Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War (50 page)

Almost a week passed before Grumm was able to speak to his contact at the Chateau. Make Ready filled the time by helping around the dispensary, learning to compound traditional antibiotics, salves, and unguents.

On the eve of Haut Chateau's weekly market, Grumm showed Make Ready a note. He read, "Will visit you tomorrow."

He gave the it back to Grumm. "Your contact?"

Grumm nodded.

Make Ready fumbled under his jerkin. "You'd better have this back, then."

He handed Grumm a scalpel.

The medsin stared. "Where'd you get that?"

Make Ready shrugged elaborately. "I was going to get Fide O'Reilly to chop my finger off if your contact wouldn't play."

Face pale with anger, the healer placed the knife in a rack. "Why didn't you slip it back without telling me—like when you nicked it?"

Make Ready said nothing. He knew the healer knew why. Nobody pulled Make Ready Jones' strings. Dogniks—even honorary dogniks—get by on their own efforts. And now the healer knew it.

The contact was elderly and shriveled. He paraded a cock's comb headpiece, webs between his fingers, and feathers dangled from beneath his cape. Make Ready was not deceived. When the man had unbuttoned his cloak, Make Ready had observed a dagger sheath jeweled and crested. The man was no cockalorum.

Healer and stranger shook hands High Barbary fashion, palms not quite touching. The stranger's pupils flicked from side to side, like a wary animal. He pulled off his finger webs. "One is forced into deceit, Grumm. Bit of a putsch on up the hill since the death of Dimsina's infant. I'm not supposed to be out without one of Garman's lackeys. Where's your candidate?"

Grumm signaled Make Ready from the dispensary. "Show the gentle sir your finger, boy."

Make Ready extended the blackened digit. The stranger inspected it closely, sniffing it, turning it over. He squeezed the crazed skin. Make Ready bit his lip. The stranger cocked an eye at the medsin. "This doigt has a long way to go."

Grumm gestured apologetically. "I guessed that. But it gives us time to think, don't it? Would Grand Maitre be interested?"

The stranger studied Make Ready. Clad in a pair of Grumm's cut-down britches and a clean shirt, Make Ready felt he was making quite an impression.

The stranger wrinkled his nose. "How old are you, lad?"

Make Ready chose civility. "I'm not sure, sir. Sixteen or seventeen, I think."

The stranger turned to Grumm. "He'd have to be cleaned up before I could take him near the duke."

Grumm said, poker-faced, "I'll dress him like a lord if you'll fix him up with an audience."

The stranger sat down, and removed his headpiece. "What's the story? I can give you ten minutes."

Grumm related what he knew of Make Ready's antecedents, and his suspicions of what might have occurred between Make Ready's mother and a younger Duke Corwen Persay.

The stranger made noises like a trapped fly. "Daren't make too much of that. Grand Maitre is sensitive about his youthful peccadilloes. But he's anxious to secure another heir, having lost the child. I, also, must declare an interest. I was due for the cell banks this year, but the duke has given me a respite until he decides what to do about a backup heir. So I'm all for the lad being accepted. A new pettiduc at court could guarantee me another five years as his tutor."

"You'll push for him, then?"

The stranger pulled on his finger webs. "Leave it with me, Grumm. Old Breg can still pull a string or two . . ." The stranger paused.

Grumm frowned. "What's up?"

The stranger pointed a shaking finger, web dangling. "It's the wrong blessed doigt!"

Grumm bridled. "What d'you mean? It's his forefinger, ain't it?"

"But it's on the wrong hand! It's on his
left
hand!"

Grumm caught Make Ready's startled expression, then turned back to the stranger. "So what? He's a bastard—bar sinister, and all that—ain't he?"

The stranger hopped up and down with irritation, his tail feathers bobbing. "Don't quote bleedin' heraldry at me, Grumm! This might alter the whole picture. There's never been a left-handed digiteur."

"There's got to be a first time for everything."

"Don't
argue
with me, either! I'll have to make that point with the duke and that bloody Greville."

Grumm relaxed in his chair. "So you'll still try for him?"

The stranger dabbed a balding scalp. "Helix! Of course I will. How else do I stay out of the cell banks? But it isn't going to be easy!"

Make Ready and Grumm watched the stranger strut down the street. Neither of them paid much attention to the cloaked figure which drifted after him.

Make Ready said, "Who's Greville?"

Grumm told him what was known and rumored about the duke's geneticist.

"So Greville is really the boss?"

"No. The duke is the boss. But when Greville pronounces on anything to do with genetics, he can generally make it stick."

"Could he rule me out because it's my left finger?"

"He could rule you out because you fart too loud, son. He might bar you because your mère was a quadroon."

"Does the color show?"

"No way, lad. But Greville can tell you things about yourself what you never suspected."

Make Ready pondered briefly. "Then it would be best to keep out of Messer Greville's way?"

Grumm sniffed. "You couldn't have put it clearer, lad."

Below Dormenville in Whernmoor, at the bridge over the Lemon river, where the Persay forces were dug-in, shielded lanterns had been lit against the night. A face-blackened soldier presented himself to the guard at the headquarters tent, and requested admittance.

Colonel Kelp, temporary custodian of Lord Cledger's command, called, "Bring him in!"

Within the tent, the soldier grounded his ironwood musket, and saluted with the regulation arm. "Beg to report, colonel sir—the turtlebacks are pulling out."

Colonel Kelp frowned. He was daily expecting the arrival of a Persay replacement to relieve him of this hot potato of a command, and he wasn't keen on doing much more than sit on his butt and hold that Helix-damned bridge.

"You sure of that, soldier?" he demanded, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Their guns started moving out when the light went, sir. There can't be anything but their cavalry rearguard left over there by now."

Colonel Kelp knew he should take action. In his mind, he could hear a Persay voice snarling, "And what did you do about it, man?"

He turned to his aide-de-camp. "Ask Major Mottel to step across."

Major Mottel presented himself with the remains of supper clinging to his moustache.

Kelp addressed the soldier. "Tell the major what you've told me."

The soldier repeated his report.

"Now, Charles," said the colonel. "What are we to do?"

The major tugged his moustache while he thought. Charles Mottel had few inhibitions about taking action in any situation whatever. Unfortunately, he had little experience of handling brigade-sized forces.

He said, "We could put a strong patrol over the bridge to test their reaction. Might even bag a few of their cavalry before they all escape."

The colonel's face cleared. "Capital, Charles. Please arrange it, immediately." If the scout's report was accurate, he might even get the credit for routing the shellbacks, as well as capturing a few prisoners.

Half an hour later, a line of Persay infantrymen, armed and accounted, crept silently over the bridge, ears alert for the tramp of hooves or the clink of metal.

On the far side of the bridge, a turtleback sapper, his carapace liberally mud-smeared, lay prone, the silhouettes of the Persay infantry on the bridge just visible to him against the darkened sky. Every now and again, he tugged a cord which caused a cluster of gremgaur shoes hanging from a distant tree to jingle faintly.

When the sapper observed that the bridge was full from end to end with creeping Persay soldiers, he pressed a wire to the terminal of a wet cell on the ground beside him.

The Lemon river bridge blew skyward in a flash of light which displayed flying timbers, flailing arms, legs, bodies, heads, helmets, muskets and other impedimenta. The chelonian sapper picked up his battery, mounted a tethered and muffled gremgaur in the peculiar chelonian fashion, and speeded after his unit.

On the other side of the Lemon river, Colonel Kelp heard the explosion, and trembled . . .

The Grand Maitre sent for Bregonif.

"Well?" he challenged. "You blew it, didn't you?"

Bregonif feigned incomprehension. "Blew what, sire?"

The duke scowled. "Don't play the fool with me, Breg! I can't stand a rogue acting the innocent. And I hate cross-breeders. Something odd about a fellow who's not content with his own kind."

"I—I don't follow you, sire."

The duke thumped the desk top. "By the Helix, no! But someone followed you! Sneaking off to Kelmet tarted up as a mock cockalorum! Were you looking for another queer to ruffle your feathers?"

Bregonif drew himself unimpressively erect. "Nothing of the kind, sire. I wore cockalorum disguise to help me to follow a lead which might be of benefit to you."

The duke sighed. He hadn't been listening. "Might as well tell you. I've decided on a clone, instead of a natural son. This sex business is too chancy. It'll be Derzey, the youngest son of great uncle Armaduc. The lad got himself perforated by a Grogue raiding party before he was twenty, so he didn't have much fun. We reckon he deserves another go-round. Greville is picking a clone-mère for him. I had intended you to stay on as tutor, but if you've turned into a blasted queer . . ."

Bregonif trembled with rage. Not too difficult to guess who had been spying on him. He gabbled protests. "Sire—it was essential that I went disguised to Kelmet. Garman's men would have insisted in accompanying me in my own persona. I chose to dress as a cockalorum because they are easily imitated. A false comb, finger webs—"

The duke raised a hand. "Point taken. You've been disobedient, not queer. I forgive you, so don't harp on about it. Why go to Kelmet?"

Bregonif glanced around the room, looking for cover. Within the next minute, an old Persay retainer who must have lost his marbles might lose the rest of his assets. He said, "I went to meet your bastard son, sire." Then Bregonif closed his eyes, and waited for the lightning to strike.

He heard the duke's laugh. "Is my reputation so dire, Breg?"

Bregonif opened his eyes, relief showing. "I'm afraid so, sire."

"Tell me about this bastard."

Bregonif told his lord about Make Ready. He added quickly, "The youth might fail on one count—the doigt is on his left hand."

The duke was inattentive. He murmured, "She never told me." He chewed a lip in thought. "Is the lad presentable? Does he have manners? Any learning?"

Bregonif affected disinterest. "M'kreddy is an orphan who has run wild for years, sire. He has a native cunning which might indicate intelligence. He could be made presentable. He had manners enough to hold his tongue while I spoke to his sponsor."

"Who is his sponsor?"

"A Kelmet medsin I have known for years."

The duke grew pensive. "The lad could save us a deal of time." He glanced furtively at Bregonif. "If he has the doigt, we daren't ignore it. He must be either acknowledged or eliminated."

Bregonif should not have cared what happened to the duke's bastard. With a cloned heir already selected, he was sure of a tutor's job. But nine months was a long time. Fortunes could vanish and alliances burgeon while Greville brought his clone to birth. An heir in the hand was worth ten clones in the future. Bregonif said, "I think you should acknowledge your son, sire."

The duke knuckled his forehead. "I can't acknowledge him until I've had a good look at him."

"Agreed, sire. And one doesn't socialize with street arabs."

"Precisely. So what do we do?"

Bregonif appeared to cogitate, although his plan had been cooking for days. "Sire, I can arrange for the boy to be brought to the Chateau next market day. Perhaps you might find yourself on the Mendicants steps about noon? I could ensure that the lad passed close enough for you to scrutinize him without your purpose being apparent."

Duke Corwen Persay grunted his satisfaction. "That's quite neat, Breg. We'll do it that way."

Bregonif felt the sweat trickling down his nape. "Thank you, sire. Will that be all?"

The duke's eyes became gimlets. "Unless you have further shocks for me?"

"No, sire. No more shocks." Bregonif backed out of his lord's presence, knees decidedly shaky. It had gone smoother than he had anticipated. There was no point in pushing his luck.

When Duke Corwen received the report from Whernmoor, he went in search of his son.

Lord Mardy was trouncing Mim Bonner, his aide, at tennis when the duke arrived on court. One glance at the duke's purple face prompted Bonner to abandon the match, and the court.

The duke waved the message flimsy at his son. "Dammit, Mardy—you promised me you'd go to Whernmoor!"

Lord Mardy wiped his palms on a towel. "I promised to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, sir—which I did."

The duke fumed. "By the Holy Helix—don't bandy words with me!"

Lord Mardy stood his ground. When Duke Corwen was in a temper, it was either stand or grovel. Mardy said patiently, "I got the turtlebacks out of Mary Cage, sir. What more did you require?"

The duke flourished the avigram. "That fool Kelp allowed them to escape.
And
let them blow the bridge while a troop of musketeers were crossing—
with him and the brigade on the wrong side of the river
!"

Lord Mardy swung his racquet like a flail. "Kelp always was a fool, sir. He'd never have made second-in-command but for Cledger wanting him."

The duke rumbled like a distant thunderstorm. "Well, what are you going to do about it? Do I have to clean up the mess myself?"

Lord Mardy sighed. "You'll have to lend me the floater, sir. It's the only way to get to Whernmoor fast enough."

Duke Corwen blinked furiously at his son. The duke's floater, unlike most modern gimmicks in Mary Cage—such as electric batteries, hard metal muskets, and the like—was home-grown; not smuggled or imported from the mystery makers in the south. Part animal, part tree, the floater had been nurtured in Greville's own laboratory. Three younger planimals were maturing in the rose garden, but they wouldn't be ready for some years.