The Knights of the Black Earth (13 page)

Raoul ignored him.
Releasing Baejling’s arm, the Adonian walked rapidly on ahead, his high heels
tapping the floor, the silken vest flowing behind him like gaudy butterfly
wings. The Little One ambled along after, occasionally tripping over the long
hem of his raincoat. Baejling and Krammes, slow off the mark, hastened to catch
up.

The man in the
dark suit saw the group leaving. He prepared to follow, was suddenly
intercepted by Raoul. The Adonian veered, turned, and walked right up to the
policeman, who was staring at him in astonishment.

Krammes went
white. Baejling swore under his breath.

“What the devil is
that whacked-out Loti doing?”

One hand on his
hip, Raoul let his painted eyes rove over the policeman’s body, starting with
the head, moving lingeringly down, gliding back up. The policeman flushed an
ugly and embarrassed red.

“Here, now—” he
began roughly.

“Don’t be coy. I
saw you watching me.” Raoul gave the man a simpering wink. Reaching into the
velvet bag, he drew out a gold case, flipped it open. “My card.”

The policeman gave
the card a cold stare.

Not the least
disconcerted, Raoul tucked the card into the man’s Nuit pocket, gave the pocket
a caressing pat. He gazed up at the man through provocatively lowered eyelids. “I’m
staying at the Grand Modenan Hotel, near the presidential palace. Ask for my
room number at the desk. I’ll be in ... all night.”

Pursing his lips,
Raoul kissed the air between the two of them, favored the policeman with a
melting smile, turned, and strolled off to rejoin the astounded Baejling.

“It is my
considered opinion that the gentleman will no longer follow us,” Raoul said
gravely.

The policeman did
not
follow them from the spaceport. But, as Dolf mentioned grimly, that
meant little. The police undoubtedly had backup agents in place.

“They’re keeping
an eye on us because we’re meeting with an off-worlder. Although”—Mary Krammes
managed a smile for the first time since Raoul had met her—”I imagine that they
no longer consider you and your companion much of a threat.”

The four were
seated in an outdoor cafe located along one of the tree-lined boulevards of the
capital city of Modena. The volume of traffic along the major streets was
heavy. The air was filled with the screech of brakes and the honking of horns.
Modenans still drove wheeled vehicles, since hovercraft were banned in the city
proper, with the exception of the police, whose streamlined vehicles could be
seen whizzing above the congested streets, sirens adding to the din.
Unaccustomed to the smell emitted by gas-powered autos, Raoul held a scented
handkerchief to his nose and refused all food. The location had one advantage.
No one could overhear their conversation. They could barely hear each other.

“This woman,
Madame President, is a monster,” Dolf was explaining. “Our President is a good
man. Probably too good. That’s how she was able to get her clutches into him.
He met her shortly after he was elected to office. All of us saw what she was
after. But he was blind, poor fool. He was in his fifties, unmarried. One of
those scholarly types who just never seemed to get around to relationships. She’s
in her thirties, intelligent, charming—”

“Beautiful,” Mary
Krammes added.

“Yes, she’s
beautiful.” Dolf shook his head. “And deadly. She married him, and almost the
very next day she was grabbing the reins of power. She had her organization
already in place, ready to move. She put her people in top-level
positions—Ministry of Defense, Law Enforcement, Justice Department. She either
bought off the right senators or blackmailed them. Those who denounced her
simply disappeared. Now the senate tamely approves all her new legislation.

“You’ve seen the
result of the travel restrictions for yourself. She’s shut down all vid
stations, closed up all the newsmags who opposed her. Those who spoke out were
arrested. We’ve heard rumors of concentration camps, mass grave sites. Entire
families have disappeared; their relatives don’t dare ask about them for fear
they’ll be next. Something’s got to be done.

“She’s surrounded
by bodyguards, of course. She travels in an armored car, when she travels at
all, which isn’t much. She has to keep her claws in her husband.”

“He’s a wreck,”
Mary added sadly. “Poor man. He was a fool, but he’s paying for his folly now.
You hardly ever see him in public. She makes him appear on occasion and then he’s
a puppet, dancing to her piping. He never opens his mouth but that he looks to
her for approval.”

Raoul attempted to
appear deeply interested and profoundly sympathetic, but his gaze wandered. He
stared at the trees, the flowers, the drab people walking by—all of whom
returned the favor by staring hard and suspiciously at the colorful Adonian.
Finally, when this occupation grew tiresome, he sneezed, dabbed his nose with
the handkerchief, and stifled a yawn.

“Pardon me,” Dolf
said irritably, “but have you been listening to anything we’ve said?”

“Frankly, no,
Dolf,” Raoul returned languidly, blinking his mauve-colored eyelids. He
fluttered a delicate hand. “Why should I? You have hired the Little One and
myself to murder the wife of your president.”

“Good God, man!”
Baejling paled. “Keep your voice—”

“Bah! No one can
hear us. You have a guilty conscience, that’s all. Which is why you are taking
all this time and trouble to explain to me and my companion your own
justifications and motivations. Personally I don’t give a damn about you or
your country or your problems. And neither does the Little One. Why should we?”

The raincoated
figure indicated, with a shake of the fedora, that such was the case.

Mary Krammes
stared into her empty wineglass. Dolf Baejling took out a neatly folded handkerchief,
toyed with it.

“I suppose you’re
right. It’s just that I’ve never done . .. I’ve never even imagined . . .” He
mopped his sweating forehead.

“It’s for the good
of the country,” Mary Krammes said automatically as if she’d been repeating the
words over and over again, even in her sleep. “That woman’s death is for the
good of the country.”

Raoul shrugged. “Of
course, that is what all traitors have said, since the beginning of time.”

Baejling rose
stiffly to his feet. “We should proceed to the hotel, Excellency. Tonight is
the Embassy Ball. You will be formally introduced and presented to the
President and Madame President. You can meet her, get a good look at her.
Tomorrow you deliver your letters of mark—”

“All forged, you
know. Quite a good job. We have a member of our team. His name is Tycho. He—”

“Tomorrow.”
Baejling hung on grimly. “You will proceed to the palace tomorrow—”

“Oh, we won’t be
staying that long,” Raoul said complacently.

Baejling sat back
down again.

“What? But— How?
Surely you’re not thinking of”— Baejling swallowed, lowered his voice to a
hoarse whisper— “assassinating Madame President during the ball! She’ll be
surrounded by bodyguards! Her supporters. They’d catch you. We’d all be shot on
the spot!”

Raoul gazed at
Baejling long moments. The Loti’s drug-fuzzy eyes slid into focus, became fixed
and cool, without pity, without compassion.

“I am an expert at
my work. The Little One is an expert at his. You either trust us and allow us
to proceed as we think right or you terminate our employment this moment.”

Baejling looked
sick. Mary Krammes, white to her lips, said something to him in her own
language. He nodded heavily, wiped the handkerchief over his head again.
Lifting his previously untouched wineglass, he downed the drink at a gulp.

Raoul glanced out
of the corner of his eye at the Little One. The Adonian’s eyelashes flickered.
He smiled serenely. “Well, what will it be, Dolf, dear?”

Baejling’s hands
clenched into fists. “Do it,” he said harshly.

“Is ... is there
anything you need ... from us?” Mary Krammes asked faindy.

“No, Mary,
darling, thank you,” Raoul said. “We have everything we need. However, I assume
that you two will be in attendance?”

“Yes. Yes, of
course.”

“Good. And now, I
do believe that we should be proceeding to the hotel. This beasdy smell is
giving me a pounding headache. And headaches cause wrinkles. As does stress.
You should really do something about that, Dolf. Those frown lines around your
mouth—most unattractive. I could give you some cream I found on Avedai Arden.
Oil of cucumber. Rub it in three times daily....”

Raoul took hold of
Baejling’s arm, sauntered off, talking of his favorite subject next to
clothes—cosmetics. The Little One shambled after, small legs forced to take two
steps to the humans’ one. His shoulders, beneath the raincoat, heaved up and
down.

Mary Krammes,
hurrying along fearfully behind, wondered if the strange little creature was
laughing.

The Embassy Ball
was a glittering affair, held in the Grand Ballroom of the Presidential Palace.
Men and women, dressed in their very finest, most elegant clothes, drank
champagne and ate small, fancifully decorated and bland tidbits, which were
being circulated throughout the ballroom by tall, fancifully dressed waiters. Since
all present knew that the waiters were spies for the secret police, the
conversation among the guests tended—like the food—to be elaborate and
innocuous.

Talk picked up
considerably with the arrival of the Ambassador from Adonia. Raoul was in full
regalia; he might have gone onstage as the Sun God or even a sun itself. He was
dressed all in gold, from a rayed golden headdress, to golden doublet and knee
breeches and hose, to golden slippers—low-heeled, since he might possibly be
going into action. Every centimeter was crusted with golden bangles and/or
sequins. His eyelids were painted with gold and he wore metallic gold lipstick,
of which he was evidently worried about smudging, for he kept his lips always
slightly apart, was careful never to bite them or pass his tongue over them.

The Little One,
trundling along at Raoul’s side, wore the same raincoat and hat—a small and
shabby satellite orbiting a gorgeous sun.

The majordomo
pounded his staff on the polished marble floor, made his sonorous announcement.
“His Excellency, the Ambassador of Adonia.”

Raoul extended a
shapely, gartered leg, bowed low, sweeping a large feathered fan across his
body. Rising to what he assumed were admiring murmurs from the audience, he
glanced about vaguely, accosted a passing footman, who indicated the reception
line, where the President and his wife and other dignitaries waited to greet
their arriving guests.

Raoul floated that
direction, spreading charming smiles and clouds of lilac perfume. He passed
down the line, blithely ignoring the cold and withering stares of the ministers
of Defense and Morality. He gave the men what passed for an Adonian handshake—
dabbling his fingers lightly in the palm. With the women, he brought their
hands near his lips but never bestowed a kiss on any of them, undoubtedly to
protect his flawless lipstick.

But, when
introduced to Madame President, Raoul behaved quite differently. Awed by her
beauty, he murmured a few words of polite and correct greeting, then actually
deigned to press his golden-coated lips against the skin of her extended hand.

Madame President
found this all highly amusing. She made a polite response to Raoul, then,
switching off her translator with a feigned, casual gesture, she said something
to her husband having to do with “fairies and fags.” All of which the Little
One passed on to Raoul.

Raoul, smiling
coyly, advanced to pay his respects to the President. The Adonian ambassador
was apparently not all that impressed with Mr. President, who was shriveled and
shrunken, a withered husk covered by wrinkled skin. Raoul, gazing at the man,
speculated seriously on vampirism in modern times.

Madame President,
meanwhile, was delightedly and laughingly exhibiting to her neighbors the gold
lipstick impression left on her skin. She would, she claimed loudly, never wash
this hand again. Her comments drew polite laughter from all those within
hearing distance, as well as from those who could not possibly have heard but
considered it politic to laugh anyway.

Raoul wended his
way through the crowd. He discovered Baejling and Krammes huddled together in a
distant corner of the gigantic ballroom, attempting to appear nonchalant and
comfortable, with the result that both managed to look extremely suspicious.

“Ah, here you are!”
Raoul sang out loudly. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Don’t kiss me,
either of you. You’ll muss me.”

“What the devil
are you doing?” Baejling demanded in a furious undertone. “You’re drawing
everyone’s attention to us—”

“There’s something
I must tell you,” Raoul whispered, adding loudly, with an admiring glance, “You’re
right about one thing, Dolf. Madame President is a remarkably beautiful woman.”
He gave a rapturous sigh. “I’m quite smitten. Is my lipstick smudged, Dolf?”

Baejling gave him
a disgusted glance, started to turn away. Krammes tugged on her partner’s
sleeve. Several of the waiters were eyeing them closely.

Raoul removed his
mirror from a gold lame shoulder purse, studied himself critically. “I’m
smudged! How beastly!”

“Hot in this room,
isn’t it?” Baejling said loudly, adding in a low voice, “Look, we’re calling
this off. We’ve had word that the secret police are on to us. Why don’t you—”

“Ah, a bit late
for that,” said Raoul quietly. “The deed is done.”

Baejling darted a
swift glance at the reception line, where Madame President—looking extremely
fit and healthy—continued to receive guests.

“What is this?
Some kind of sick joke?”

Raoul removed a
small vial from his purse, then began dabbing the contents on his lips.