He bound himself over to the surgeon later that afternoon, after money
to the amount of ten thousand, nine hundred thirty golden stellors had
been deposited to his name in the Royal Borlaam Bank in Galaxy Square,
and after he had seen the neuronic mesh that was embedded in the bodies
of Benjin, Oversk, Dorgel, and Razumod. Greater assurance of good faith
than this he could not demand; he would have to risk the rest.
The surgeon's quarters were farther along the Avenue of Bronze, in a
dilapidated old house that had no doubt been built in Third Empire
days. The surgeon himself was a wiry fellow with a puckered ray-slash
across one cheek and a foreshortened left leg. A retired pirate-vessel
medic, Herndon realized. No one else would perform such an operation
unquestioningly. He hoped the man had skill.
The operation itself took an hour, during which time Herndon was under
total anesthesia. He woke to find the copper operating-dome lifting off
him. He felt no different, even though he knew a network of metal had
been blasted into his body on the submolecular level.
"Well? Is it finished?"
"It is," the surgeon said.
Herndon glanced at Benjin. The little man held a glinting metal object
on his palm. "This is the control, Herndon. Let me demonstrate."
His hand closed, and instantaneously Herndon felt a bright bolt of pain
shiver through the calf of his leg. A twitch of Benjin's finger and
an arrow of red heat lanced Herndon's shoulder. Another twitch and a
clammy hand seemed to squeeze his heart.
"Enough!" Herndon shouted. He realized he had signed away his liberty
forever, if Benjin chose to exert control. But it did not matter to
him. He had actually signed away his liberty the day he had vowed to
watch the death of the Seigneur Krellig.
Benjin reached into his tunic-pocket and drew forth a little leather
portfolio. "Your passport and other travelling necessities," he
explained.
"I have my own passport," Herndon said.
Benjin shook his head. "This is a better one. It comes with a visa to
Vyapore." To the surgeon he said, "How soon can he travel?"
"Tonight, if necessary."
"Good. Herndon, you'll leave tonight."
* * * * *
The ship was the _Lord Nathiir_, a magnificent super-liner bound on a
thousand light-year cruise to the Rim stars. Benjin had arranged for
Herndon to travel outward on a luxury liner without cost, as part of
the entourage of Lord and Lady Moaris. Oversk had obtained the job for
him--second steward to the noble couple, who were vacationing on the
Rim pleasure-planet of Molleccogg. Herndon had not objected when he
learned that he was to travel in the company of Lord--and especially
Lady--Moaris.
The ship was the greatest of the Borlaam luxury fleet. Even on Deck C,
in his steward's quarters, Herndon rated a full-grav room with synthik
drapery and built-in chromichron; he had never lived so well even at
his parents' home, and they had been among the first people of Zonnigog
at one time.
His duties called for him to pay court upon the nobles each evening,
so that they might seem more resplendent in comparison with the other
aristocrats travelling aboard. The Moarises had brought the largest
entourage with them, over a hundred people including valets, stewards,
cooks, and paid sycophants.
Alone in his room during the hour of blastoff, Herndon studied his
papers. A visa to Vyapore. So _that_ was where the starstones came
from--! Vyapore, the jungle planet of the Rim, where civilization
barely had a toehold. No wonder the starstone trade was so difficult to
control.
When the ship was safely aloft and the stasis generators had caused the
translation into nullspace, Herndon dressed in the formal black-and-red
court garments of Lord Moaris' entourage. Then, making his way up the
broad companionway, he headed for the Grand Ballroom, where Lord Moaris
and his lady were holding court for the first night of the voyage
outward.
The ballroom was festooned with ropes of living light. A dancing
bear from Albireo XII cavorted clumsily near the entrance as Herndon
entered. Borlaamese in uniforms identical to his own stood watch at the
door, and nodded to him when he identified himself as Second Steward.
He stood for a moment alone at the threshold of the ballroom, watching
the glittering display. The _Lord Nathiir_ was the playground of the
wealthy, and a goodly number of Borlaam's wealthiest were here, vying
with the ranking nobles, the Moarises, for splendor.
Herndon felt a twinge of bitterness. His people were from beyond the
sea, but by rank and preference he belonged in the bright lights of
the ballroom, not standing here in the garment of a steward. He moved
forward.
The noble couple sat on raised thrones at the far end, presiding over
a dancing-area in which the grav had been turned down; the couples
drifted gracefully, like figures out of fable, feet touching the ground
only at intervals.
Herndon recognized Lord Moaris from the auction. A dour, short,
thick-bodied individual he was, resplendent in his court robes, with a
fierce little beard stained bright red after the current fashion. He
sat stiffly upright on his throne, gripping the armrests of the carven
chair as if he were afraid of floating off toward the ceiling. In the
air before him shimmered the barely perceptible haze of a neutralizer
field designed to protect him from the shots of a possible assassin.
By his side sat his Lady, supremely self-possessed and lovely. Herndon
was astonished by her youth. No doubt the nobles had means of restoring
lost freshness to a woman's face, but there was no way of recreating
the youthful bloom so convincingly. The Lady Moaris could not have been
more than twenty-three or twenty-five. Her husband was several decades
older. It was small wonder that he guarded her so jealously.
She smiled in sweet content at the scene before her. Herndon, too,
smiled--at her beauty, and at the use to which he hoped to put it. Her
skin was soft pink; a wench of the bath Herndon had met belowdecks had
told him she bathed in the cream of the ying-apple twice daily. Her
eyes were wide-set and clear, her nose finely made, her lips two red
arching curves. She wore a dress studded with emeralds; it flowed from
her like light. It was open at the throat, revealing a firm bosom and
strong shoulders. She clutched a diamond-crusted scepter in one small
hand.
Herndon looked around, found a lady of the court who was unoccupied
at the moment, and asked her to dance. They danced silently, gliding
in and out of the grav field; Herndon might have found it a pleasant
experience, but he was not primarily in search of pleasant experiences
now. He was concerned only with attracting the attention of the Lady
Moaris.
He was successful. It took time; but he was by far biggest and most
conspicuous man of the court assembled there, and it was customary for
Lord and Lady to leave their thrones, mingle with their courtiers,
even dance with them. Herndon danced with lady after lady, until
finally he found himself face to face with the Lady Moaris.
"Will you dance with me?" she asked. Her voice was like liquid gossamer.
Herndon lowered himself in a courtly bow. "I would consider it the
greatest of honors, good Lady."
They danced. She was easy to hold; he sensed her warmness near him,
and he saw something in her eyes--a distant pinched look of pain,
perhaps--that told him all was not well between Lord and Lady.
She said, "I don't recognize you. What's your name?"
"Barr Herndon, milady. Of Zonnigog."
"Zonnigog, indeed! And why have you crossed ten thousand miles of ocean
to our city?"
Herndon smiled and gracefully dipped her through a whirling series of
pirouettes. "To seek fame and fortune, milady. Zonnigog is well and
good to live in, but the place to become known is the City of Borlaam.
For this reason I petitioned the Heitman Oversk to have me added to the
retinue of the Lord Moaris."
"You know Oversk, then? Well?"
"Not at all well. I served him a while; then I asked to move on."
"And so you go, climbing up and over your former masters, until you
scramble up the shoulders of the Lord Moaris to the feet of the
Seigneur. Is that the plan?"
She smiled disarmingly, drawing any possible malice from the words she
had uttered. Herndon nodded, saying in all sincerity, "I confess this
is my aim. Forgive me, though, for saying that there are reasons that
might cause me to remain in the service of the Lord Moaris longer than
I had originally intended."
A flush crossed her face. She understood. In a half-whisper she said.
"You are impertinent. I suppose it comes with good looks and a strong
body."
"Thank you, milady."
"I wasn't complimenting you," she said as the dance came to an end and
the musicians subsided. "I was criticizing. But what does it matter?
Thank you for the dance."
"May I have the pleasure of milady's company once again soon?" Herndon
asked.
"You may--but not too soon." She chuckled. "The Lord Moaris is highly
possessive. He resents it when I dance twice the same evening with one
member of the court."
Sadness darkened Herndon's face a moment. "Very well, then. But I will
go to Viewplate A and stare at the stars a while. If the Lady seeks a
companion, she will find one there."
She stared at him and flurried away without replying. But Herndon felt
a glow of inner satisfaction. The pieces were dropping into place.
The ladder was being constructed. Soon it would bring him to the
throneroom of the Seigneur Krellig. Beyond that he would need no plans.
* * * * *
Viewplate A, on the uppermost deck of the vast liner, was reserved for
the first-class passengers and the members of their retinues. It was an
enormous room, shrouded at all times in darkness, at one end of which
a viewscreen opened out onto the glory of the heavens. In nullspace,
a hyperbolic section of space was visible at all times, the stars in
weird out-of-focus colors forming a breathtaking display. Geometry went
awry. A blazing panorama illuminated the room.
The first-class viewing-room was also known to be a trysting-place.
There, under cover of darkness, ladies might meet and make love to
cooks, lords to scullery-maids. An enterprising rogue with a nolight
camera might make a fortune taking a quick shot of such a room and
black-mailing his noble victims. But scanners at the door prevented
such devices from entering.
Herndon stood staring at the fiery gold and green of the closest stars
a while, his back to the door, until he heard a feminine voice whisper
to him.
"Barr Herndon?"
He turned. In the darkness it was difficult to tell who spoke; he saw
a girl about the height of the Lady Moaris, but in the dimness of the
illumination of the plate he could see it was not the Lady. This girl's
hair was dull red; the Lady's was golden. And he could see the pale
whiteness of this girl's breasts; the Lady's garment, while revealing,
had been somewhat more modest.
This was a lady of the court, then, perhaps enamoured of Herndon,
perhaps sent by the Lady Moaris as a test or as a messenger.
Herndon said, "I am he. What do you want?"
"I bring a message from--a noble lady," came the answering whisper.
Smiling in the darkness Herndon said, "What does your mistress have to
say to me?"
"It cannot be spoken. Hold me in a close embrace as if we were lovers,
and I will give you what you need."
Shrugging, Herndon clasped the go-between in his arms with feigned
passion. Their lips met; their bodies pressed tight. Herndon felt the
girl's hand searching for his, and slipping something cool, metallic
into it. Her lips left his, travelled to his ear, and murmured:
"This is her key. Be there in half an hour."
They broke apart. Herndon nodded farewell to her and returned his
attention to the glories of the viewplate. He did not glance at the
object in his hand, but merely stored it in his pocket.
He counted out fifteen minutes in his mind, then left the viewing-room
and emerged on the main deck. The ball was still in progress, but he
learned from a guard on duty that the Lord and Lady Moaris had already
left for sleep, and that the festivities were soon to end.
Herndon slipped into a washroom and examined the key--for key it was.
It was a radionic opener, and imprinted on it were the numbers 1160.
His throat felt suddenly dry. The Lady Moaris was inviting him to her
room for the night--or was this a trap, and would Moaris and his court
be waiting for him, to gun him down and provide themselves with some
amusement? It was not beyond these nobles to arrange such a thing.
But still--he remembered the clearness of her eyes, and the beauty of
her face. He could not believe she would be party to such a scheme.
He waited out the remaining fifteen minutes. Then, moving cautiously
along the plush corridors, he found his way to Room 1160.
He listened a moment. Silence from within. His heart pounded
frantically, irking him; this was his first major test, possibly the
gateway to all his hopes, and it irritated him that he felt anxiety.
He touched the tip of the radionic opener to the door. The substance
of the door blurred as the energy barricade that composed it was
temporarily dissolved. Herndon stepped through quickly. Behind him, the
door returned to a state of solidity.
The light of the room was dim. The Lady Moaris awaited him, wearing a
gauzy dressing-gown. She smiled tensely at him; she seemed ill-at-ease.
"Would I do otherwise?"
"I--wasn't sure. I'm not in the habit of doing things like this."
Herndon repressed a cynical smile. Such innocence was touching, but
highly improbable. He said nothing, and she went on: "I was caught by
your face--something harsh and terrible about it struck me. I had to
send for you, to know you better."
Ironically Herndon said, "I feel honored. I hadn't expected such an
invitation."
"You won't--think it's cheap of me, will you?" she said plaintively. It
was hardly the thing Herndon expected from the lips of the noble Lady
Moaris. But, as he stared at her slim body revealed beneath the filmy
robe, he understood that she might not be so noble after all once the
gaudy pretense was stripped away. He saw her as perhaps she truly was:
a young girl of great loveliness, married to a domineering nobleman who
valued her only for her use in public display. It might explain this
bedchamber summons to a Second Steward.
He took her hand. "This is the height of my ambitions, milady. Beyond
this room, where can I go?"
But it was empty flattery he spoke. He darkened the room illumination
exultantly. _With your conquest, Lady Moaris_, he thought, _do I begin
the conquest of the Seigneur Krellig!_