Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera (6 page)

It was a long, narrow room with one side a wall of glass, affording a splendid view of Lake Melachaibo, with stripe-sailed dhows moving along its gleaming surface. Chuch seated himself upon a small couch, and Drusilla took a Biltong chair nearby. A maid brought out Salvasie wine and the little honey cakes for which Ystrad was famous. After these amenities had been observed, Drusilla said, “Well, Chuch, and to what do I owe this most unpleasant visit?”

“It’s been a long time, Dru,” said Chuch.

“Not nearly long enough.”

“You’re still angry at me?”

“I certainly am. Your proposal that I sleep with you was an unpardonable insult to a priestess who is a champion of normal sexuality, which is to say, one woman with one unrelated man, or its converse.”

“We could have been so good together, Dru,” Chuch said softly. “And we would have been committing incest, the big one, and so achieving semidivine status.”

“I’ve got that already,” Drusilla said. “It comes with my priestess job. I can’t help it if you can’t get anything divine together by yourself. As for sleeping with you, even without the incest taboo, I’d rather couple with a yellow dog.”

“So you said two years ago.”

“So I still say.”

“No matter,” Chuch said. “I’ve come here for an entirely different reason. You know, of course, that Dramocles has taken Aardvark, and presently invades Lekk.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“And what do you think?”

Drusilla hesitated, then said, “Official explanations have been offered.”

“Which bear the mark of Max’s fine imagination.”

“They do seem farfetched,” Drusilla said. “Frankly, I have been most disturbed. Thirty years of peace, a new era of progress begun, and then this. I’ve tried to reach Father on the phone, but all I get is his answering service. This isn’t like him at all. There must be a reasonable explanation.”

“There is,” Chuch said, “and it should be plain enough to a woman like yourself, educated in the movements of the planets.”

“You know I don’t believe in astrology.”

“Nor do I. But astronomy’s another matter, is it not?”

“What are you driving at?”

“The fact that this is the first time in thirty years that the planets have been so situated in their orbits as to favor invading fleets from Glorm.”

“You think Dramocles has been waiting all this time for that?”

“Yes, that, and for the great celebration that has put all the local kings into his power.”

Drusilla considered it and shook her head. “Dramocles is not so crafty, and he has not the patience for such an enterprise.” But there was a note of uncertainty in her voice, and Chuch pounced on it.

“What do you really know of him, Dru? To you he is always dear old Dad, incapable of doing wrong. You are blinded by your love for him. Even though his present actions shriek treachery, you refuse to believe it.”

“Dramocles, treacherous? Oh, no!”

“Your feelings do you credit, my sweetling. But remember, you are more than his daughter. You are priestess of the Great Goddess, and it is your sworn duty to serve truth and liberty. If any other king had done as Dramocles has done, you’d condemn him out of hand. Because he is your father, you deceive yourself with pathetic evasions.”

Drusilla’s mouth trembled, and she rocked from side to side. “Oh, Chuch, I’ve been trying to convince myself that there’s sense and reason in all this, that father has not broken his vows and forsworn his good name. But he has taken Aardvark, and now invades Lekk!”

“What conclusion do you draw?” Chuch asked.

“I cannot pretend to myself any longer that he’s not power-crazy, stung by the virus of crazed ambition. The prospect for mankind is clear–war, pestilence, and death. Oh, what can we do?”

“We must stop him,” Chuch said, “before his madness engulfs the Local Planets in a catastrophic war. He’ll thank us for it later, when he comes to his senses.”

Drusilla stood up, her face a field of dubiety across which the black hounds of fear chased the white fawns of hope.

“But how?”

“I have a plan whereby we can check his ambition, and leave him no worse off than before.”

“I would not have him harmed!”

“Nor I.” He noted her expression and laughed. “I know, we’ve never gotten along, Dramocles and I. We’re too alike for that! But I’ve always secretly admired the old man, and I’d gladly lay down my life for him. After all, he
is
my father, Dru!”

Drusilla’s eyes were shining with tears. She said, “Perhaps this will bring the family closer together at last, and then it will not all have been in vain.”

“I’d like that, Dru,” Chuch said quietly.

“Then you have my word that I’ll follow your plan, Brother, as long as it brings no harm to Dad.”

“You have my most solemn word on that.”

“Tell me what I must do.”

“For the moment, nothing. There are some matters I must attend to first. I’ll contact you when the time is right.”

“Let it be so,” Drusilla said.

“Till later, then,” Chuch said, bowed deeply, and left the chamber.

13

Down in Tarnamon’s lesser banquet hall, Vitello was taking his supper of cold turkalo pie. Turkalo was the unique cross between the turkey and the buffalo, achieved only in Ystrad and kept a secret because it seemed good to keep such a thing a secret. Vitello found it tolerable fare, and washed it down with a flagon of opio wine from the poppy vineyards of Cythera.

“Give us more of this stuff,” he said to the serving wench. “It gets cold a’night in these parts, and a man must make shift to protect himself. Protection! Who deals with the great ones puts his ass in a sling, as the ancients have it. Yet might not a groundling aspire? Is life nothing more than other people’s achievements? Given a vestige of a chance, what might not a Vitello achieve?”

“What did you say?” asked the serving girl.

“I asked for more opio wine,” Vitello said. “The rest was an internal monologue despite the use of quotation marks.”

“You shouldn’t talk to yourself,” the girl said.

“Then who should I talk to?”

“Why, to me, since I am here.”

Vitello looked at her keenly, though without really registering her. It was important to stick to business, to get ahead in this world. Was this girl something he could use “in the context of equipment,” in Heidegger’s immortal phrase, or was she simply a supernumerary not worth describing?

“I have blue eyes and black hair,” the girl said. “My name is–”

“Not so fast,” Vitello said. “No names. You’re just a servant girl. You are supposed to get me my wine and then never be heard from again.”

“I know that’s how it’s supposed to be. But give me a chance, huh?”

“A chance? Listen, girl, I don’t run things around here. I don’t even know if
I
get to continue in the tangled fortunes of the Dramocles family. I’ve got a full-time job just staying in existence. Let me tell you something: Chuch doesn’t really need me. He thinks he does just now, but I actually serve no purpose. I’m just around to feed him straight lines. I’ll probably get killed off before anything interesting happens.”

“I’m aware of that,” the girl said. “But don’t you see? If we work together, then there are two of us. Together we can make a loosely related subplot. That would make us a lot harder to dispose of.”

Vitello was unconvinced. “The Dramocleids can dispose of entire armies, whole planets. It’s their world, their truth, their reality. They’d throw out your wretched little subplot without mercy.”

“Not if we can be of use to them. I have a plan which will further our existence.”

“A serving girl’s fantasy!” Vitello sneered.

“You ought to realize by now,” the girl said, “that I am something more than a servant. More to the point, I am the possessor of secret information concerning Dramocles’ destiny.”

“What is it?”

“Not so fast. Are we going to pool our resources?”

“I suppose so,” Vitello said. “Quick, before someone important enters the narrative, tell me what you look like.”

“I am above the middle height for women, black-haired and blue-eyed, with firm round young breasts like oranges, splendid thews, and an ass that would make an angel weep.”

“You’re not afraid to recommend yourself,” Vitello grumbled. But he looked at her and saw that these things she said were true. He noticed other details also, but he was damned if he was going to waste his time thinking about them.

“My name is Chemise,” the girl said. “I think you should marry me. Then I’d have a legal relationship in the story.”

“Many you?” Vitello asked.

“Did someone say marry?” boomed a cheerful voice to Vitello’s rear. He turned and saw that a priest had entered the room. The priest was a fat, ungainly man with a red face and a bulbous nose and a breath that stank of whiskey. Trailing behind him were two nondescript witnesses.

“You really don’t miss a trick,” Vitello said admiringly.

“A smart supernumerary has to move fast if she wants a chance at the main action,” Chemise said. “May I introduce you to my mother?”

Vitello turned and saw that an elderly gray-haired woman had appeared from nowhere. “Wow,” Vitello said, shaking her hand.

“I’m so sorry my husband couldn’t be here today,” Chemise’s mother said. “He’s off on an apparently innocent junket to Glorm in the company of two of his old buddies from the Secret Service who happen to be disaffected school buddies of King Dramocles.”

“You don’t waste any time, either,” Vitello commented. “Permit you a commonplace and you produce a complication.”

“I could tell you something stranger than that,” Chemise’s mother said. “Just yesterday, while eavesdropping on the palace telephone, I heard–”

“Shut up, Mother,” Chemise said. “This is
my
chance, not yours. Fade out gracefully now and I’ll see if I can find something for you later.”

“You always were a good daughter,” Chemise’s mother said. “Why, I remember–”

“One more word and you make me make myself an orphan,” said Chemise.

“Don’t you go getting huffy with
me
, young lady,” Chemise’s mother said. But she hastily faded until she was indistinguishable from the brown-gray curtains that depended from the smoke-filled rafters of the dimly lit banquet hall.

“That’s better,” Chemise said. “Are the two nondescript witnesses present? Go ahead, priest, perform the ceremony.”

“I don’t believe this,” Vitello muttered.

“You do well to disbelieve!” cried Prince Chuch, coming forward from the shadowy wings where he had been waiting for a good line upon which to enter.

Chuch said to Chemise, “Where do you come from, girl? You’re not even of our Glorm construct, are you?”

Chemise said, “Prince, let me explain.”

“Don’t bother,” Chuch said. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

There was a moment of stark and terrible silence. Chuch, standing on a flagstoned rise, arms folded across his chest, seemed the perfect embodiment of Dramocletian hauteur and sangfroid. He advanced slowly, toes pointed straight ahead Indian fashion.

“I think we’ve had enough of you people,” Chuch said, lightly enough, but with unmistakable menace.

“Prince, do not be hasty!” cried Chemise.

“Have mercy,” cried the two nondescript witnesses in unison.

Chuch raised his arms. A green light began to radiate from his head and torso. It was the visible sign of the uncanny power that kept the ill-assorted and multi-doomed members of the Dramocletian family in the interstellar limelight.

As Vitello watched, mouth agape, Chemise, the priest, and the witnesses began to fade. They writhed for a few moments, shadow figures mouthing words that none could hear. Then they were gone–developments that a Dramocleid had decided were unsuitable to his requirements.

Chuch turned to the quavering Vitello. “You must understand,” he said in a voice both firm and gentle, “that this is the story of the Dramocles family, secondarily of their retainers and familiars, and third by a long shot
and only at our choosing
, of the various spear carriers who take their moment on the stage of our history, and then depart at our behest.
We
choose these people, Vitello, and it doesn’t suit the family interests to have pushy supernumeraries come forward with their vulgar secrets invented on the spur of the moment. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Vitello said in a choking voice. “I was caught by surprise–the wine–and she was too quick for me, the damned vixen–”

“Enough, loyal servant,” Chuch said with a twisted smile. “You gave me the opportunity of making an important statement of policy, and for that I owe you some small thanks. Be dutiful, Vitello, be discreet, be unobtrusive except when I seek to dialogue with you, and, if you perform well, I’ll find you a nice little mistress. She will not actually be described, of course.”

“Of course not, Sire,” Vitello sniveled. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

“Now pull yourself together, man. Some interesting developments came out of my talk with Drusilla. I’ll not go into them at this time; but I do have a mission for you of considerable importance.”