Star of Gypsies (57 page)

"The fighting is over now?"

"All over," Polarca said. "There's no one left to fight."

"And who ended up as emperor, when all the fighting was over?"

There was silence in the room. They looked stunned and dazed, all of them. Polarca, Damiano, Chorian, Valerian and the rest, silent, dazed.

"Well?" I said. "Is that such a difficult question? Who's emperor now? Tell me. Naria, is it, still?"

"No one," said Damiano.

"No one?"

"There is no emperor."

It made no sense. No emperor? No emperor?

I said, "How can that be, no emperor? There were three!"

Damiano said, "Periandros' doppelgangers were destroyed by Periandros' own troops. There was a confrontation, at the headquarters of Periandros, two of the doppelgangers face to face. Everyone could see now that there was no Periandros, that there were only doppelgangers. So they destroyed them both, and then they hunted down the third one and finished it too."

I nodded slowly. "And Naria? What happened to him? Behind that ring of defenses. His deflector screens, his tanks, his robots. His glass cube."

"Dead," Polarca said. "A plasma bomb, a direct hit on the imperial palace. Thirty seconds of thousand-degree heat. The palace was hardly damaged but everyone inside died instantly. Naria was cooked in his own glass cube."

"That leaves Sunteil."

"He went to take possession of the palace after Naria's death," Chorian said. "Naria had booby-trapped the throne-platform. Three lasers sliced Sunteil into pieces the moment he took the imperial seat. A hidden scanner, coded for Sunteil and only Sunteil, that would respond to no one else's somatic specifications." He looked away. "I was there when it happened," he said quietly.

"Dead?" I said, not believing it. "The high lords? All three dead? No emperor at all?"

"No emperor at all," Polarca said.

"What will they do? There has to be an emperor!"

"Go back to bed, Yakoub."

"No emperor-"

"That's not our problem. Go back to bed. Lie down. Rest," Polarca said.

I glared. "Who do you think you're ordering around?"

Syluise took my hand. "Please, Yakoub. You've been seriously ill. It's just a little while since you regained consciousness. You mustn't put a strain on yourself now. Please. Just rest a little more."

"I was ghosting," I said. "Not ill at all."

"Please, Yakoub."

"Do you know where I was? Do you know what I saw?"

"For me," she murmured. "Lie down again. So I won't worry. We can't afford to lose you too, now. No emperor, no king-"

I looked around the room. I felt like shouting, raging, blustering. Was I so fragile? Was I so decrepit? Look at them all! Staring, gaping! They were all like pale phantoms to me. Unreal. This whole place seemed unreal. Romany Star still glowed in my mind. That palace of reeds, that long line of quiet citizens, that king in his vast and solemn dignity-that great red sun, swelling, swelling, growing larger and larger and larger-

"Mon ami, I implore you." Julien. "You will be fine tomorrow. But you must not tax yourself overly, you must not place demands on yourself that you are unable to meet. I implore."

"You," I said.

His face colored. "Whoever I may have served in the past, Yakoub, it makes no difference now. Now I serve only you. And I beg you, Yakoub. Rest yourself. The pitiful pretender begs the true king. You need your strength for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What, tomorrow?"

He glanced toward the others. I saw Damiano nod, and Polarca.

Julien said, "The audience, tomorrow. The peers of the Imperium, the new ones, those who survived the holocaust here. For days they have hovered about the palace, pleading to speak with you the moment you regained consciousness. A matter of the greatest urgency, they say. You are the king and there is no emperor: they need to see you. They need your help. They're totally bewildered."

I stared. "Peers of the Imperium? Greatest urgency? Totally bewildered?"

"Tomorrow may be too soon," Damiano said. Always cautious. "We don't want to overtax you. They've waited this long, let them wait another couple of-"

"No," I said. "Tomorrow may be too late. They need my help. How can I ignore that? Get them here right away, man!"

"Mon vieux, mon ami!" Julien cried. "Not today! Not so soon! You have but hardly awakened. Let it wait."

"Send for them."

Polarca threw up his hands in despair. Damiano, tight-faced, furious, clenched his fists. Syluise clung close, appealing. I saw the stricken face of Chorian, and even some boy standing beside Chorian, one who I had not even noticed before and that I did not know at all, was shaking his head as though to say, No, no, Yakoub, not so soon, not until you're stronger.

I was determined. There had been enough anarchy; if I was a king, and I
was
a king, then I must take up my task. At once. At once.

"Send for them!" I thundered.

But it was the last thundering I did that day. Even as the words escaped my throat, the force of my own outcry undid me. I swayed and grew dizzy and sagged down toward the side of the bed. I think for a moment my soul tried to bolt free of my body. I forced it back. Wondering if this was the final moment of Yakoub, stupidly, prematurely, just when so much remained to complete. No! No! By the holy turds of all the saints and demons, not yet, not yet, not yet!

A bad moment. A foolish moment.

"Easy, there," Valerian whispered, lowering me to the pillow. "You're all right. Easy, you Yakoub! Give him a drink, fast! No, not the water, you idiot! Here. Here. Sip this, Yakoub. There. Another. Julien's finest cognac. Here."

I felt life returning, as the rich fiery brandy hit my gullet. But even so it took me an embarrassingly long while to recover a little poise: thirty seconds, perhaps a minute. Then I smiled. I winked. I belched. I made the good Rom sign that says,
Not dead yet, cousins, not yet
! But I knew that the peers of the Imperium, whoever they might be and whatever they might need to hear from me, would have to wait. I would have to curb my roaring impatience. I was a little frail today. I needed a little more rest. It had been a busy time for me, and I am not young, I suppose. That is the truth: I am in fact not young.

NOT THE NEXT DAY, NOT THE DAY AFTER THAT PERHAPS it had taken me close to two hundred years, but I had learned a little patience after all. I waited until I had some strength again.

Then I sent for them. And then they came.

I was in the audience-room of the palace that the Gaje had so kindly provided, all those hundreds of years ago, for the use of the Rom baro when he is in residence at the Capital. But I think they had never expected to see that audience-room put to such a use as it was put this day. No, not in a million years would they have anticipated a day such as this.

It was a very formal occasion. I dressed in my finest finery and mounted my throne and sat among the ceremonial objects of my power: my silken scroll of office; my silver scepter that bore the five holy symbols of axe, sun, moon, star, cross; my statuette of the Black Virgin Sara; my wonderwheel; my shadowstick. A grand and primitive display. Here sits the Gypsy king in all his majesty, yes. All hail!

"Send them in," I said.

A demon-figure at the door, bizarrely masked. Red straw beard, bulging green eyes, white horns. Cloak of brilliant stripes, a dozen colors. He pauses, makes a gesture of respect, bows stiffly from the hips. Takes up a position to my left, near the window.

Another. A woman, supple, sinuous. Golden mask, slits for eyes.

Firm chin visible below, painted with interwoven blue lines. A gown that glistens like cold fire. The same gesture. Stands beside the first.

What is this masquerade? Who are these demons and witches?

A third. Savage spikes at his collar; giant black antlers rising high above a domed head. Bows. Moves to his place. The room is very silent. Polarca's eyes are bright as beacons. Damiano stares, lips clamped tight. Valerian ghosts nervously in and out of the scene; I see the energies flickering around him.

The fourth peer of the Imperium. Crocodile-head, stubby furry beast-legs. Pitchfork in his hand.

The fifth. Bat-wings, fangs, a torch smouldering in his black long-clawed hand.

Monsters and demons. These are the peers of the Imperium?

A fish-woman, scales and breasts. A goat-man, snorting and preening. One with a great bird-beak, and brilliant plumage that glows with a light of its own.

Lion-head. Frog-head.

Nine nightmare monsters arrayed in a semicircle before me. How still they are! What now? Will they leap upon me, will they devour me alive as I sit on my throne?

A signal. Antler-head comes forward. Kneels. Touches my foot. "Majesty," he says. What?
What
? The voice, rumbling from the depths of the heavy mask, is deep, hoarse, rough.

"Majesty," says lion-head, coming forward.

"Majesty," says fish-woman.

One by one. It is a dream. It is some fantastical moment out of space and time. The universe has ended; spirits float freely about.

"Majesty."

"Majesty."

"Majesty."

Now they are reaching into their costumes and pulling forth small objects which they place before me: a sphere, a rod, a string of interlocking golden balls. Not a masquerade, then, but a game? What am I supposed to do, solve the puzzle of these toys? Should I be wearing a mask of my own?

Why are they calling me
Majesty
? That is no title of mine. The Rom baro is beyond such pomp. My people call me Yakoub. These lords could well do the same.

Crocodile-head draws from the depths of his garb something that looks like a short sword in its scabbard. Polarca tenses and prepares to leap forward. I wave him back with the smallest motion of a finger. Crocodile-head places the scabbard before me: fine purple velvet, rich, lustrous. Places a furry hand on the head of the weapon within and begins slowly to pull it forth.

It is no weapon.

I know what it is. I have seen it before, many times, in my visits to the Capital. It is the wand of office that the emperor holds when he occupies the throne-platform atop the crystalline stairs.

What is this? What is this?

"Will you pick it up, Majesty?" asks crocodile-head.

"That wand is nothing of mine."

"It will be yours the moment it touches your hand," he says.

I had thought that after seeing Romany Star I would be beyond all awe; but now I am awed to my roots. What are these crazy Gaje doing, all bedecked in these nightmare costumes and crawling about down by my feet? What strange rite is this, that no Rom has ever seen or even heard about before, this procession of phantasms, this presentation of the wand?

Are they making me emperor?
Me
?

"You have all gone mad," I say.

"Majesty-" says crocodile-head.

"Majesty-" from antler-head.

"We beg you, Majesty-" It is frog-head, groveling.

"Up, all of you!" I stare in amazement. "On your feet! Take off those hideous masks!"

"Majesty-"

"Off with them! Unmask! Unmask at once!" I snatch up their Gaje wand of office and wave it around. "No nightmares in here! Get rid of those masks!"

They turn to one another, making bewildered little gestures with their claws and paws and flippers. Consternation. Uncertainty. Then lion-head lifts his mask, and the face of a man of Vietoris, unknown to me, looks out. Frog-head reveals a Copperfield face, ruddy, wind-burned. Antler-head has the fair skin and golden hair of a man of Ragnarok. Nine worlds of the Imperium have yielded these nine peers. Without their masks they look absurd in their costumes, caught in mid-mummery, childish, foolish, embarrassed.

"What is this?" I ask, brandishing the wand. "Why have you come here in these outfits? What are you trying to do?"

"The tradition," one whispers. "It is only a little pageantry, Majesty. To lend a heightening touch to the old secret rite-"

"What rite?"

"The naming of the emperor, Majesty."

Yes, I was right. Madness.

"Have you all lost your minds? I am Rom! What are you doing, coming to a Rom like this?"

"The throne is empty. The three high lords are dead. The ships remain in the starports. The worlds are helpless," says the Ragnarok man.

"The time has come for the uniting of the peoples," says Copperfield. "You are the one. There is no one else. This was the will of the Fifteenth, sealed in the moment of his death, revealed to us now in the time of the destruction of the Capital. He chose you. This terrible war has been the consequence of ignoring that choice. Spare us further grief. Surely you will not refuse the will of the Fifteenth?"

The will of the Fifteenth-

"Majesty!" they cry again. I look across the room. Polarca is laughing or crying, I am not sure which. Damiano is down on his knees, shivering and praying. Chorian looks as though he has been struck from behind by a falling star. Only Julien de Gramont is totally calm: he looks transfigured, ecstatic, as though France itself is being reborn before his eyes.

"Majesty! Majesty!"

I look at the wand in my hand. The will of the Fifteenth? Jesu Cretchuno Sunto Mario! Emperor Yakoub? The same man, king and emperor? What do they think I am, Gaje as well as Rom?

By damn, why not?

The first Rom emperor. And the last. Take the throne, proclaim the harmony of the peoples, rebuild the web that links the worlds. Send forth the starships again. And then, then, the rebirth of Romany Star under my auspices. The return, the resettlement. For this must be the call that we have all awaited: when the Gaje turn to a Rom and say, Bring us together. So will we come together at last. And then we will go home.