of the pillars, and the third.
The roof groaned; the tons of masonry were suddenly without support, after hundreds of years. Herndon waited, and smiled in triumph as the ceiling hurtled down at him.