The Chalice of Death (4 page)

Navarre sat back while the man droned on. The time of audience was coming to its end; Carso would go unheard, and at twenty-fourth hour the half-breed would be banished. Well, there was no helping it, Navarre thought glumly. He knotted his hands together and tried to follow Lugfor's whining plea of innocence.

At the end of the session, Navarre turned quickly to the Overlord, but Kausirn was already speaking. “Majesty, may I talk to you alone?”

“And I?” Navarre put in hastily.

“I'll hear Kausirn first,” Joroiran decided. “To my chambers. Navarre, attend me there later.”

“Certainly, Sire.”

Navarre slipped from the dais and headed down into the dispersing throng. Carso was shuffling morosely toward the exit when Navarre reached him.

“Domrik! Wait!”

The half-breed turned. “It looks like you'll be the only Earthman on Jorus by nightfall, Hallam.”

“I'm sorry. Believe me, I'm sorry. I just couldn't get here in time, and that damned Lyrellan grabbed control of the selections.”

Carso shrugged moodily. “I understand.” He tugged at his thick beard. “I be only half of Earth, anyway. You'll not miss me.”

“Nonsense!” Navarre whispered harshly.

The half-breed nodded gravely. “My writ commands me to leave the cluster. I'll be heading for Kariad tonight, and then outward. You'll be able to reach me there if you can—I mean—I'll be there a sevennight.”

“Kariad? All right,” Navarre said. “I'll get in touch with you there if I can influence Joroiran to revoke the sentence. Damn it, Carso, you shouldn't have hit that innkeeper so hard.”

“He made remarks,” Carso said. “I had to.” The half-breed bowed and turned away to leave.

The throne room was nearly empty; only a few stragglers remained, staring at the grandeur of the room and probably comparing it with their own squalid huts. Joroiran enjoyed living on a large scale, beyond doubt.

Navarre sprawled down broodingly on the edge of the royal purple carpet and stared at his jeweled fingers. Things were looking bad. His sway as Joroiran's adviser was definitely weakening, and the Lyrellan's star seemed to be the ascendant. Navarre's one foothold was the claim of tradition: all seven of the Joroiran Overlords had had an Earthman as adviser, and the current Overlord, weak man that he was, would scarcely care to break with tradition.

Yet the Lyrellan Kausirn had wormed himself securely into the monarch's graces. The situation was definitely not promising.

Gloomily, Navarre wondered if there were any other local monarchs in the market for advisers. His stay on Jorus did not look to be long continuing.

Chapter Two

After a while, a solemn Trizian glided toward him, stared down out of its one eye, and said, “The Overlord will see you now.”

“Thanks.” Navarre allowed the monoptic to guide him through the swinging panel that led to Joroiran's private chambers, handed the creature a coin, and entered.

The Overlord was alone, but the scent of the waxy-fleshed Lyrellan still lingered. Navarre took the indicated seat.

“Sire?”

Perspiration beaded Joroiran's upper lip; the monarch seemed dwarfed by the stiff strutwork that held his uniform out from his scrawny body. He glanced nervously at the Earthman, then said, “You spoke to me of a Chalice today, as your reason for being late to the audience. This Chalice … is said to hold the secret of eternal life, is that not so? Its possessor need never die?”

Navarre nodded.

“And,” Joroiran continued, “you tell me you have some knowledge of its whereabouts, eh?”

“I think I do,” said Navarre hoarsely. “My informant said he knew somebody whose father had led an earlier expedition in search of it. An unsuccessful expedition, but a near miss.” The statement was strictly from whole cloth, but Navarre reeled it off smoothly.

Joroiran looked interested. “Indeed. Who is he?”

Sudden inspiration struck Navarre. “His name is Domrik Carso. His mother was an Earthman, and you know of course that the Chalice is connected in some legend-shrouded way with Earth.”

“Of course. Produce this Carso.”

“He was here today, Sire. He searched for pardon from an unfair sentence of banishment over some silly barroom squabble. Alas, the finger of fate did not fall on him, and he leaves for Kariad tonight. But perhaps if the sentence were revoked I could get further information from him concerning the Chalice, which I would most dearly love to win for Your Majesty …”

Joroiran's fingers drummed the desktop. “Ah, yes—revokement. It would be possible, perhaps. Can you reach the man?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Tell him not to pay for his passage tickets, that the Royal Treasury will cover the cost of his travels from now on.”

“But—”

“The same applies to you, of course.”

Taken aback, Navarre lost a little of his composure. “Sire?”

“I've spoken to Kausirn. Navarre, I don't know if I can spare you, and Kausirn is uncertain as to whether he can handle the double load in your absence. But he is willing to try it, noble fellow that he is.”

“I don't understand,” Navarre stammered.

“You say you have a lead on the whereabouts of this Chalice—correct? Kausirn has refreshed my overburdened memory with some information on this Chalice, and I find myself longing for its promise of eternal life, Navarre. You say you have a lead; very well. I've arranged for an indefinite leave of absence for you. Find this man Carso and together you can search the galaxies at my expense. I don't care how long it takes, nor what it costs.
But bring me the Chalice, Navarre
!”

The Earthman nearly fell backward in astonishment. Bring Joroiran the Chalice? Dizzily, Navarre realized that this was the work of the clever Kausirn: he would send the annoying Earthman all over space on a fool's mission, while consolidating his own position securely at the side of the Overlord.

Navarre forced himself to meet Joroiran's eyes.

“I will not fail you, my Lord,” he said in a strangled voice.

He had been weaving twisted strands, he thought later in the privacy of his rooms, and now he had spun himself a noose. Talk of tradition! Nothing could melt it faster than a king's desire to keep his throne eternally.

For seven generations there had been an Earthman adviser at the Overlord's side. Now, in a flash, the patient work of years was undone. Dejectedly, Navarre reviewed his mistakes.

One: He had allowed Kausirn to worm his way into a position of eminence on the Council. Allow a Lyrellan an inch and he'll grab a parsec. Navarre now saw—too late, of course—that he should have had the many-fingered one quietly put away while he had had the chance.

Two: He had caroused the night before an audience day. Inexcusable. Someone—an agent of Kausirn's, no doubt—had slipped a sleep drug into one of his drinks. He should have been on guard. By hereditary right and by his own wits he had always chosen the cases to be heard, and in the space of a single hour the Lyrellan had done him out of
that
.

Three: He had lied too well. This was something he should have foreseen; he had aroused weak Joroiran's desire to such a pitch that Kausirn was easily able to plant the suggestion that the Overlord send the faithful Earthman out to find the Chalice.

Three mistakes. Now, he was on the outside and Kausirn in control.

Navarre tipped his glass and drained it. “You're a disgrace to your genes,” he told the oddly distorted reflection on the wall of the glass. “A hundred thousand years of Earth-man labor to produce what?
You
? Fumblewit!”

Still, there was nothing to be done for it now. Joroiran had given the word, and here he was, assigned to chase a phantom, to pursue a will-o'-the-wisp. The Chalice! Chalice, indeed! There was no such thing.

He tossed his empty glass aside and reached for the communicator. He punched the stud, quickly fed in four numbers and a letter.

A blank radiance filled the screen, and an impersonal dry voice said, “Citizen Carso is not at home. Citizen Carso is not at home. Citizen Car—”

Navarre cut the contact and dialed again. This time the screen lit, glowed, and revealed a tired-looking man in a stained white smock.

“Jublain Street Bar,” the man said. “You want to see the manager?”

“No. Is there a man named Domrik Carso there? A heavy-set fellow, with a thick beard?”

“I'll look around,” the barkeep grunted. A few moments later, Carso came to the screen; as Navarre had suspected, he was indulging in a few last swills of Joran beer before taking off for the outworlds.

“Navarre? What do you want?”

Navarre ignored the belligerent greeting. “Have you bought your ticket for Kariad yet?”

Carso blinked. “Not yet. What's it to you?”

“If you haven't bought the ticket yet,
don't
. How soon can you get over here?”

“Couple of centuries, maybe. What's going on, Navarre?”

“You've been pardoned.”

“
What
? I'm not banished?”

“Not exactly,” Navarre said. “Look, I don't want to talk about it at long range. How soon can you get yourself over here?”

“I'm due at the spaceport at twenty-one to pick up my tick—”

“
Damn
your ticket,” Navarre snapped. “You don't have to leave yet. Come over, will you?”

Navarre peered across the table at Domrik Carso's heavy-shouldered figure. “That's the whole story,” the Earthman said. “Joroiran wants the Chalice—and he wants it real hard.”

Carso shook his head and exhaled a beery breath. “Your damnable glib tongue has ruined us both, Hallam. With but half an Earthman's mind I could have done better.”

“It's done, and Kausirn has me in a cleft stick. If nothing else, I've saved you from banishment.”

“Only under condition that I help you find this nonexistent Chalice,” Carso grunted. “Some improvement that is. Well, at least Joroiran will foot the bill. We can both see the universe at his expense, and when we come back—”

“We come back when we've found the Chalice,” said Navarre. “This isn't going to be any pleasure jaunt.”

Carso glared at him sourly. “Hallam, are you mad? There is no Chalice!”

“How do you know? Joroiran says there is. The least we can do is look for it.”

“We'll wander space forever,” Carso said, scowling. “As no doubt the Lyrellan intends for you to do. Well, there's nothing to do but accept. I'm no poorer for it than if I were banished. Chalice!
Pah
!”

“Have another drink,” Navarre suggested. “It may make it easier for you to get the idea down your gullet.”

“I doubt it,” the half-breed said, but he accepted the drink anyway. He drained it, then remarked, “A chalice is a drinking cup. Does this mean we seek a potion of immortality, or something of the like?”

“Your guess weighs as much as mine. I've given you all I know on the subject.”

“Excellent; now we both know nothing! Do you at least have some idea where this Chalice is supposedly located?”

Navarre shrugged. “The legend's incomplete. The thing might be anywhere. Our job is to find a particular drinking cup on a particular world in a pretty near infinite universe. Unfortunately, we have only a finite length of time in which to do the job.”

“The typical short-sightedness of kings,” Carso muttered. “A sensible monarch would have sent a couple of immortals out in search of the Chalice.”

“A sensible monarch would know when he's had enough, and not ask to rule his system forever. But Joroiran's not sensible.”

They were silent for a moment, while the candle between them flickered palely. Then Carso grinned.

“What's so funny?”

“Listen, Hallam. Why don't we assume a location for the Chalice? At least it'll give us a first goal to crack at. And it ought to be easier to find a planet than a drinking cup, shouldn't it?”

Navarre's eyes narrowed. “I don't follow you. Just where will we assume the Chalice is?”

There was a mischievous twinkle in the half-breed's dark eyes. He gulped another drink, grinned broadly, and belched.

“Where? Why, Earth, of course!”

Chapter Three

On more-or-less sober reflection the next morning, it seemed to Navarre that Carso had the right idea: finding Earth promised to be easier than finding the Chalice, if it made any sense to talk about relative degrees of ease in locating myths.

Earth
.

Navarre knew the stories that each Earthman told to his children, that few non-Earthmen knew. Even though he was a half-breed, Carso would be aware of them too.

Years ago—a hundred thousand, the legend said—man had sprung from Earth, an inconsequential world revolving around a small sun in an obscure galaxy. He had leaped forward to the stars, and carved out a mighty empire for himself. The glory of Earth was carried to the far galaxies, to the wide-flung nebulae of deepest space.

But no race, no matter how strong, could hold sway over an empire that spanned a billion parsecs. The centuries passed; Earth's grasp grew weaker. And, finally, the stars rebelled.

Navarre remembered his mother's vivid description. Earthmen had been outnumbered a billion to one, yet they kept the defensive screens up, and kept the home world untouched, had beaten back the invaders. But still the persistent starmen came, sweeping down on the small planet like angry beetles.

Earth drew back from the stars; its military forces came to the aid of the mother world, and the empire crumbled.

The withdrawal was to no avail. The hordes from the stars won the war of attrition, sacrificing men ten thousand to one and still not showing signs of defeat. The mother world yielded; the proud name of Earth was humbled and stricken from the roll call of worlds.