Jinx on a Terran Inheritance (26 page)

"Don't mind if I do, even if the purists wouldn't approve. Nobody here but us, eh, baron?"

There was a moment's silence. An unmasked man's voice said, "Ah, that's better! Kind of you to offer, m'lord!"

Alacrity and Floyt were leaning on their shovels. Alacrity motioned Floyt to be still; Gute had warned them not to be nuisances.
And,
he told himself,
intelligence info is where you find it.
He stuck out his tongue and pointed to its tip, where a synaptiflake would be placed to melt. Floyt nodded comprehension.

They heard gasps as the flake-surge hit the two Betters; Alacrity felt a twinge of envy.

"Phew! Not bad, eh?"

"Oh, premiere stuff, Baron, premiere. Would you care for a cigar? They're from Ascension."

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"Thank you, no. It's a wee bit rank in here for me, but do go ahead."

The baron's voice sound like that of an older and quite cultured man, Alacrity decided; his companion's, indeterminate. A few seconds later, a spent match—a real, primeval, wooden lucifer—came arcing down through a hole, leaving a thin thread of smoke, to hiss out nearby in layered aristocrat poop.

"Will you be racing, Matterse?" the man called the baron asked casually.

"Wouldn't dream of missing a regatta," Matterse answered stoutly.

"As I was saying, that fellow Dincrist, the one from the Orion Compound, will be the one to beat this time. I can't see how Praxis even permitted him to enter; a damned upstart from the word go."

"Ah, well then, blood will no doubt tell," Matterse posited. "Can't say I care much for that Sile person of his, though," he added thoughtfully.

"Quite. While I've got you here for a moment, Matterse, there's something I wanted to ask you. It's in the nature of what might be called a clarification. I hope you won't think I'm speaking out of turn … "

The other hastened to fill the meaningful pause. "No such thing, sir! Please do go on."

"It's just that rumors have reached me that you plan to petition for a Royal Charter of House when we get back to Styx."

Matterse's answer was very stiff. "With all deference, m'lord—that is a private matter. May I ask how you heard such a thing? Has Marita perhaps been speaking out of turn?"

"What Marita did or didn't say is hardly the issue, young man! We of the High Seat have to be extremely careful about who we admit to our ranks. And there are more applicants clamoring after charters all the time."

"Er, yes, that's true, but in my case—"

"Splendid; I'm glad you understand. Now, about this claim of yours to the old Blood Royal: your lineage is Matterse out of Morstrube, from the Second Ship, is it not? That makes you a peer, m'boy, but never Blood Royal."

"Ah, yes, but," Matterse hastened, "I've recently had a genealogy done, of my family tree and ancestors
before
the ship left the Solar system."

Alacrity looked to Floyt; this was his specialty. Floyt simply raised his eyebrows in the wavering torchlight, the cloth hiding the rest of his face.

"My ancestor resettled on Luna," Matterse was saying, sounding well rehearsed. "He was originally of the Rose line, but was forced to divest himself of his title in the Lunar Abjuration of 2534." He hesitated, file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (135 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:29

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then said, "Er, do you mind if I … "

"Eh? Ah, I suppose not."

"That's what the place is for, eh, m'lord?" More briskly,

Matterse went on, "So, with this new information—I have certified copies of the original documents—I should think I would qualify—"

As Alacrity was wondering what all the doubletalk meant, hoping the two would start talking about Dincrist again, he and Floyt found out what the lesser subject had been. A yellow stream of urine poured down from above, splattering in the dung, splashing their gumboots.

They jumped back with a curse. Floyt, unable to endure any more, ripped down his cloth and, coughing once, screamed up hoarsely, "You cheap, contemptible, unthinking, incontinent bastard! And not only that,
there was no such thing as the Abjuration of twenty-five-goddamn thirty-four
!"

Alacrity looked at his friend glumly. "As if the shit wasn't deep enough … "

CHAPTER 11—WIT'S END

It turned out that there were certain modern conveniences available to denizens of the citadel. Prominent among these was one that summoned other castle denizens dressed as warriors—and Gute. All the Betters of the citadel seemed to be products of selective breeding, nutritional programs, and genetic manipulation, standing a half head and more taller than Alacrity.

The two unwilling manuremen found themselves gazing up through the early-morning sunlight, with Gute off to one side.

On a low-railed pergola a few meters above them, two Betters peered down upon them from within massive war casques decked with exotic plumage. Each had one of the beautifully made gauntlets tucked in his belt.

"Which is the one who dared raise his voice to us?" demanded the mask that resembled a hissing serpent, in Terranglish. There was no identifying the voice, but Alacrity assumed that Matterse would defer to the baron. While the breakabout was speculating on possible ways to get out of this one—

without much hope—Floyt settled the matter.

"Ah, that would be me. You see, I was just startled, that's all.
Heh.
I'm really very, very sorry and it won't happen again, I assure you. Sirs."

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The other Better, in a mask modeled on a snarling feline of some sort, broke in, shouting, "What was that you had the audacity to yell?"

"Nothing!" Alacrity blurted. "We just said, 'Hey, what's going on?' or words to that effect!"

" 'Words to that effect,' " mused the baron somewhere behind his mask, a contemplative god. The two captives held their breath, waiting for the worst.

"Very well," the baron decided. "We cannot in all fairness punish you for being surprised, can we?"

Matterse choked outraged nonwords. The baron turned to him—turning his entire upper body, since his bulky mask wasn't jointed. "You may go, sir. I will deal with these."

"But I—they insulted me. Are we to be obliged to accept that here? In the very citadel?" His long fingers clenched on the railing and he looked down on them through mirrored eyepieces.

The baron raised a hand rather lazily. "My dear young friend, I doubt very much these lowmen even know where they are. And it ill behooves us to be wasteful of strong young serviles, eh? I'll just make it a point that the central labor pool be more thorough in instructing its crews."

Matterse still seemed undecided.

"Go see to the guests," the baron said. "They'll be wondering what's happened to us."

The two Betters moved out of sight. Disappointed onlookers drifted back to whatever they'd been doing, deprived of some good old-fashioned, medieval-style fun at the expense of the lower orders. Floyt dared hope the incident was over, and he'd come through unscathed. Even Gute seemed unsure.

But a moment later, the baron reappeared at the courtyard door, having removed his towering headgear.

His imposing height aside, he wasn't much different from a Terran of middle age.

The baron's head of thick, curly black hair was touched with white—not gray—at the temples, and there were streaks of it in his beard, which projected in two menacing spikes, the middle of his chin being clean shaven. His black eyes were direct and piercing, but his lashes incongruously long and curled, almost girlish. His ceremonial gauntlet, of scarlet mesh and scale armor, had long, glittering, hooked silver claws. He might be a decadent nobleman or oligarch, but the big body looked to be in excellent shape.

He'd stopped some distance away, having caught their scent. He motioned negligently to Gute. "Wait over there by the gate."

Gute, surprised, clearly knew better than to argue. Ducking his head obediently, he trotted off. The baron looked the two over.

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"Now, which of you mentioned the abjuration? Speak up; I've no time for nonsense."

"I did. Sir," Floyt confessed.

"Ah; I thought so. And how do you know so much about history and genealogy? Or were you just ranting?"

"It was a sort of a hobby of mine, Baron, back on—back where I came from."

"I see." The baron regarded him closely. "Can you prove what you said? Can you disprove that young upstart's claim to nobility?"

Floyt spread his hands. "Not without my reference materials, my books—"

"A detail," snapped the baron, distracted now as he thought through others. "There are large data banks at the Central Complex. But can you retrieve the information I require?"

Floyt thought about it, where Alacrity, in his place, would've said yes immediately whether it was a lie or not.

"If the data's in there, sir, I don't see why not," Floyt decided at length.

"That's the spirit," the baron said with a kind of patronizing robustness. "And while you're at it, lowman, you can look into a few other matters for me. Matterse isn't the only pleb running about with pretensions to gentle blood."

He beckoned to Gute and, when the local arrived, indicated Floyt. "Have this man cleaned up and suitably attired, then delivered to me at the main entrance of the Central Complex at the tenth hour, tomorrow morning."

Alacrity cleared his throat loudly. The baron lifted an eyebrow toward him.

"Uh, what about me?" the breakabout plunged in. "I'm his, uh, helper."

Floyt nodded. Gute's expression was blank.

"And you would describe yourself as an apt, hard-working fellow?" the baron asked. Alacrity nodded for all he was worth.

"In that case, you'll be able to perform cesspit details by yourself, won't you?"

The next morning Floyt went through another cleansing and deverminizing process, though he and Alacrity had taken a long one only the evening before. His lowman outfit was replaced with a nondescript coverall of yellow and brown and stiff, uncomfortable slippers.

He rode beside Gute in the little runabout while Alacrity, riding a flatbed trailer behind, glared sourly at file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (138 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:29

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them both. They stopped in front of the Central Complex. Floyt was ushered in, the maroon-clad guard having instructions from the baron on the matter.

Then Gute headed back for the spaceport. "Lucky, your friend Delver," he told Alacrity, who'd moved up to the passenger seat once Floyt had left. Gute didn't seem to mind. "Good, easy work, I'll bet. Safe."

"Who is the baron, anyway?"

Gute spared Alacrity a rare sidelong glance, then went back to the prestigious business of driving. "It's not a very good idea to ask too many questions, Shipwreck. Make sure your friend knows that."

The next job of the day involved transporting two big plastic vats of succulent-looking salted hams from their holding point at the spaceport to the kitchens at the complex. The vats comprised the complex's share of a joint purchase.

Alacrity did all the work, of course, but it wasn't too hard, since they had a powerjack along. At least the job didn't require a slave collar and a funny costume.

As the runabout eased away from the loading dock, Alacrity commented offhandedly, "Gute, I've been thinking."

"That is not permitted without written permission from the Betters."

"No, really; I'm just wondering how come a bright fella like you isn't doing just a little better for himself."

Gute kept his eyes on the lofty task of driving. "I will not forbid you to talk, within reason, at this time.

But do not expect me to answer or agree to any disloyal or dishonest proposal."

"Of course not! You bet. Well, I'm just sitting here saying to myself, 'There must be something Gute would like to have for himself.' A luxury—some clothing, or a bottle of something offworld, maybe? Or a gift for somebody you'd like to be nice to?"

Gute didn't comment; Alacrity pressed his luck. "There's a lot you could get for yourself if you instituted a few creative management procedures around here."

"Creative—that has a very impressive ring to it."

"Pull over there—right behind that shed—and I'll show you what I mean."

Gute thought for a moment, then complied.

Alacrity dismounted and took up a water hose attached to a spigot at the rear of the shed. "Name something you wish you had. Within reason, that is."

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Gute looked around carefully. Seeing no one, he answered uneasily, "A Spican Atlas."

"Seriously? Huh!" Alacrity bunked, surprised. He'd expected Gute to have his heart set on a flashy loincloth, liquor, or maybe a particular partner for some slap-and-tickle.

The Spican Atlas was a magnificent book, showing all the beauties of that populous system and its unparalleled Precursor wonders.

"Yes," Gute said excitedly. "Denzio, the master of hounds at the Hellfire Compound, has two copies."

"Here's a simple solution." Alacrity held up an index finger. "One: Gute would like one of those atlases

—so he can see the places he'd like to visit."

Gute shrugged irritably but didn't deny it.

Alacrity turned on the hose, splattering an irregular, tepid trickle onto the hardtop. He held up a second finger of his free hand.