The Rebel of Rhada (7 page)

Landro shouted a command, the Vegans closed in, crossbows ready. “The sorcerer and the Vulk-thing to the Empire Tower. Take The Rebel to the Empress’s apartment.”

Kier looked up at Mariana. Empress? He had expected treachery and had provided for it. But he had not foreseen high treason and the downfall of a king. Even The Rebel’s imaginings had not gone so far as that.

Was Torquas still alive, he wondered? Had Mariana dared to murder the living symbol of the Vykan Dynasty? And Ariane? What of her? Gret said Erit lived, and he himself thought he had seen Ariane at the tower window. But was it truly she, or did the daughter of the Magnifico he this minute in some unmarked grave on some forgotten planet half the galaxy away?

“Cavour,” he said urgently in the Rhad tongue. “If I am not with you when Kalin’s time comes, you must not wait.” He silenced the warlock’s protest with a gesture. “You must reach Sarissa at all costs now. The star kings must know what has happened here. I command it.”

There was no time for more. The Vegans separated them roughly. Cavour watched, with uncertain heart, as his young king was led off between ranks of armed warmen. The warlock’s courage faltered then, but only for a moment. If things had suddenly become much worse than he could have foreseen, then his responsibility to the Empire--and to his young master--was simply that much greater. “Events test the man,” old Aaron used to say.

Cavour felt the mailed hands of the guards close on his arms. No one touched the Vulk. Instead, they prodded him ahead at the point of a sword. In the rain-misted distance, Cavour could see the gloomy megalith of the Empire Tower, a symbol of death--and hope.

What must the King do now? Must he submit?
The King shall do it. Must he be deposed?
The King shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king?

Attributed to one William Shakespeare, a Tudor propagandist of the pre-Golden Age.

Fragment found at Tel-Avon, Earth

If a king be taken, let him die
If a king be murdered, let him lie
For power is in the edge of a sword
And a helpless king is no man’s lord.

From the
Book of Warls,
Interregnal period

Torquas stood at the rubbled parapet of the Empire Tower looking down at the vast panorama of Manhat spread out a kilometer below him. He stood heedless of the rain, his cold forgotten, half frightened by the sheerness of the drop before him and yet excited by the scene far below.

Behind him stood Janver of Florida, the stone-faced giant who was the engineer of the tower. And at Janver’s side stood the captain of the Vegan detachment that had brought the Galacton to this high and dreary place. The two men talked together in low voices, glancing occasionally at the narrow back of the boy at the railing. The Vegan, his face half hidden by the god-metal nosepiece of his helmet, was speaking urgently, and each word seemed to make even harder the granite-colored eyes of the burly Floridan.

Janver shook his head and said raspingly, “I will not do it. Not without written warrant, warman. There’s an end to it.”

Once again the Vegan showed the paper in his mailed fist. “By the Veg, you have it
here.
I’ve shown it to you!”

“You’ve shown me nothing I want to see.”

“The warleader’s seal. His orders, Engineer.”

The Floridan looked once again at the boy and then far out over the intervening distance to where the Rhadan starship lay grounded at the south end of the island. He folded his massive executioner’s arms and said, “I take my orders only from the Regent. Only from her. It is the law.”

The Vegan captain controlled his anger. “There is no
time,
Engineer.”

“I will not surrender my post, warman--not for a hundred scraps of paper from the Veg. Floridans have manned the tower for two hundred years. No out-world toy soldier takes over here. That ends it.” He stepped forward to fasten the rain cape more securely about the boy’s shoulders. “Here, sir. Keep covered up now.”

Torquas turned his head to look up at the massive man and smiled. “Look there, Engineer. The Rhadans have formed a Parthian circle. Do you know what that is? I do, Engineer. My father taught me when I was a little boy.”

“Tell me, sir,” the big man said with gruff gentleness. He glanced back at the Vegan as the boy rambled on excitedly. The Veg was scowling as he thrust Landro’s rescript into his gauntlet and stepped inside to where his squadron was waiting.

“It’s a cavalry circle, you see,” Torquas was saying. “In action they gallop around and around, shooting with their bows at the enemy. It makes them very hard to hit, and they can move the circle anywhere they want to go. Do you know why they call it a
Parthian
circle, Engineer?”

“No, I do not, King.” The engineer of the tower spoke respectfully. His family had served the Galactons since The Magnifico’s time.

“I don’t either,” Torquas said, turning back to watch the Rhad starship. “My father didn’t tell me that.” He stood up very straight and added, “But the Rhad are the best soldiers in the Empire. I guess they could beat the Veg if they fought.”

“The Veg are your soldiers, too, sir,” the Floridan said grudgingly.

“That’s so,” said the boy, shivering slightly in the wind that blew the fine rain against his face.

“You had best come inside, sir,” Janver said.

“Not yet. Look. The Rhad are moving their arbalests back inside the starship. I suppose there will be no fight.”

It was as he said. On the plain at the south end of the tel, the Rhadan warmen were slowly contracting their circle of held ground, and a wing of men were wrestling the light artillery back through the valve into the interior of the vessel. The Vegan Imperials, who still formed ranks across the avenue to the city gate, made no move to advance on the Rim-worlders.

Suddenly, from within the building, came the clash of weapons and the sound of shouting. The engineer made swiftly for the doorway, but by the time he had reached the threshold, three of his Floridans lay dead on the ferro-concrete floor, their weapons only half drawn. Four Vegan warmen menaced him with their crossbows, and from the guardroom immediately below came the sounds of surprised men fighting for their lives--and losing. The Veg were racing through the tower, decimating the largely ceremonial garrison of the tower’s upper levels.

Janver roared furiously and yanked his sword from its scabbard only to have it shot out of his hand by a well-aimed crossbow quarrel. He stood, rocking with rage and the pain of his wounded hand, while the Vegan officer strode past him to take the boy.

Torquas was badly frightened; he had never seen dead troopers before, nor had he ever seen blood. But he was Galacton, and as the Veg touched him, he found his courage and struck out, bruising his naked fist against the war-man’s helmet.

“That’s the star king you’re manhandling, you Vegan pig!” the Floridan yelled, outraged by the act of
lese-majeste
and thrusting forward to intervene.

The Vegan signaled one of his men. “Kill him,” he said.

The Veg warman brought the engineer down with a quarrel between the shoulder blades. The big Floridan struck the floor heavily and was still.

Torquas fought to hold back the tears, but he could not. The Vegan officer gathered him in, and for a dreadful moment the boy thought the man was about to shove him over the parapet. But he only held him so that he could not struggle and carried him inside.

The Veg released the boy and gave a command in Vegan. “Take him down into the tel.”

Torquas drew back against the wall and said in a shaky voice, “I am the Galacton, warmen.” His voice sounded strange and thin to him, and he wished with all his heart for Mariana or Lady No, or even for Landro, to appear and discipline these murdering, rebellious soldiers.

For a moment the troopers hesitated, remembering now, when it was too late, that the penalty for mutiny and treason was a long and painful death.

The officer snapped out, “Take him.
Now.”

And the son of Glamiss Magnifico, symbol of the Vykan Dynasty, changed from prince to prisoner in that moment.

Mariana’s rooms lay on the third terrace of the citadel, a suite set far back amid gardens planted on the roofs of the second-story guardrooms and armories.

Kier waited, hands bound, between two Vegan Imperials armed with short swords. Landro was taking no chances with The Rebel, the Rhad thought ruefully.

He could see the rain falling steadily beyond the heavy, crude glass panes. The trees and shrubs in the gardens looked black-dark in the dusk. The season on Earth was spring, but the days were still short, and the weather tinged the last of the day with a bluish, mournful light. Within the hour darkness would fall. Kier thought of his cousin and murmured a silent prayer:
God be with him, and may his skill be everything it should be.
To handle a great starship so delicately in the atmosphere would require the precision of an almost magical touch. Kier, religious in his way, prayed for the intercession of his dead kinsman, the beatified Emeric. Rhada and perhaps the Empire rode with Kalin’s skill as a Navigator now.

Kier heard a flurry of activity in the gallery, and Landro stepped into the room. He still wore court dress, with his long hair clubbed and caught in a silver clasp. But he carried a battle sword now, naked in his hand. Kier wondered if this were the end of it--a swift thrust, and then the great mystery of death. Landro read his thoughts and showed his teeth in a smile. “Not yet, cousin. Have no fear.”

The Rhad met his eyes steadily. Landro pointed to a chair with his blade and said, “Rest. You’ve had a tiring time.”

Kier measured the distance between them. He could not reach him before the Vegans cut him down, nor were his clubbed fists enough against Landro’s sword. He walked instead to the chair and sat, regarding his enemy with unveiled contempt.

Landro dismissed the troopers and stood looking at Kier speculatively.

“You surprise me,” he said finally. “I did not really imagine you would come here like a steer to the slaughter.”

“It’s to be slaughter, then,” Kier said quietly.

Landro arched his eyebrows. “Very likely, cousin.”

Kier remained silent and thought of Sarissa. They were gathering there now, the star kings of the Rim worlds. Soon they would send an emissary to Earth, and when they learned of treason and usurpation, no power in the galaxy could stop the armies that would fall on Nyor. But after that would come the quarreling among the captains and the warleaders and the petty kings--and the Black Age would return. This time, perhaps forever.

The door opened and Mariana entered. She no longer wore Vykan yellow. Her dress was scarlet, the state color of hereditary kingship.

At twenty-three, Mariana of Vyka was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in the Empire--and one of the most ambitious. Daughter of a collateral branch of the royal Vyks, she had been married to Torquas by The Magnifico himself, who had once told Kier’s father, “I cannot kill her, so I must breed her to my son to heal old wounds.” The old wounds were the deaths of members of her family who had tried more than once to enforce their claims to the ancient throne of the Vykan kings.

The business of kingship was a harsh one, Kier thought. Unity and Empire were often bought only at the price of the blood of kinsmen. Perhaps it had always been so. Cavour, who studied the ancient writings, said it had been since the dawn of man. The death of a royal few brought peace to the worlds sometimes. But not now, Kier thought bitterly. Not this time. If Torquas and his sister were dead, the Vykan Dynasty would fall in a rain of blood, a terror to last a thousand years.

Mariana faced the two men unsmilingly. She said to Landro, “Well?”

Landro shook his head. “I have not asked him.”

Kier looked from one to the other and waited.

“Why did you come, Kier?” Mariana asked bluntly.

“I was summoned by the Galacton. Why else should I have come?”

“You can’t be such a fool.”

“Loyalty blinds him,” Landro said ironically.

“Are you loyal?” Mariana asked.

“To the Galacton,” Kier said. “The Rhad have always been.”

Mariana made a cold and imperious gesture. “To the dynasty.”

“Do you want me to beg for my life, Mariana?” Kier asked, controlling his growing anger.

Mariana spoke to Landro. “Show him the instrument.”

Landro held a parchment before Kier’s eyes. It was the Instrument of Abdication signed “Torquas Primus.”

Kier remained silent.

Mariana said, “Well, Rebel?”

“The boy would sign anything you ask,” Kier said. “Does that make you Queen-Empress?”

“It takes care of legalities,” Landro murmured.

“It’s a death warrant for Nyor,” Kier said, rising to face the warleader.

Mariana glanced significantly at Landro. “What are you saying, Kier?”

The Rhad cursed his own quick anger that would make him betray Sarissa and the rebellion forming there.

“Torquas is dead, cousin,” Landro said smoothly. “Mariana is twice over Queen-Empress--as successor named in this paper and as heiress to the Galacton.”

Kier thought about the twelve-year-old son of his onetime general and sovereign. By all that was holy among the stars, a child should never have been made king, but there had been no better way at the time. He said a prayer for the soul of Torquas. He had no reason to doubt that Mariana and Landro would have him killed.

“If what you say is so,” he said, “then Ariane is Queen-Empress--not Mariana. She is the heiress to Glamiss and Vyka and all the worlds. We fought to make it so.”

Landro said, “Ah, yes. At Karma. You were a favorite of The Magnifico’s. It will pain his spirit, wherever it is, to see you die.”

Mariana said, “Who speaks of dying?” She regarded Landro with calm tolerance. “You men would settle everything with killing. That is not the way of it now. Nor shall it be. I’ve no use for dead men. They cannot speak and they cannot serve.”

But there was a cutting edge veiled under her fair words, Kier thought. With Mariana as Queen-Empress, the star kings would trade domination by the mailed fist for the greater tyranny of the cat’s claws.