Читать книгу Trekmaster - James B. Johnson - Страница 5

1. THE KING

The seeds of rebellion were strewn this day, though, at the time, he did not know it—he only suspected it. Thomas Jefferson (family name Shepherd) Rex enjoyed his birthday celebration anyway.

“...only living Master of the Trek, King of Bear Ridge, Supreme Commander of the Armies and the Gyrenes of The Palace Guard, Lord of Crimson Sapphire, Protector of the Faith....” TJ snorted to himself at this one as the herald continued to chant his titles. He noted the herald’s calm cadence and felt a grudging admiration for the man’s ability to wade through the necessary formalities. “...Unbeaten Swordmaster. Admiral of all the Navies, the Conqueror, Prime Chancellor, Lord of all Nobles, Father to all His Peoples....”

The herald Seemed to Talk in Capitals. TJ admitted that reciting the list of his titles was boring. He’d delete most of them—rather, the formal reading of them. The herald would hem and haw and disagree, for he liked the formality of the court. Alfred, the herald, was an administrative genius but he had his flaws. At least he was almost finished.

“...paying homage to His Majesty, Thomas Jefferson Rex. King of Bear Ridge, on this, his forty-second birthday.”

Would this never end? TJ could see bored faces throughout the cavernous formal throne room. The court sycophants gathered together up front practiced bland exteriors though even they had to be bored. Throat clearing and coughing began in earnest. More than a thousand present, he thought, and all dressed in their finest. To his right was a section dedicated to the nobility; several of the two hundred or so present there could not conceal hostile glances at him. To his left, an equal sized section contained the clergy where an equal number of hostile looks favored him. In the center sat or stood almost a thousand of his subjects, mostly those from the city without. At the far walls stood members of the Gyrenes, ever alert, eyes constantly scanning. Random squads of these palace guards stood amongst the spectators and individual soldiers peppered the front rows of the crowd.

The jester must have sensed the unrest for he suddenly whooped and flew into a series of nimble cartwheels in the open space below the throne. The herald missed a beat of his chant.

Finally the opening ceremonies were complete and TJ smiled benevolently down at a group of tertiary school girls as they serenaded him. A team of jugglers followed. TJ sneaked a glance at the Fed’s Envoy, Sharon Gold. She stood with rapt attention observing everything. Even though she was a xenobiologist, she couldn’t conceal her interest in the supposed quaint ways of a backward planet like Bear Ridge. TJ admired Sharon. She was a tall, lithe young lady with golden brown skin. And she was from Olde Earthe. TJ found it surprising that the Federation Council had appointed one so young to be the final judge in the upcoming drama so important to him and his planet. Politics? Possibly. He’d have to study on it. The Fed Council could well be as full of intrigue as his own court. How the hell did an Olde Earthe Oriental get a Jewish name? He’d asked himself this question ten times since her arrival on Bear Ridge.

A team of tumblers cavorted now, bodies flying indiscriminately about and threatening to plunge into the crowd. The court jester hopped and flew amongst them, holding his talents in reserve, TJ knew, so as to not embarrass the tumblers.

Uncertainty struck at him. What if he turned out to be wrong? He began to fidget and a mood of depression settled over him. Push doubts aside. Birthdays were cause for celebration. Wasn’t all of Bear Ridge on holiday just because of his birthday? And TJ knew that creeping age wasn’t the sole cause of his lethargy. Two decades of fighting. Twenty years of blood, of agony, of battle after battle, of planning, of sweating and shaking nerves, of death and, worse, the rotting stench of it. Of living on the knife-edge—after all that, life was too tame. He recognized his unrest as the curse of peace, a curse that many soldiers bear. He felt as if he were waiting for something to happen. It had been this way since the euphoria of war had passed. He shook his body. Pursue dreams of the future; do not revel in the past, learn from it. Christ, a philosopher now?

Gwen, sitting at his side on a smaller and less pretentious throne, patted him on the arm. sensing his mood.

“...from the Ethnarchy of Bexar,” the herald was announcing, “and the town of Lonestar, the selected representative of the Ethnarch and the people of Bexar, may I present to His Majesty the musician, Kellen Sing.” The herald stepped back.

Somehow he knew it. This was a turning point. The young man’s eyes glinted fire. Kellen Sing? TJ noted his stiff back, the shock of unruly black hair, the directness of focus from the coal black eyes, and the controlled energy. As he stared into the young man’s eyes. TJ saw a direct threat. Maybe not. Try to read him? He should have mastered aura-control, but knew his stubborn personality was a hindrance to the self-integration. Yet his gut feelings were generally correct: they had to be.

“Welcome.” TJ cut the formal greeting.

“Your Majesty,” said Kellen Sing, “we are but a poor province and cannot afford expensive gifts. Thus the people of the Ethnarchy of Bexar have dispatched me to entertain you and your court.” Sing followed the proper form while speaking, then knelt on one knee, touching his forehead to the other knee.

TJ signaled for him to rise, but Kellen Sing shook his head. From one wrist he detached a connected pair of thumb drums and secured them to his knee. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and lowered the lids halfway. His head angled back and he began to tap out a haunting melody.

The entire hall fell quiet. The throb of the thumb drums filled every inch of the crowded room. Each about the size of a fist, the drums were tuned in compliment.

TJ saw the mesmerizing effect the music had on most of those in the court. The people present were unnaturally silent. Occasionally, one of his palace guards would catch himself as if just coming awake. TJ recognized a few chords of “Death March” hidden within the framework of the piece. Gwendlyon stared in fascination, leaning forward so as to not miss a beat. The rhythm captured his blood beat, striking notes deep within. He tore his attention away, afraid to reveal himself. Much of the crowd seemed hypnotized.

Kellen Sing finished, and the hall remained dead silent with mental echoes of the music remaining.

Kellen’s head dropped to his knee again, nudging the drums, and remained in that position. A spontaneous roar of approval burst from the thousand present and shook the palace itself. The applause lasted for many minutes. TJ could see Kellen smiling into his knee.

TJ felt a sudden affinity for this young man, perhaps the age of his and Gwen’s son, or perhaps a year or two older. Would that Michale commanded the presence that Kellen Sing did, and would that he manifested less antagonism. Ah, well, he could only hope that things would change.

The applause died slowly, a huge wave receding, leaving isolated spots of noisy approval. Gradually, all quieted and anticipation rose. It was the King’s custom to handsomely reward outstanding performances. On his birthday, the royal coffers dropped in proportion to both the King’s mood and his magnanimity.

TJ again signaled for Kellen to rise.

“I trust Your Majesty was pleased,” Sing said, not asked.

The court gasped. One only replied to the King in court, not address him.

TJ had to hide his appreciation for the kid’s spunk. “Yes, it pleased me. My dear?”

Gwen nodded deeply, and not a silver hair on her carefully prepared coiffure fell out of place. She turned to him and whispered, “TJ, he was magnificent!” and her face broke into the Queen’s famous smile as she returned her gaze to Kellen and the court. “Yes, M’Lord. I would hear more, later.”

TJ addressed Kellen, who continued to kneel, but was now looking up at TJ and Gwen. “Rise, and approach.”

In one fluid motion, Kellen rose and began climbing the wide marble steps. The herald motioned him to stop on the second from the top.

“How came you to be so proficient?” asked TJ.

“Your Majesty, I am but a poor shepherd who has little formal schooling.” TJ knew then the scene was orchestrated to the best of Kellen’s ability. “My flocks are calmed by my playing. I have spent many hours practicing in front of sheepaloe. Sire.”

TJ noted the careful brashness, the slightly off-kilter manner of address, and took an immediate liking to the boy. He wished there were more like him about the court.

“Are you aware, Kellen Sing, that it is the custom for the throne to reward the best of the day?” The crowd murmured at his words. All except the nobles who had little love for TJ and his ways. He could tell that most present expected Kellen Sing to receive the highest praise. And riches would overwhelm this poor shepherd boy.

“No. Sire.”

The boy was not practiced enough to fool Thomas Jefferson (Shepherd) Rex. TJ told himself. As he detected the lie, it strengthened that sense of kinship with Kellen. He thought about baiting the boy, verbally tripping him to show that you didn’t lie to the King of Bear Ridge and remain unexposed. But he chose not to, deciding instead to play along, perhaps to discover Sing’s real objective.

“Awards are given,” TJ said, “to those I deem worthy.” He had selected those specific words rather than saying something about “the best performances.”

Kellen Sing raised an eyebrow.

“Your weight in coin of the realm would be ample recognition, don’t you think?” The kid would play hell trying to carry all that loot back to Lonestar on foot. Anyway, the bait was there and he was curious as to what Sing would say as he took the bait from the hook.

“More than ample,” said Kellen. “Your generosity is overwhelming,” he finished off-key.

And TJ knew that Sing’s tone of voice was calculated to tell him that money wasn’t what he wanted.

Gwen sensed this subtle byplay and took her cue. “Perhaps Kellen Sing has something else in mind? A mount from the King’s stables? And a fancy carriage? Temporary lodgings in the palace, for he has obviously never visited the capital?”

TJ caught the slight disapproval in her voice. She didn’t like any straying from the strict formality of the official court. And she well knew TJ’s penchant for variation, for mockery, and his sometimes childish sense of humor, as well as his impatience. Maybe that’s why I have this liking for Kellen Sing, he thought; we both have a disdain for formal procedure crap.

“If Your Majesties please,” Kellen said, “is not my weight in coin sufficient to exchange for formal learning?”

“What?” TJ had not expected this.

“Sire, I have no one left in Lonestar. My family is dead...well, there is one sister, but she cares for herself. I have spent my life upon the hills with sheepaloe and predators...and my thumb drums. Out there, I have dreamed of stars; but more, I have dreamed of learning, of books I could not possibly afford, of knowledge I could not obtain by seeking in the province, the Ethnarchy of Bexar. Surely, with your intervention, I could attend one of the superior schools here in Crimson Sapphire? I know this is asking much. I thumb my drums. I herd sheepaloe. I am from the country and the hills in the country. But even there your graciousness and fondness for education are widely known.” He paused. “Sire.”

TJ watched Kellen watch him. He knew his presence had to be imposing to a country boy. Yet Kellen seemed relaxed, enjoying the obvious pressure of the game he had initiated with the King. Kellen’s eyes catalogued him, taking his measure. TJ knew what Kellen saw. The monarch was more than a head taller than average, large boned, with a strong nose. There was a hint of stomach being held in by tight clothing. His scarlet tunic was braided about the sleeves in five rows near the cuffs and around the neckpiece. Epaulets topped the shoulders, and winding from underneath the right epaulet came a white satin sash. Decorations, medals and ribbons adorned the left chest and hung from his neck. TJ saw the shock hit Kellen when his eyes came to the symbol of the Muster hanging from his neck. His eyes stopped and he was obviously shaken by this discovery. TJ only wore the symbol on occasions such as these—and none that were present on that fateful day ever spoke of it. Those few that lived through it. Finally, Kellen’s eyes left the medallion and reluctantly moved on. TJ’s tunic hung loosely over solid black trousers which in turn were tucked into glass-polished high boots. He knew that overshadowing the whole effect was Thomas Jefferson Shepherd, the face, the face that fronted the mind which ran the planet. His hair was thick, tinged with shards of gray, as was his Prince Albert beard—though this was carefully trimmed. Finally, TJ saw Kellen’s black eyes meet his own gray eyes, gray eyes tinged by battle and blood, steadily regarding Kellen. TJ read Kellen well enough now to know what he thought at this moment. Kellen must be awed, standing there in his simple tunic. Then TJ saw something change in Kellen’s eyes, and a hardening glint came into them.

Abruptly. TJ broke the silence. “All right.” Here he was toying with a damn kid when there were matters of supreme importance waiting for his attention. He wished he could scratch under his collar, but of course Gwen would notice and raise hell with him later.

The jester began to do back flips, and TJ knew he was spending too much time with Kellen Sing. TJ sighed. His plans for himself and Bear Ridge were close to being realized. And he should be concentrating on them. Would Bear Ridge pass the test? Could he convince Sharon Gold that Bear Ridge was ready? But the presence of this Kellen Sing seemed to cloud the clarity of his purpose.

“It shall be as you wish,” he said to Kellen. “Remain. The herald will arrange an audience at the conclusion of the ceremonies.”

The jester tumbled and cavorted, grinning like a Cheshire of the highlands, his makeup holding up under occasional drooling of the apparent idiot.

TJ sat back to watch tamed snarves dance and tried to ease his belt. He thought that it was a good thing the tunic was worn outside the trousers. He blamed the incipient middle age spread on a lack of action and immediately missed times past.

An uproar of hilarity came from the front rows as one of the beasts messed on the floor and attendants hurried to clean it up. TJ took the opportunity to tug his belt line down a bit.

Gwen touched him lightly on the arm, reminding him of form.

He turned to her and said in a low voice, “At least I’m not as raunchy as that bastard Tirano.”

“This is your day, Thomas. Do not let politics spoil it for you.”

Guiltily, he glanced at Sharon Gold. It had probably taken her less time to travel from Federation Central to Bear Ridge, dozens of light years, than it took Kellen Sing to walk from Lonestar to Crimson Sapphire, and he thought that was criminal.