Diplomat at Arms (11 page)

He swung the door open, reached out, caught the Groaci by the
throat and dragged him inside. He grunted as a booted foot caught him in the
ribs; then he jammed the pistol hard against the Groaci’s horny thorax.

“No loud noises, please, General; it’s my hour for
meditation . . .”

Retief
pushed the door shut with a foot, leaned against the light button; a soft glow
sprang up. Retief released the Groaci, holding the gun aimed at a three-inch
broad
Grand Cordon
of the Legion d’Cosme crossing the bulging abdomen.

“I’m going out; you’re coming with me. Better hope we make
it.”

He holstered the pistol, showed the small,
smooth-stone-shaped slug gun. “This will be a foot from your back, so be a good
little soldier and give all the right answers.”

The Groaci’s throat sacs dilated, vibrating. He cast a
sidelong glance at the stripped body of the Greenback.

“The swift inevitability of your death,” he hissed in Groaci.
“To anticipate with joy your end in frightful torment . . .”

“To button your mandible and march,” Retief interrupted. He
pulled the door open. “After you, General . . .”

The blaze of stars scattered from horizon to horizon above
the palace roof gleamed on the polished fittings of a low-slung heli parked on
the royal pad. As Retief and his prisoner emerged from the service stair into
the cold night air, there was a crunch of boots on gravel, the snick! of a
power gun’s action. A dark shadow moved before Retief. Abruptly a searchlight’s
beam glared in his eyes.

“Stand aside, idiot!” the Groaci hissed. The light flashed
across to him; five beady, stemmed eyes glinted angrily at the guard.

“General Hish, sir . . .” The guard snapped
off the light, presented arms hurriedly. Other boots sounded, coming across the
rooftop helipad.

“What’s going on here? Tell these—” the voice broke off. In
the gloom, barely relieved by starlight, Retief saw the newcomer start, then
put a hand to his pistol butt.

“We require the use of the royal gig,” Hish whispered. “Stand
aside!”

“But the orders—” the first guard started.

“General, drop!” the second bawled, hauling his gun out.
Retief shot him, took a short step and drove a hard punch to the jaw of the
first Greenback, then caught the Groaci’s arm, jumped for the heli. Yells
sounded across the roof. A yard-wide light-cannon, gymbal-mounted atop the
guard shack, winked on, throwing a grey-blue tunnel of light into the sky; it
pivoted, depressed, swept a burning disc across to Retief—

He drew the power pistol, thumbed it to narrow beam, blasted
the light; it exploded in a shower of tinkling glass, a billow of orange smoke
that faded, winked out.

Retief shoved the slender Groaci ahead of him, yanked wide
the heli’s entry hatch, tumbled his prisoner in, jumped after him. He flipped
switches, rammed the control lever to EMERGENCY FULL CLIMB. With a whine of
power, the finely-engineered craft leaped from the roof, surged upward in a
buffet of suddenly stirred air. From below, the blue and yellow flashes of
blasters winked briefly against the discs of the screaming rotors; then they
dwindled away and were gone.

Half
an hour later, Retief dropped the heli in low over the black tree-tops of the
Deep Forest. A gleam of light reflected across rippling water. He edged the
machine forward, swung out over the lake; below, the water churned in the
down-draft from the rotors as the heli settled gently into two feet of water. Retief
cut the engine and popped the hatch. Cold mountain air swirled in; somewhere,
water lizards shrilled.

“What place of infamy is this?” the captive general hissed.
He stared out into the darkness. “Do you bring me here to slay me unseen, vile
disrespecter of diplomatic privilege?”

“The
idea has merit,” Retief said, “but I have other plans for you, General.” He
climbed down, motioned the Groaci out. Hish grumbled, scrambling down into the
icy water of the lake, slogging to shore. From the darkness, a night-fowl
called. Retief whistled a reply. There was the sound of a footstep in the
brush, the click! of a cross-bow’s cocking mechanism.

“It’s Retief,” he called. “I have a guest: General Hish, of
the Groaci Embassy.”

“Ah, welcome, Retief,” a soft voice drawled. “We’re honored,
General. Good of you to call. His Highness was hoping you’d be along
soon . . .”

Inside the high-beamed lodge, Prince Tavilan came across the
room; behind him, Aric grinned.

“I caught the rat all right, Mr. Retief—”

“Retief!” Tavilan clapped him on the shoulder. “Aric reached
me with your message an hour ago. I heard the news of your arrest on Tri-D;
they broke into a concert to announce that a plot involving the CDT and
reactionary Royalist elements had been uncovered.”

“Hidebinder will be very unhappy with that version of
events,” Retief said. “The agreement was that it was all to be blamed on a
rotten apple in the Corps barrel, namely me—”

“We were saddling up to storm the palace and free you, when
your message reached me—”

“How many reliable men do you have available on short notice,
Your Highness?” Retief cut in.

“I have thirty-eight of the Invincibles with me here; at
least three others are under arrest on various pretexts. Four more managed to
report in that they’re pinned down by ‘protective escorts’ but we can still
strike—”

Retief
shook his head. “That was the idea of arresting me, Your Highness—as a personal
challenge to you, since my sympathies are well-known. Prouch wanted to bring
you out into the open. An armed attack was just what he needed—and he was ready
for you. He has at least two hundred Greenbacks in the palace—armed to the
nines. Your raid would have been the signal for his take-over—to preserve the
domestic tranquility, of course—and your death in the fighting would have left
him a clear field.”

“What about the Palace Guard? They haven’t gone
over . . . ?”

“Of course not . . .” Retief accepted a cigar,
took a seat by the fire. “They’re standing fast, playing it by ear. The Grand
Ball tonight gave them an excuse for full dress, including weapons, of course.
The Greenbacks aren’t quite ready to start anything with them—yet.”

Tavilan stamped across the fire-beast-hide rug. “Blast it,
Retief, we can’t sit here and watch Prouch and his mob move in unopposed! If we
hit them now—before they’ve had time to consolidate—”

“—you’ll get every Royalist supporter in Elora City killed,”
Retief finished for him. “Now, let’s consider the situation. Item: the Royal
Fleet is grounded, courtesy of CDT policy. Item two: Prouch’s People’s Volunteer
Naval Reserve Detachment of late-model Bogan destroyers is sitting in its
launch-cradles at Grey Valley, fifteen miles from here—”

“They’re no threat to us; they can’t operate without fuel
either.”

“They won’t have to,” Retief said, pulling out smoke. “Corps
policy is nothing if not elastic. It seems that the Big Picture called for the
supplying of the Volunteer Reserve with full magazines—”

“What!”

“—and the topping off of all tanks.”

Tavilan’s face was pale. “I see,” he said quietly, nodding.
“The CDT talked disarmament to me while it was arming Prouch’s revolutionaries.
It never intended to see the monarchy survive.”

“Well, Your Highness, the CDT is a very clean-minded
organization, and it heard somewhere that ‘monarchy’ was a dirty word—”

“All right!” Prince Tavilan turned to Count Arrol. “We have
mounts for every man—and plenty of cross-bow bolts. There’ll be Greenback blood
on the palace floors before the night is out—”

“If I might make a suggestion . . . ?”

“You’re not involved in this, Retief. Take the copter and get
clear—”

“Clear
to where? I’ve been disowned by my colleagues and slapped in jail by the Prime
Minister. To get back to the Little Picture: I see no point in our riding into
Elora City and being shot down at long range by Greenbacks—”

“We’ll ride in at the Marivale Gate, move up through the
fire-lanes—”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” Retief said, “I’ve got a
better idea. It’s only fifteen miles to the Grey Valley . . .”

“So?”

“So I suggest we take a ride over and look at the Volunteer
Navy.”

“You just told me Prouch’s renegades are armed to the
teeth . . .”

Retief nodded. “Since we need guns, Your Highness, I can’t
think of a closer place to get ’em . . .”

At the head of the troop of thirty-eight riders, including
General Hish, lashed to a mount, Retief and Tavilan reined in at the crest of
the slope that faced the barracks of the Peoples’ Volunteer Naval Reserve, a
blaze of light all across the narrow valley. On the ramp a quarter of a mile
beyond the administrative and shop areas, fifty slim destroyers loomed, bathed
in the glare of polyarcs. Prince Tavilan whistled.

“Prouch
and the CDT seem to have struck it off even better than I thought. That’s all
brand-new equipment.”

“Just
defensive, of course,” Retief said. “I believe Minister Prouch has given
assurances that the elimination of Dangredi’s free-booters will be carried out
with dispatch—just as soon as the CDT recognizes his regime.”

Tavilan laughed shortly. “I could have swept Dangredi off the
space lanes six months ago—if the CDT hadn’t blockaded me.”

“Such are the vagaries of Galactic policy—”

“I know: the Big Picture again.” Tavilan turned to Arrol.
“We’ll split into two parties, work around both ends of the valley, and pick
our targets at close range. Retief, you ride with me. Let’s move out.”

It
was a forty-minute ride along the forested slopes walling the valley to the
rendezvous point Prince Tavilan had designated, a sheltered ravine less than a
hundred yards from the nearest of the parked war vessels. The access ladder was
down, and light spilled from the open entry port. A Reservist in baggy grey and
green lounged in the opening. Two more stood below, power rifles slung across
their backs.

“You could pick those three off from here,” Retief remarked.
“Cross-bows are a nice quiet weapon—”

Tavilan shook his head. “We’ll ride down in formal
battle-order. No war’s been declared. They won’t fire on the Prince Royal.”

“There may be forty more inside—to say nothing of the crews
of the next ships in line, sentries, stand-by riot squads, and those two
pill-boxes commanding the ends of the valley.”

“Still—I must give those men their chance to declare
themselves.”

“As the Prince wishes—but I’ll keep my blaster loose in its
holster—just in case . . .”

The
Prince rode in the lead with his guidon at his left, followed by thirty-five
men, formed up in a precise triangle of seven ranks, with two honor guards out
on the flanks. The rear guard followed, holding the reins of the mount to which
General Hish, still hissing bitter complaints, was lashed.

The Invincibles moved down the slope and out onto the broad
tarmac, hooves clattering against the paved surface. The two men on the ramp
turned, stoop gaping. The one above at the ship’s entry port whirled,
disappeared inside.

The troop rode on; they were halfway to the ship now. One of
the waiting Greenbacks unlimbered his power gun, cranked the action, the other
followed suit. Both stepped forward half a dozen paces, brought their weapons
up uncertainly.

“Halt! Who the Hell’s there!” one bawled.

Tavilan flipped the corner of his hunting cape forward over
his shoulder to show the royal Eloran device, came on in silence.

The taller of the two Greenbacks raised his rifle, hesitated,
half-lowered it. Riding half a pace behind Tavilan, Retief eased his pistol
from its holster, watching the doorway above. On his right, Count Arrol held
his crossbow across his knee, a bolt cocked in the carriage, his finger on the
trigger.

Ten feet from the two Greenback sentries, Prince Tavilan
reined in.

“Aren’t you men accustomed to render a proper salute when
your Commander makes a surprise inspection?” he said calmly.

The Greenbacks looked at each other, fingering their guns.

“It looks as though the word had gone out,” Arrol whispered
to Retief.

“You cover the Prince; I’ll handle the entry port,” Retief
murmured.

At that moment a figure eased into view at the port; light
glinted from the front sight of a power gun as it came up, steadied—

Retief sighted, fired; in the instantaneous blue glare, the
man at the port whirled and fell outward. The Greenback nearest Tavilan made a
sudden move to swing his gun on the Prince—then stumbled back, a steel quarrel
from Arrol’s cross-bow standing in his chest. The second Greenback dropped his
weapon, stood with raised hands, his mouth open and eyes wide, then turned and
ran.

Tavilan leaped down from his steed, dashed for the access
ladder, his cross-bow ready. As though on command, four men followed him, while
others scattered to form a rough semi-circle at the base of the ladder.
Sheltered behind a generator unit, Retief and Arrol covered the port. Tavilan
disappeared inside, the men at his heels. There was a long half-minute of dead
silence. Then a shout sounded from the next vessel in line, a hundred yards
distant. Tavilan reappeared, gestured.