The Man Without a Planet

SEVEN

DINNER WAS HELD in yet a different chamber of this astound­ing, and seemingly infinite labyrinth of subterranean cor­ridors and halls. This time, it was Sharl the Yellow-Eyed who came to fetch him, with a friendly smile and an ur­bane salute.

“Where did the kazar get that clothing?” he asked, with a depreciating glance at the forest-green and suede attire. Linton shrugged irritably.

“A servant brought it this morning—why? I wore it at my interview with the Kahani, and no one objected.”

“That was this morning, and—of honor—at a private au­dience. But this is a dinner, before all the lords and chieflings of the host. You must look more—ah—”

Raul grinned cynically.

“Impressive, Sharl? Like a real Shakar?”

“Well,—yes!”

“But I have not, nor do I intend to accept the Kahani’s invitation to become—”

“Never mind all that,” Sharl waved the talk aside im­patiently. “You must look decent, or you shame your royal hostess. Here—”

He summoned scurrying servants and there was a brief, terse exchange, which sent them all off, sandals slapping the floor, in different directions. In no time they came back, bearing a variegated selection of glittering stuffs in which they hurriedly redressed Linton. Sharl brushed aside, ignored or overrode his half-hearted objections, and in no time—looking (he thought) like a video player cast for a historical pageant.

There was a helm of burnished bronze, the wavy-star sigil of Valadon set in pure rubies on the brow-piece; a great swashbuckling cloak of crimson velvet trimmed with snow- white fur and edged with a gold fringe; red leather boots with golden buckles, polished till they glittered; and a crimson jacket and tights, hung all over with jewels and decorations and amulets, a leathern girdle bristling like an angry porcu­pine with dag and dirk.

He felt like an utter fool.

The hall of feasting was low-ceilinged, lit with tall can­delabra of solid gold, the walls hung with priceless, soft- colored and very ancient tapestries illustrating scenes of the hunt, of war, and of mythological loves.

The Kahani, in a simple white gown again, but literally covered with ice-blue diamonds that glittered on her arms and wrists and fingers, flashed at throat, breast and hips, and must have been worth the annual revenue of half a system, sat at a wide, low couch covered with brocade velvet, eating from bright dishes off a low taboret. She gestured him to a place beside her, and he ascended the dais to her side, removing his ridiculous helm. Rilké cus­tom precluded conversation while at table, so there was silence, save for the sound of feasting.

Below them, in a wide semicircle, and seated on nests of cushions, sat twelve or fifteen men, all Planetary Princes, Clan Chieftains, or independent Warlords. Raul seized the opportunity to look them over piercingly … just as they were covertly examining him.

Most them were Rilké: Clan Chieftains, according to the heraldic totems blazoned on cloak or corselet, and hail­ing from Pendalar and Dorrhea in the Veil. Several were aged patriarchs with silver hair, but most were men of middle-age with gray-shot, grizzled beards, or fortune hunting youngsters with swagger and dash. They were garbed in extremes of jeweled and fantastic luxury that made his own absurd raiment look almost workaday.

One Nomad Prince, a Dorrhean from his purple plumes, caught Linton’s eye: a tall, sturdy, bronzed warrior in sub­dued black velvet with decorations of silver-painted leather and polished iron. He had a short, sharp, black beard and keen intense eyes. He looked like a good fighting man, a real leader of intelligence, forcefulness, and strong will. Raul liked him at a glance.

Among the others were two Planetary Princes, one from Arkonna with stiff, pointed beard dyed indigo and gems hung from his waxed mustachios; the other from one of the Desert Worlds, or so he assumed, seeing the cream-yellow silken robes worn loose over coats of bronze ringmail. The others were Warlords from Vaela, one also from Arkonna, and a lone Faftol kinglet from Shome.

Raul paid literally no attention to the food; he ate mech­anically whatever was placed before him by silent slaves, and after the meal was done could not have described a single dish or even named the wines, save that they were iced and deliciously spiced.

When the meal was done, servants removed the dish-cluttered taborets and brought huge silver bowls of sweet­meats, jellied fruits, curious little dry cakes of something that looked like grated coconut and tasted like marzipan, which Linton had never seen before. And musicians entered the room, quiet, cowled and bearded men in dull, earthern-colored robes, and squatted, making wild, erratic music. One beat the tambang, another drew weird chords from the strings of his tittibuk, a third blew upon a zootibar, while nude girls with masked faces danced for the entertainment of the chieftains.

While the men nibbled sweetmeats and drank wine and watched the dancers, Linton scrutinized them narrowly, seeing the avarice in the thin, pinched lips of this lord, the fanaticism in that chieftain’s burning eye, the cruelty that etched deep grooves around another’s hard mouth.

Beside him, the Kahani whispered mischievously: “What think you of my council?”

Guardedly, he replied in a low tone: “I do not know what to say. They seem good men ...”

She laughed lightly.

“Thou great fool, hast thou not learned yet to speak thy mind freely before me? Surely, thou canst see that Lord Albazar, he yonder in the byrnie of gilt steel, joins me only for the gold and the joy of looting—a glance at his fat, greedy lips shouldst tell thee that much! And Prince Narzang Hu, the old man beyond him with the paunch and snowy beard nigh to falling into his wine, he careth for this war only that it may give him new domains to present his two sons on either side of him—the chinless one with the felt cloak, who likes boys, and the other with bulging eyes and mouth sagging open, who is addicted to the death- lotus. And Yorgala of Ailm, the Warlord in scale-armor with the diamonded baton in his waistband, he seeks to spread the cult of Harza, Lord of Battles, into the Inner Worlds, and to overthrow the Temple of the ‘old’ Gods on Omphale.”

Linton digested this information in silence. Then:

“I like the looks of the Nomad yonder, the Dorrhean in black velvet and iron,” he said. She smiled impishly, dimp­ling.

“Aye, Zarkandu is the only man amongst them all. He desires to marry me.”

Linton started. “To marry you!” he ejaculated, quite in­voluntarily.

“And why not? Some men have found me … appealing ... despite my youth,” she flashed.

“I … you are beautiful, Kahani, but,” he stumbled over his tongue, “but a . . you were married!” he finished, lamely.

“Do not the vokarthu women sometimes remarry after their husband’s death?” she asked curiously. “With Rilké, it is not the custom to remain in widowhood forever. No, Lin-ton, and besides, the Lord Zarkandu is the third son of a Planet-Prince from the Veil—Dorrhea, as you guessed. As third son, of course, he will inherit nothing—the Dais and title go to his eldest brother, and the family palace and lands to his second brother. The only empire he shall ever gain is that which he carves out for himself with his sword—or that he marries. He has pressed his suit, gently, of course. But, tell me, kazar, I would like your opinion—as a traveled, sophisticated man, do you not think him manly, attractive?”

Was she teasing him, Linton wondered?

“I think he looks like a … a fine person,” he said.

“Why do you sound so grim?” she smiled—and her smile broadened at his burning flush of color that turned his face almost as red as his hair.

Before he could think of something to say, her mood changed abruptly, and she was thoughtful, serious.

“Zarkandu of Dorrhea is one I can count upon for true and faithful service,” she said. “And the tall man with the feather-kilt, the Prince Kasht of Argastra: a brilliant war-leader, who will bring to my cause a well-trained and loyal army and a small fleet of excellent fighting ships. And I think the old Shann of Kartoy, too, will be of good service, for he was devoted friend to my father, and to my husband, as well. He is the grave old gray-beard yonder, in green and black, with the scarred brow.”

For some obscure reason, which Linton would not even admit to himself, he was troubled about the Nomad Prince.

“Kahani, do you intend accepting Lord Zarkandu?” he asked, knowing it to be a breach of good manners, but not caring. Her answer was curiously important to his peace of mind. She crossed her legs, and leaned forward thoughtfully, chin resting in cupped hand, elbow on knee.

“I do not know. I have not yet made up my mind,” she said after a little time.

“But your husband … ?”

“You will hear my marriage described as a true love-match, if you listen to the wrong people, but it was not. We were married before we met—I was daughter to the Prince of the Shykondhanna, the Clan of the White Dragon banner. I was not in love with Chandalar, but I loved his ideas. He was a good man, with a good heart, and we worked beautifully together for our people. We built together—planned together—dreamed our dreams together. It was our common desire to see Valadon become a modem state: and we were united in this purpose and never fell from it. Bridges, roads, schools, hospitals. Oh, we had brave and gallant dreams! Valadon is a fair and hospitable world—green hills and fertile fields and rich forests. The mountains are wealthy in nickel and zinc, cinnabar and copper. The people are healthy and numerous; life is easy. With literacy, with an industrial technology, with a good trading fleet it could be made into one of the most important worlds of the Cluster. Our city, Ashmir, was fair and strong, and well situated. As the hub of an industrial and mercantile civilization, it would grow swiftly—become rich and powerful—send out colonies—be­come the center of something great, something larger than just Valadon. Something perhaps, like Meridian,” she mused, naming the capital planet of the Galactic Imperium, as one of an earlier age might have named “Rome.”

Raul listened carefully to her words. She spoke to him without using sex as a weapon or a persuader, and he ad­mired her for that. He had expected her to flaunt herself at him, to dangle her body and her beauty as a bauble be­fore him, in an attempt to purchase his loyalty and service. This she did not do. Perhaps she respected him for an in­telligent man, mature enough to beware of such enticement.

And as he listened to the warmth, the sincerity, the ring of conviction and note of communicable enthusiasm and devotion to an ideal that rang through her words like fierce music, a wave of unexpected emotion swept over him. For he was a Romantic at heart, although he did not suspect it, and thought of himself as a clear-sighted man stripped bare of all illusions; and he was more than half a poet (though he would have laughed and scoffed at you if you had named him one), and something of the poetry and romance in him awoke and responded fully to words like hers, winged with zeal, and the absurd concept that something fine and strong and worthy can be bulit by far-seeing men and women de­voted to something larger than just themselves.

He felt almost dizzy, seized by an aura of personal mag­netism such as might have beaten brightly about the per­son of Alexander, or Caesar, Napoleon or Gandhi, Fuller or Saul Everest, or even Arion the Eternal, who founded the great Imperium upon a dream no less flimsy and romantic than hers. The surge of enthusiasm within him opened doors long closed—pulled him out of habits familiar, and into strange regions where beliefs are shaken, no matter how strongly adhered to, and where golden, glittering impossi­bilities seemed to hover at the brink of the Possible.

“What happened then?”

She smiled a small, tight, ironic smile.

“What happens to all dreams, at the end, I guess. Your government, you see, wants Valadon ignorant, diseased, dirty, illiterate, and superstitious. Our taxes were raised—too high. The vokarthu experts, professors, teachers, doctors, engineers we had hired among the star-worlds—were impeded in com­ing to take up new duties with us. Their visas were can­celed—they were pressed into service during your war—they were suddenly hired away at higher salaries.”

“And-then?”

Dull-eyed: “He died. He was very young. Shageen, a kind of fever. But I know he died of a rarer, more painful disease, called death-of-dreams. Or broken-heart, if you pre­fer the truism. And then they set me aside, and put the be­sotted idiot on the Dais. I would not—truly!—have minded, had his successor chosen to carry on the struggle, to con­tinue the work we had begun. But Hastril is just—a nonen­tity. All he asks of life is to whip a slave to death now and then, or buy a woman or two more, and always, of course, to have enough viathol about to drug his dull mind into seas of blazing ecstasy. Ah—the waste, the pity, the shame of it all!”

Her voice broke upon the last word, almost with a sob, and he looked away.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

“Fight! These chiefs and lords have promised men and ships, pledged to my banner, to retake Valadon in my name. I await the coming of Yaklar, the Arthon of Pelaire in the outworlds beyond the Nebula—he comes tomorrow to com­plete negotiations—then I shall strike for what is mine, falsely taken from me.”

Raul frowned a little. He had heard of this Arthon be­fore; no one raised in the Border worlds could have failed to hear of him. A troublesome, warlike Outworlder, known to have long coveted the wealth of the Inner Worlds, and to have conspired before this to their looting. But he also knew the Pelairi to be treacherous—who would use the Kahani of Valadon and cast her aside, once her usefulness was done. He felt an uncomfortable chill of apprehension.

“Why do you need the help of Pelaire?”

“Because I need a man to lead my warriors!” she burst out. “They will never follow a woman, no matter how they love me. Oh, my own Clan, of whom I am now sole Chieftainess for my father (may the Seven give him bliss!) is dead now, they will follow me eagerly enough—beyond the farthest star, and past the gates of the Ninth Hell, if such be my wish! As will certain of the other Clans, the Arglinassam, truly, and the Tahukamnar, in full strength, for Sharl is their Chieftain and sworn to my service. But no others. I need a man to lead them, as my war-leader, my Shakar—and I care little whether it be Lord Zarkandu—or this fat-gutted Arthon—but I had hoped it would be you.”

“But I-”

She gestured to the hall below.

“All of them are here because they have heard that a great Shakar from the star-worlds of the Imperium was come to lead them! They are all watching you, although po­liteness decrees they should not do so openly. They have heard you were a great leader in the Mica Cluster wars, a mighty hero of valor, who have joined my cause. Does this not thrill you—to lead so many warriors into battle? You are here, a fugitive from injustice, as am I—will you not strike a blow for a truly just cause? I do not tempt you with titles or wealth or fame—I know you are man enough not to be bought by them—I tempt you with rarer prizes. To fight against corruption, betrayal, infamy—with truth for your banner, justice for your sword!”

Dumbly, unable to counter arguments that were so close­ly in tune with his own inward convictions, he struggled to speak.

“I appreciate … I sympathize—”

“Do not accept or refuse—now. Think about it, Lin-ton. There is time. Promise me that you will at least consider my proposal! Do not just decline it without thought. Promise?”

“Very well, I promise that I will think it over.”

Eagerly: “Good! And think, too, of this, Lin-ton: you are cast out from your people, named traitor and outlaw. What will you do—where will you go—how will you spend your days, hence forward? Join me—not as a servant, for I know you resent commands—but as a leader in a noble cause. How better to protest and avenge the injustice that your government has done you, than to battle unselfishly in revenge of the injustice your government has wreaked upon me?”

“I will think of … all these things,” Linton promised slowly.

She smiled, and he noted (bemused) how her smile lit up her lovely face.

“Now go, go in honor, Lin-ton. For I have matters to discuss with these, my chieftains. Tomorrow, when the Arthon comes, perhaps we shall speak of these things again. Go—and consider deeply, as you have sworn to me you would!”

He left the dais, nodding briefly to Sharl, and strode out of the feasting-hall, the great scarlet cloak swinging and belling from his shoulders, and the golden sword slapping at his thigh.

From the dais, she watched him leave. And the silent chiefs also watched, with admiring and appraising eyes.

And that night he was too full of thoughts and unsettled questions to even think of sleep.