Stardogs (7 page)

“Sir Syrian. Do you mind leaving the second copy of that itinerary with us?” Shari’s voice was all urbanity again. “I think some of us would like to peruse it.” She smiled at the froglike, glasses-magnified eyes of the dumpy, oddly made-up woman in the corner. Inwardly Shari seethed in irritation at the clumsy footman-spy. Best to make it easy for the fool. It was, she supposed, some comfort that she was still being spied on by idiots and not competent men. But it was all so futile. The itinerary would be going to Imperial security anyway. And if he was a Wienan League spy, they’d be getting her itinerary as well as her politely-worded-but-brooking-no-refusal request for a Stardog for the imperial barge. The itinerary would cause their usual rash of protests and suggested changes, which she would, as usual, ignore.

Lady Tanzo Adendorff’s badly pinned bun bobbed like a buoy in wind squall with her eager nodding. “Oh yes… I’d love to! I like to get my reading done first, you know.” Tanzo agreed wholeheartedly with the Princess that some things were more important than money. Well, one thing anyway. Xeno-archaeology. Money was only worth having if it could transport you to Denaari sites. But interstellar travel was ruinously expensive, and Imperial interest in archaeological research-funding was non-existent. As part of the Princess’s retinue she at least could sponge free transport to worlds far beyond her modest means. The odd-looking woman was no fool. In return she did what was expected of her, to deflect the intelligentsia from the princess at social gatherings. It was boring, but a small price to pay.

Selim Puk had ensured that the Princess was never quite alone. The bodyguards were, of course, his men. The major domo, Amadeo Cerros, was also, of course, his original plant. The man had also been approached by Wienan League agents and, on Selim’s instructions, passed on certain edited information. Baroness Tanzo he had considered and rejected. He had a generous budget, but really, money spent on watching Princess Shari was wasted. He wished, however, that he could have recruited the Princess’s other foil.

Unfortunately, the stunningly beautiful and amply curvaceous Demoiselle Caro Leyven had two kinds of armor against his wiles.

Firstly, she was the scion of a wealthy merchant house. Her grandfather had bought his title, and then trebled the family fortune, which was still very much intact. Caro had never needed money and found it of no interest. Selim couldn’t buy her.

Secondly, she was just too dim for blackmail, even if he could find or fake something she’d prefer to remain hidden. She’d blurt it out to the first man who smiled at her, and with the effect this woman had on heterosexual males, his blackmailing agent would end up dead. She had no interest in the itinerary. Wherever they went there would be men to be nice to her. She had no idea why her dear Princess had asked her to join the royal retinue. But it didn’t matter, did it?

There was one other within the dingy audience-room, with its half-century out of date wall-paper, that cared even less about where they were going. Otto III, possessor of one of the most impressive moustaches in all of the empire, (despite, or possibly because of his dubious ancestry), didn’t care where the princess went, as long as he went along. He was loyal beyond any possibility of corruption. He also occasionally had fleas, which if you are the animal-shelter-chosen companion of a Princess, meant baths. Otto didn’t mind what his Princess did, or where she went, as long as he was there, and there were no baths.

Standing behind Tanzo Adendorff the footman had managed to make a careful study of the list at last. Phillipia - Abelard - Barhain II - Samburia - Amritsar - New Sahara - Nekrat - Erzulie - New Australia - Prala III - Bretonia - Mali V and then back to Phillipia. Arrival and departure times. He memorized them carefully, not realising how obvious he was being. Still, spotting a spy is one thing. But it is sometimes difficult to tell just for whom the spy may be working.

Prince Jarian stared in horror at the dead man — not because death horrified him, but because it was his own bodyguard. The strangers who had shot the bodyguard, it appeared, had saved his life. And now he was here, without as much as a pistol and entirely without any form of defense, should they want him dead. He’d never seen either man before, and although they’d killed Naylin in the act of turning his weapon on his master, Prince Jarian, neither had put their guns away. Jarian wondered if he was going to be next. “Wh… who are you?” he stuttered.

“The only friends you have in the world, Prince Jarian,” said one of the men sardonically, “Or, should I say, Jarian. Seeing as the Emperor has stripped you of all of your titles and ordered you an unobtrusive death. Selim Puk traced the toxin seller… and found you were the only buyer. You should have tried something less exotic.”

Jarian’s pale eyes darted around the room. He wanted to run. He HAD to run. He should killed the supplier. But his older brother relied on the fool for recreational chemicals, and the dealer was a little too careful. “Friends?” he quavered clining to the last straw.

“The Wienan League have reasons to want to keep you alive,” said the other man. “No one else does.”

Jarian knew why. He knew they’d want a puppet-pretender if they took action against his father. The Emperor Turabi knew that too. He’d kill any son that tried an alliance with the League. But what choice did he have?

“You’ll have to get me out of here.”

The self-admitted League agent nodded. “And offworld. On Phillipia they’ll find and kill you, sooner or later. Not even in the league Dacha would you be safe. But we have hidden facilities elsewhere. We have the perfect vessel to get you out on too. The Princess Royal’s barge. They’ll be searching elsewhere very diligently.”

“Shari… “ he detested his aunt. “She is with the League?” That information could be traded, perhaps for his life.

The league man smiled nastily, obviously guessing his mind. “No. She is above suspicion and search, that’s all. We have someone in her retinue. Viscount Brettan and one of the stewards will see to your welfare, once we have you aboard.”

A vine, should it be unpruned, yet given access to water and fertilizer in unlimited quantities will produce poor and watery fruit. The Wienan League is such a vine.

The Upanishad of the Gardener-Dewa Celine

The descendants of the nine powerful political families who had formed the Council of the Space Exploration and Development Control League lived in the kind of sybaritic luxury that even their wealthy ancestors could never have dreamed of. The hereditary councillors of what now openly called itself the Wienan League, skimmed the cream off the interstellar Empire they’d created. For the Empire itself had begun as a puppet, a means by which the Wienan League could repress their former puppet, the Council of Planets.

The new puppet too had begun to become uppity in the last hundred years or so. The League now politely requested audiences with the emperor. A mere 120 years ago they’d sent the man peremonitary orders, which were obeyed with alacrity. Now… the League didn’t like this diminution of its power. The Wienan Oligarchy planned to replace the present ruling house with yet another puppet. But the League remained small, controlling a slowly decreasing pool of Stardogs, and the Empire was vast. And even with their declining numbers of Stardogs the League had been obliged to accept some loyal outsiders into their ranks. Offspring of their own were just too few these days.

The core of power remained with the hereditary-Wienans however. One child of this bloodline was Johannes Wienan XXIII. He could never rise to be League Chairman, because his father had foolishly married outside the League, but he was still a powerful young man in the year 2505. Well, he was not powerful in the physical sense anyway. He was already, at twenty, unfit and rather plump. The power came from his birth, and from his Great Aunt Mariet. She was Chairman of the League Board, and when she summonsed him, even though he was in the middle of a luxurious bath, he responded with commendable alacrity.

“She wants me?” He fumbled for the switch of the mechanical massager. A skilled masseuse-slave would have done a better job, but the antique gadget was a symbol of Wienan wealth and power. People were cheap, machines expensive.

His neat-featured brunette slave switched the device off for him, without allowing the least sign of her disdain to show in her face or her voice. “Yes sir. But only at seventeen thirty. You have nearly half an hour.”

“Well, even so, I can’t hang about, Lila. Get a move on, girl. Hand me that towel, and go and get my formal clothes ready,” he said hastily, surging naked out of the bath.

She handed him the large fluffy towel. He made no attempt to hide the fact the massage had aroused him “Yes master,” she said calmly, hiding her relief that there would be no time for sex.

Twenty seven minutes later, at exactly 17h29, he tapped politely on the open door of the audience chamber. Mariet Wienan looked at him with narrowed eyes from under her carefully manicured eyebrows. She raised one eyebrow. Then without giving him the least acknowledgement, she looked at the large ornamental clock on the far wall. It read 17h37.

He advanced, smiling confidently, ignoring the clock. He had been trained to manipulate people himself. After all, that was truly the core profession of the Wienans. He knew the enormous value of initiating any verbal contact with the other party being apologetic, defensive and fighting off the back foot. He made an exquisite bow. “Good afternoon, Great-Aunt. How may I serve?”

Slowly she turned to look at him, wintry approval showing in her pale blue eyes. “Very good, young man. Your tutors reported that despite your laziness you show considerable promise. They also say it is time you were posted. I agree. Eh, Jan-Pieter, what do you think?”

Johannes’s heart fell to his to his boots. Wienan’s weren’t posted out until they were twenty-three or four. What was he going to get? Some horrible back-planet sector? He shivered slightly. His second cousin, Jan Pieter Wienan XVII, who sat statue-still in his wing-backed wheelchair was far more frightening than Great Aunt Mariet’s little clock parlor-trick could ever be. The little old man with his twisted body, and scalpel-sharp but equally twisted mind, headed Wienan League Intelligence. At the Wienan League’s orders ordinary people died. At Jan-Pieter’s orders even League members died. Perhaps Jan-Pieter had some nasty plan for him. He just hoped it wasn’t involved in that supposedly super-secret Stardog cloning program out on the rim. Those who went there never came back.

He was relieved at the old man’s cracked, dry reply when it finally came. “He’ll do. He’s enough of a fop to consort with royalty, without being a complete idiot. Besides, that pretty mother of his was some sort of relative of the Emperor’s, wasn’t she?”

“I won’t have that slut mentioned in my presence,” snapped the Chairman, sudden anger and loathing in her voice.

Johannes realized with surprise that Jan-Pieter had done it on purpose to goad her. “I use what I can, Mariet. I use what I can,” the old man said calmly. “And we need to put a stop to this business. Now, shall I take him away and brief him, or do you want to sit in on it?”