King of Swords (The Starfolk) (22 page)

As he started to move, he heard Chertan ask his companion to confirm that she was Mira Earthling. Purebred humans did not project their names.

Although many of the walls and pillars around them stood taller than a four-story building on Earth, most of the palace was only one story high and much of it was unroofed, as if rulers of the Starlands kept their weather under tight control. The complex was also enormous. Rigel thought he must have walked close to two kilometers with his hands at his back and the sphinx padding behind him, silent except when growling out directions: “Left… Right… Up the steps… Down…

“Stop here.”

They had finally reached the throne room, and now it seemed appropriate that all the starfolk called it a
court
. It was about the size of a football field, and open to the blue sky and blinding sun. The walls were slabs of stone at least ten meters high, divided by gaps like enormous doorways, through which could be seen nothing except more stonework. The giant statues lining the sides of the court were no doubt intended to make people feel small, and they did their job well. The only furniture was a grandiose throne at the far end, which stood atop a flight of giant stairs extending the full width of the courtyard. The throne itself was neither Egyptian nor Greek, nor anything Rigel had ever seen in any book or TV show. It was encrusted with jewels and gold stars and bizarre sculptures. Sphinxes and collared starfolk wandered in and out, seemingly at random.

He turned his head just enough to register that both Rasalas and Chertan were present behind him, lying in classic sphinx posture, head erect, front paws outstretched.

“Where’s Mira, my earthling?”

Pause
. “She is elsewhere,” Rasalas rumbled.

Obviously. “May I sit down?”

“No.”
Pause
. “The court will convene shortly.”

“May I scratch my neck? It itches.”

“No.”

“I need to pee,” Rigel said. That ought to get some action.

“I don’t advise it,” the female sphinx said. “The penalty for contempt of court is seventeen lashes.”

“Minimum,” Rasalas explained helpfully.

F
irst came a strutting line of starfolk in sparkling collars playing a long and stunningly beautiful fanfare on silver trumpets, glorious arabesques of sound rolling across the great court. Behind them the three Naos rode in on magically suspended thrones of jade and silver, followed by a glittering parade of courtiers and officials. Kornephoros floated up the long stairs almost to the great throne itself, turned, and set his lesser throne down one step below it. Vildiar peeled off to sit on the sidelines at the regent’s right and one step below him, and Talitha went to his left, one step lower yet. This was not a panel of judges, though. In this sort of court, the ruler alone would decide.

Groups of starborn standing around seemed to be mere spectators or courtiers or perhaps even tourists. There had to be several hundred of them in all, and a few dozen sphinxes too, but the court was so vast that it seemed almost empty. The officials at the front were too far away for Rigel to distinguish their names or the details of their collars of office. Clearly the court was now ready to consider its agenda, and he
should feel flattered that his case merited the attention of the ruler himself. He didn’t.

“Starborn Fomalhaut may approach the throne!” proclaimed an elf at the front, and magical acoustics carried her words clearly to everyone present. Or maybe the space was not as big as it appeared to be? Perhaps magic was what made it seem so huge and overpowering. Probably not, though, because Fomalhaut took quite a long time to reach the front. The proceedings would be much smoother if they adjourned to a smaller court, but grandeur must be more highly valued than efficiency. The mage eventually arrived at some designated spot, where he knelt, touched his face to the floor, and was given royal permission to rise to his feet again. It was all a big pageant, but then again courts anywhere relied on pomp to command respect.

The official ordered him to state his business.

“Your Highness, while seancing two days ago, I witnessed a disturbance among the terrestrial denizens, the cause of which appeared to be a halfling male. He and an earthling female were being mobbed, and he was defending both of them with the aid of what was obviously a Starlands amulet. It was doing the fighting for him, and he had already slain three male mudfolk. As he was violating so many of our ancient laws, I extroverted and arrested him, together with his companion, whom I brought along as a material witness. I now bring him into your royal presence for assessment and judgment.” He bowed.

A nice and succinct briefing, Rigel thought. This court was smelling more and more of kangaroo. Why had Fomalhaut been snooping in Nanaimo at all? It was hardly the center of the universe. Was he implying that Rigel had provoked the attacks on himself? Wasn’t a guy allowed to defend himself
against berserkers? He turned to his guards, who had gotten to their feet.

“Do I get to question the witness?”

Rasalas gave him a pitying look. “Of course not.”

The regent congratulated Fomalhaut on his sense of duty and gave him leave to withdraw. He walked off to the side without another word, and the bailiff, or whatever she was, called for the accused halfling.

The two sphinxes escorted Rigel along the length of the great space, pacing majestically on either side of him. The red granite paving was cool underfoot, spectators exchanged whispers all around him, and he felt strangely conscious of the bracelet hanging around his wrist just as it always had, the protector that might soon lead him to his death. As he neared the steps he noted the inscrutable stares of the three Naos on their thrones, watching him, and a black star inset in the floor, which he guessed was his destination. When he reached it, Chertan told him to stop.

“The prisoner Rigel,” announced the official, whom Rigel now knew to be Starborn Pleione. Her bib of office was a mesh of hundreds of pearls and rubies.

“Kneel,” Rasalas rumbled. “Kiss the floor and remain on your knees.” As Rigel obeyed, his two guards lay down behind him, front paws outstretched, ready to leap if required.

“Stranger,” Pleione said, “know that you kneel on the Star of Truth, and if you attempt to lie to the court, your tongue will become a red-hot cinder in your mouth. State your true name and parentage.”

“I am Rigel. I do not know my parentage.”

And so on. Rigel had to shed his robe and cowl and stand in his loincloth so that the regent could determine his species. He even had to display his teeth, like a horse. It would have been
more embarrassing if anyone else who mattered had been wearing anything more than he was, and he kept himself entertained by admiring how the curve of Pleione’s pearl-and-ruby collar emphasized the shapely breasts just below it.

“We decree that the prisoner is indeed a halfling,” Kornephoros announced. “Record that he can be tolerated in public places so long as his ears are kept covered, and he keeps his mouth closed.”

“Prisoner,” said Counselor Pleione, “cover your head immediately. Kneel again. His Highness will now determine whether or not the halfling can safely be released into society.”

Rigel pulled his cowl up over his head, but in kneeling he managed to wad his robe under him to ease the pressure on his knees. Vildiar continued to stare at him with no more expression than the granite pharaohs lining the walls, but Talitha was studiously avoiding his gaze.

“Not yet.” Kornephoros stifled a yawn, understandably bored by the formality of staging a trial when he had already reached his decision. “Before we proceed with that, we shall seek to discover the identity of the original perpetrator of this tragedy, the prisoner’s father. Proceed, Counselor.”

She bowed. “Rigel Halfling, where and when were you born?”

Wary of red-hot cinders, Rigel said, “I do not know either of those things. I have aged at human pace, and believe myself to be twenty or twenty-one years old.”

“Identify that amulet you wear.”

“Of my own knowledge I do not know its name.”

“How long have you worn it?”

“As long as I can remember. I cannot take it off.” His mouth had not burst into flames yet.

“Step aside, Rigel Halfling. Wasat Halfling, approach the throne.”

Rigel vacated the Star of Truth. The new witness who shuffled in from the side was short, and wore a collar of office constructed of many strings of amber and onyx beads over an earthling robe. His striped pharaonic headdress covered his ears, but his clothing did little to conceal a human potbelly. He was elderly, with human wrinkles and a stiffness to his movements that already seemed strange to Rigel. He greeted Rigel with a smile, displaying watery blue eyes and crooked human teeth. It was a friendly smile, so Rigel returned it. Then he guessed what was needed, and took the newcomer’s hand to help him kneel. Wasat Halfling bowed his head near to the floor with difficulty but did not kiss it.

“Your office, halfling?”

“Starborn, I have the honor to be chief curator of the royal treasury.”

“And how long have you held that post?”

“Oh, dear… Let me see. Her Majesty appointed me in the year of iron potters. That must be, um—”

“Thirty-eight years,” Pleione said impatiently. “You are in fact sole custodian of the royal amulet collection?”

The old man’s jowls wobbled as he nodded. “I am.”

“Can you identify the amulet worn by the halfling beside you?”

Rigel bent to offer his wrist. Wasat pulled it close to his eyes and turned the bracelet a few times, studying the grisly death toll.

“This is a defensive and offensive amulet of great ancestry and distinction, Saiph by name. It has belonged to the royal collection as far back as we have records. According to legend—”

“Describe the normal procedure for removing an amulet from the treasury.”

“Ah,” Wasat said thoughtfully. “Normal? I release nothing without royal instructions, of course. Usually His Highness the regent-heir does me the honor of asking my advice on what is needed and available. His aides prepare a warrant for his seal, and the assignee presents it at the treasury in a day or two. By then—”

“So every amulet that is officially assigned is recorded in your archives?”

The old man nodded brightly, as if surprised by her acuity. “Yes, Counselor.”

“When you were subpoenaed to appear in court today, were you instructed to search your records for mention of this Saiph amulet?”

“I was.”

“And do they show to whom it was most recently assigned and when?”

The archivist smiled again. “No.”

“You just testified that all assignations were listed.” It was Pleione’s turn to look surprised, as if the witness ought to be screaming and blowing steam.

“Saiph was not assigned, Counselor.”

“Then it was stolen?”

“No.”

“Then where did it go?”

“It was signed out twenty-one years ago, in the year of silver bells.”

The counselor looked even more puzzled. “Signed out by whom?”

“By Her Majesty.”

Then everyone looked surprised, and the court was filled with whispers.

“Electra?” Kornephoros bellowed, setting echoes booming. “The queen herself?”

“I remember the occasion distinctly,” Wasat said, clearly enjoying the attention. “She came in person to the treasury and asked for it by name. Her Majesty does
own
the royal collection, Your Highness! She is quite within her—”

The counselor said, “And you do not know, even by hearsay, what she did with it, or intended to do with it?”

The curator uttered a tiny snort of amusement that probably only Rigel and the two sphinxes could hear, no matter how magical the acoustics. “Starborn, I am kneeling on the Star of Truth. I am not required to guess, speculate, or spread rumors.”

Pleione looked to the regent-heir for guidance. Rigel saw his chance to ask a question, whether or not he would be allowed an answer.

“Halfling, could this amulet be used to track the location of the person wearing it? I mean, when I was walking around on Earth with it on, could the person who gave it to me use it to find me?”

Wasat chuckled. “Certainly not! There are such amulets, of course, but a defensive amulet that betrayed its wearer’s location would be working against itself, and Saiph is ancestral, the greatest of all protectors, perhaps the most famous amulet of all.”

“And it will fit any person’s wrist?”

“It will.”

“Silence in court,” Pleione said grumpily. “You may go, Curator.”

Wasat reached for Rigel’s hand again. Rigel heaved.

“Thanks,” Wasat whispered, giving him another smile. “I have a helmet that would cover your ears, lad. It would look good on you. Come and see me after this.” He shuffled off.

“Rigel Halfling, kneel on the Star again,” Pleione said. “Prisoner, you were witnessed murdering three earthling males. Do you have any excuse to offer?”

“They were trying to kill me. My amulet defended me from their attack, which was entirely unprovoked on my part.” Where was Mira? She was supposed to be a chief witness.