Singer from the Sea (23 page)

While under care, the typical patient continued quiet and withdrawn, content to sit and stare into the middle distance without being interested in food or drink or conversation, though some of the afflicted still wondered aloud where they might have put whatever it was that was missing. When urged to communicate, a patient might remark that speech took too much energy away from his or her trying to remember something very urgent, and persistent questioning caused agitation.

Without exception, the afflicted would continue in this vein, whether calm or agitated, until a sudden cry of what seemed to be joy was followed by a fit of laughter and then by an hour or so of unintelligible murmurings which carried a great weight of hopelessness and pain, followed by a lapse into unconsciousness swiftly followed by death.

There were at first only a handful of such patients, but their numbers grew with each year that passed. It was thought by some that a poisonous asteroid or comet or cloud of cosmic material had impinged upon the planet to cause these effects as well as the weirdness that had occurred on “the Strange Night,” as it came to be called.

Ygdale Furnashson was High Chieftain among the Aresians. He had three sons, and in the manner of the historic quests of his people—and having already sought such advice as was available from scientific and off-planet sources—Ygdale sent his sons out among the settled worlds to question whether any people, anywhere, had any information that would cast light on what had happened to Ares on the fateful night and whether that event had anything to do with the current plague.

The two older boys found nothing helpful except the fact that a similar disease was decimating the populations
on Chamis and had already virtually destroyed Verben’s World. Counting Ares, this meant half the settled planets in the area were in trouble. The younger son of the Chieftain found some additional information, though it was not what he had been looking for. He came home to report that he’d heard rumors that on Haven not only was settlement doing very nicely, but men were living to be several hundred years old. Additionally, Haven was rumored to trade the long-life substance, whatever it was, for off-world goods and services. The stuff had been bought and used by a few people on Chamis and Verben’s World, all of whom, it was said, were still alive.

This was enough for Ygdale to work with. Though unaccustomed to protracted thinking, he could do it when necessary. He queried further, learning that the Lord Paramount of Haven had a fondness for shopping, that he much enjoyed brightly colored booklets, copiously illustrated, with elaborate and even fanciful claims and descriptions of the merchandise. Ygdale had such a catalog prepared forthwith, touting the advantages of an Aresian security force. He also arranged bribes to several of the Lord Para-mount’s servants to be sure that the Ares-Force booklet was always on top of the pile. He reminded his sons that taking an advantage of an opponent’s weakness was not at all dishonorable.

Only ten Aresian years passed between the discovery of the disease and the dispatch of an Aresian mercenary force into the employ of the Lord Paramount of Haven, who paid for the service with a quantity of the substance the Aresians called “long-life stuff.” Ygdale used part of the shipment for himself, and passed the rest on to his most trusted supporters. He assured them that this was only step one in Ares’s recovery from whatever ailed it, for the mercenary force that was being sent to Haven, though it was fully as reliable, strong, able, observant, and protective as represented in the prospectus, was also made up entirely of disciplined Aresians under the command of Ygdale’s elder sons and assigned the duty of finding out where the life stuff came from, how it was procured and manufactured, and how best large quantities of it could be obtained.

So it was that while the Prince of Haven wined and dined, while Genevieve wept and the Marshal preened himself in Havenor, Ogberd and Lokdren Ygdaleson, elder sons of the Chieftain of Ares, were well established in the palace at Havenor, where they might be found in the mercenaries’ quarters, lifting weights, running a treadmill, and engaging in other exercises designed to keep them fit.

Nearby was a device which erupted, from time to time, with angry words and sounds of temper.

“Where’s that listener planted?” a junior officer asked, adding a weight to his bar.

“In the office of the Mahahmbi minister of state,” Lokdren replied, panting. “Ybon Saelan. He’s the one with the best access to the Shah. If you want to know what’s being said, ask Ogberd. He understands the dialect better than I do.”

Ogberd took over Lokdren’s abandoned treadmill, leaned on its control panel and drawled, “The minister’s aggravated about some religious rite that’s coming up.”

“How did you get a listening device planted in the minister’s office?” asked one of the newer men.

Lokdren wiped his face, took a long drink from his water bottle, and replied, “Provincial sales agents go to Mahahm to sell them grain or fiber or whatnot in return for some medicine they get from there.”

“Long-life stuff?”

“Naw. Something to prevent fevers. The salesmen have to go to the minister’s office to get their residency papers, and I bribed one of the salesmen to plant the listener.”

“Why there?”

“We’ve looked everyplace we can look here on Haven for the long-life stuff, so we thought it was time to have a look at Mahahm.”

“There’s lots of places in the provinces of Haven we haven’t been to,” offered another junior officer.

“True,” Ogberd muttered. “But it’s hard to get out into the provinces unless we can get a duke or a count to hire us, and only a couple of them have, so far. We’ve been in and out of every noble house here in Havenor, though, as escorts to the Prince, and the stuff isn’t stored in any
of them.” He set the dials on the treadmill and positioned himself.

“Meantime,” said Lokdren, heading for the showers, “things are gettin’ worse at home.”

Ogberd grimaced. What Lokdren said was all too true. Life expectancy dropped every year as more and more people were cut down by the stopping-sickness. None of the men who had received the life stuff from Haven had succumbed, however, which kept their concentration intact. Haven had the substance and seemed to be doing all right; Ares didn’t have the substance and was failing. Therefore, obtaining the life stuff was the key to survival.

Before turning on his machine, Ogberd reasserted this in a confident voice. “We’ve told the Chief we can conquer the planet tomorrow if we want to, but he doesn’t want to invade until we know where the stuff comes from! We’ve been here better than two years and I’m beginning to doubt His Majesty even knows where he gets the stuff.”

“So, maybe we should make him tell us who does know.”

Ogberd nodded with a grim smile. “You think we haven’t considered it? And suppose it isn’t even found here? Hmm? Suppose they get it from off-planet? Suppose it’s a compound: some stuff from here, some stuff from somewhere else? Then we’ve blown our cover over nothing!” He started the machine and began to run with great efficiency.

The others looked at one another with upraised brows. Every man present, including the elder sons of the Chieftain, was serving in anticipation of a just reward, but if they couldn’t find out where the reward was, then the past two years plus whatever time they spent in the future could turn out to be a waste of futures that were already threatened.

“So?” asked someone from a corner of the room.

“So,” Ogberd breathed, “the Chief is going to decide. If we can’t find out in a reasonable length of time, he’s going to invade.”

“The whole planet?”

“Havenor here, and Mahahm-qum in Mahahm. That
way we’re bound to net at least a few of the people who know.”

“And what’s a reasonable length of time?” asked the same voice.

“Not long,” panted Ogberd, gritting his teeth. “Not long at all.”

V
ERY MEAR THE BEGINNING OF HIS REIGN
, M
ARWELL
, L
ORD
Paramount of Haven, had had a secret elevator built in a hidden shaft that dropped from his bed chamber behind the throne room into the lowest levels beneath the palace. No one but himself knew of this or even suspected it. The Lord Paramount went to his bed chamber openly each evening, summoning his servants there, and so far as anyone knew, the only access was through one of two doors, the one behind the throne room, which was always guarded, and the one from the servants’ hall, which was always observed. Over the decades, Marwell’s sleeping chamber had been repeatedly planted with listening devices and recorders by palace servants, bribed to do so by Prince Delganor. The chamber had been, as repeatedly, cleared of all such trifles by the same men, paid by Marwell himself.

Though the Prince had bribed the Lord Paramount’s servants at least twenty times to search the chambers behind the throne room, nothing useful had been found there. The men who had built the shaft and the elevator several centuries before had known all about it, of course, but they had been sequestered while doing the work and had not lived long enough afterward to tell anyone. By this time, the secret elevator held a comfortable chair along with various weapons and items of clothing and equipment,
and its corners were stacked ceiling high with Haven’s entire supply of P’naki, which it was the Lord Paramount’s practice to dole out at need.

The older the Lord Paramount became, the more lightly he slept, the more often he checked the elevator’s contents and mechanical readiness, and the more often he supplied the elevator with small necessities which by now included his second-best crown and an ordinary, anonymous set of clothing and shoes, just in case, he sometimes told himself, he needed to disappear for a while.

“For a while,” was always part of the thought. He never, even in his most suspicious moments, supposed that he would have to disappear permanently.

O
N THE MORNING FOLLOWING GENEVIEVE’S DEPARTURE
, while the Marshal sat at breakfast, Her Grace the Duchess of Merdune was announced by Halpern. She sailed in around the butler, rather disconcerting the Marshal, who had not heard them coming.

“Madame,” said the Marshal, rising. “You’ll be wanting my lazy daughter, who is not yet out of bed.”

“Do sit down, Marshal,” she said, going to the sideboard, where an elaborate breakfast was arranged. “Let me join you for a cup of tea, perhaps one of these scones. Ah! Zybod ham left over from last night. Delicious! I must have a slice of that! Actually, it’s you I’ve come to see.”

“Me? Well, Madame, I’m flattered. What can an old war horse do for you?”

A footman brought her plate from the sideboard as she sat in the chair nearest the Marshal, leaning confidentially toward him. “An old war horse can be understanding, sir. You can be understanding.”

“Of what?” he asked, drawing back suspiciously.

“Of why Genevieve has left home.”

He snorted. “Left home? Nonsense, woman. She’s upstairs in bed.”

“I think not. I’m almost sure she’s gone away….”

The Marshal’s eruption interrupted her. He shouted for a footman, telling him to find Della, Genevieve’s maid,
and bring her here, at once. The Duchess sighed and concentrated on her breakfast while Della arrived, was sent away, and returned rather ashen in the face to confirm that Genevieve was indeed gone.

Angrily, the Marshal dismissed her and demanded of Alicia, “All right, what is this?”

She beckoned him to lean close to her, softly whispering into his ear, “I found a note at my door this morning, from your daughter. Last night, during dinner, Yugh Delganor spoke of marriage to Genevieve.”

“Did he indeed?” said the Marshal, eyebrows rising, eyes gleaming. “Well, I’d said as much to—”

The Duchess’s hand across his mouth silenced him. She shook her head, motioning at the room around him, then whispering again:

“Genevieve went into a panic, sir. I believe she is in love with someone else.”

“She what!” He turned an ugly red and rose with such force that his chair went crashing behind him. “She had no business being in love with anyone!” he cried, stalking away from the table, his napkin napping on his chest.

She got up to take him by the arm, shush him, tug him back into his chair, and pat him on the knee as she murmured, “I don’t think it’s a business at all, sir. Businesses we control. Love, we cannot. At any rate, she was gravely upset by last night’s dinner, so upset that she has run away.”

She drew him close again, putting her lips within an inch of his ear. “She thought, quite rightly I believe, that since the Prince had not actually spoken to you or proposed to her, and since she had not given him any encouragement whatsoever, no promises could be considered broken.”

“And who is she in love with?” snarled the Marshal.

“She didn’t say she was in love with anyone, but I think from my own observation it is probably Colonel Leys.”

The Marshal shouted, “I’ll have the bastard shot! So he went with her, did he?”

The Duchess gave up any attempt at silence. So long as the Marshal stayed away from the subject of the Prince’s possible proposal, he might rave as he liked. “I’d
be surprised if he even knew about it, much less went with her.”

“So you say!” He summoned a footman and demanded that Colonel Leys be summoned, without delay. Then he turned on the Duchess once more, saying sneeringly:

“So why are you here, Your Grace? Come to beg forgiveness for her?”

“Not at all, sir. I merely read her note, and since I knew you would be upset to find her gone, I came to tell you what had happened.”

“After
it happened,” he shouted.

The Duchess said frostily, “I suggest you moderate your battlefield bellow, Marshal. We are equal in rank, and I do not take it kindly. Besides, you do not want this overheard …” again she gestured at the room around them, “… by every servant in the house. Neither my butler nor I check the door for messages during the night hours, nor have you any right to assume so.”