Читать книгу Trekmaster - James B. Johnson - Страница 8

4. TJ

TJ was bored. He would rather review troops or do anything military than this.

The throne room was three-quarters full. Petitioners gathered in one group to be brought forward by the herald. As this was an open session, those with complaints against local officials, ethnarchs, or tax courts stood waiting. TJ looked at the jester.

Delancy Camp, the jester, squatted momentarily at the foot of the stairs to the throne. Other than the King, none of the royal family was present. TJ groaned as the pace of petitioners slowed even more. It was the jester’s job to be present when the King appeared in public, at any occasion: meetings (staff, ministerial, military), at group meals, during military formations and maneuvers, and all court sessions.

Camp was a well-muscled man given to eating thousands of extra calories daily to counter the physical effort spent.

His favorite quick energy producer was a chocolate wine, a secret recipe from his home town of Lonestar in the Ethnarchy of Bexar. Strange, TJ thought, Kellen Sing also came from Lonestar. When TJ asked, Camp replied he had been gone from the town for too many years, since he was a youngster not even into his teens, and so hadn’t recalled a child named Kellen. Or the family Sing.

A new petitioner came forward, and the herald, reading from a paper, introduced him. The herald glanced distastefully at Camp. TJ grinned, knowing the jester’s rest period had ended. After all, he had a job to do.

He sprang about in the open space in front of the King. To one side stood the petitioners and other claimants; to the other stood the general public who wished to view the proceedings, friends of the petitioners, and other interested parties, such as students observing.

Camp stopped, folded lightly backward onto his hands, and began hand-walking along the edge of the crowd. TJ watched as the herald completed the formalities. A few women lurched backward when they realized the jester could see too much—those with taste enough to wear short dresses, TJ amended. But that wasn’t Camp’s purpose. From his vantage point he could see more than one would think. Weapons concealed from head-height might be visible to him. Muscles bulged and his bulky pantaloons threatened to rip at the crotch from his scissoring legs.

By now all were so used to his presence they failed to see him.

An ex-attorney was complaining to TJ about a prostitute.

“Prostitutes are honest and hardworking.” pointed out the King. “Lawyers are not. What have you to say about that?”

“Well, Your Majesty, I....”

The jester bounced away. Almost weekly some ex-lawyer would come to court to complain about the King’s royal proclamation outlawing the profession. It used to be daily, but those were in the good old days. Before he had decided to try for the Fed Council seat.

“What?” the King demanded.

“Sire, people need protection, advice, procedural expertise.”

“From other attorneys, you mean.” TJ’s voice had taken on a threatening tone, but this ex-attorney did not know it.

“But, Sire....”

“But nothing. You and your cronies almost wrecked this planet. Royal decrees, laws, provincial regulations are now written so that any normal person can understand them—and are not written by lawyers. Let me tell you one thing, mister.” TJ was off on his favorite subject. “You know Bear Ridge was settled by North Americans. You know why? I’ll tell you why. The North American economy went to hell. So the smart ones left. So-called experts messed it up. Just a bunch of honest attorneys tying up every system, from their own legal system to the economy, unions, the military. Just great. The Japanese ruled the economic world. Why? There were fewer than twenty thousand attorneys in Japan at the time, and over a million attorneys in North America. That tell you anything?”

“But, Sire....”

“Appeal denied,” the King said, “and a fine to you, one hundred Shepherd unit coins, or the equivalent, to the orphanage fund of your ethnarchy.” He glanced at the herald. “See to it.” He’d conveniently ignored pointing out that lawyers somehow manage to turn into legislators and constitution-writers; besides making money, what lawyers like to do most is tell people what to do and how to do it.

TJ sighed. Wouldn’t they ever learn? Make a legal nuisance of yourself and lose your case, you pay heavy. Nowadays, most people were certain of themselves and their cases before they petitioned the King.

The man had not moved.

“Out,” said the King.

As the man hesitated, two Gyrenes moved forward and he sullenly turned and stalked off.

“Who’s next?” asked the King.

This time the jester didn’t rest between petitioners. In a whirl, he cartwheeled across the floor and partway up the open center aisle.

A woman had stepped out of the crowd at the herald’s signal and was walking down the center lane.

As she reached the front line of spectators, the jester spun past her rudely, and his feet, swinging high, intercepted an object flying over her shoulder.

The knife clattered against a ridged column and fell within an arm’s length of the King.

The jester continued his cartwheel and slammed into a bearded man. The man tried to turn and flee, but somehow got tangled up with the jester. Before anyone could realize what had happened, two Gyrenes leaped into the fray.

The jester picked himself up ruefully and bounded to the King’s side. Other palace guards immediately surrounded them. The crowd found its voice and started with a buzz and ended with a conglomeration of voices and queries. The Gyrenes dragged off the assailant.

“Silence,” commanded the King. The hall fell immediately quiet, yet an air of expectancy remained. “Get on with business,” the King told the herald.

And the jester began tumbling around the room again.

After the court session, the King stood in an outer chamber to his suite of offices talking to the herald and his administrative assistant. “Any new NOPEs?”

The entire palace knew the King’s fondness for buzz words. NOPE was an acronym for “number one problem entity,” meaning immediate problems. So what if it was a cutesy acronym? He’d changed ARSE, for Ancillary Revenue Service Extension, to RSE, hadn’t he?

“No, sire,” said the herald’s exec.

“Then leave us, I have paperwork to do.”

“Yes, Sire,” Alfred the herald glanced at Camp with more respect than usual. Both knew what “paperwork” meant. The King only signed. He almost never read. Of course, the last time a mistake had been made and the King had signed the order unknowingly was perhaps two years ago. And those responsible were still guarding isolated mountain passes against nonexistent enemies—or were they the ones cleaning latrines for the palace guard? Regardless, administrative efficiency was always at its peak in TJ’s palace.

“Let’s go into my office,” said the King.

As they entered, Camp said, “Sure, boss.”

“Thanks,” said the King, acknowledging Camp’s swift action in the throne room.

“It was my job.” Camp closed the door behind him and then collapsed on a leather couch. The King pulled a bottle from a plain cabinet and poured two wide-mouthed glasses almost full. He took one over to Delancy Camp and handed it to him.

“Any speculation as to who or why?” TJ took a long drink.

Camp gulped his sour mash and shook his head. “A possible. But I’ll wager the commandant will arrive within ten minutes with all the information wrung out of the assassin—but I doubt we’ll learn anything of substance.”

“So do I. Probably a disgruntled fellow lawyer.”

“Or an opponent of joining the Fed,” said Delancy Camp pointedly.

“Summer, it’s come to that, has it?” With his strange sense of humor, the King was wont to refer to Delancy as “Summer, my aide de camp.”

“TJ, it’s gonna get a hell of a lot worse.” He drained his glass and rose to refill it.

“I shan’t turn back. Goddamn, Summer, indoor plumbing, real doctors and medicine, ground and air travel? Give that up? Hell, no.”

Camp shrugged. “It’s your life. Go ahead and throw it away.”

“Measured against those benefits, my life is nothing.”

“Look, TJ, you pulled this planet together and up almost single-handedly. You hold it together now by the mere force of your presence and personality. There is much to measure your life against.”

The King rubbed his forehead with his left hand. “You do not say the words. Summer; you imply Prince Michale is not yet capable of donning the robes of power.”

“Of filling your shoes, TJ. He is a difficult one to figure,” he added diplomatically.

“Damn it, I know that.”

“It was in my thoughts, Your Majesty, to punch the button on that secret transponder and have one Jean-Claude Lafitte Fitzroy pay us a visit. A few protective devices only.”

“A million Fed credits worth of gold just to turn on a red light in a starship?”

Camp handed the King a refilled glass. “There are relay satellites throughout occupied space. He would receive the summons almost immediately. Or as fast as a ship could travel the distance—as I understand it. And the cost would be more than the million. The million is just to have Fitzroy show up here in response to our call. The merchandise would also be prohibitively expensive. Where else could we buy it? Without political connections, smuggling doesn’t pay in the long run. Except in death from the Federation Navy.”

“Too expensive,” said TJ. And damned the Federation system that kept Bear Ridge isolated until tested, passed and accepted into the Fed.

“You can afford it. Have Reginald skim a little more off the top. Or put an extra shift on that secret gold mine. We’ve got enough condemned prisoners stored up.”

“The idea is distasteful to me.”

“So is dying, boss.”

“Your point. We’ll see.”

“You don’t want to push that button and call Fitzroy because you’re afraid the Fed might detect the smuggler’s ship and thus jeopardize your chance at the Council seat, no?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. Break their foolish rules and we are quarantined for ten years and our entry into the Fed postponed for at least that long.” The King slumped into his high back chair behind a cluttered desk. He propped his feet on a clear space. Camp leaned back on the couch’s arm rest and set his glass on his chest.

“We ought to retire,” the King continued. “I’m getting too old for these games. And you aren’t getting any younger either, Summer. Why don’t you find a nice girl and settle down on your lands? I’ll draft someone else for this job.”

“Hell, TJ.”

“Yeah, I know. Me, too. And thanks. But you can be commandant, or chief of staff, High Minister, I’ll think of something. You’ve already got a couple of thousand hectares of prime grape lands. I’ll stack a few titles on and make it official.”

“If I ever find a nice girl, I’ll think about it. And I ain’t so old either, a mere decade less than you!”

“Yes, but you’ve packed a lot into those years.”

“Had a ball, too. And I somehow have the notion that we ain’t done raising hell yet either.”

TJ grinned.

“When are you going to let me in on...?” Camp began.

A knock came to the closed door. Instantly, Camp drained his glass, tossed it under the couch, plucked three rubber balls from his pocket, scurried to a corner, crouched, and began to juggle.

TJ picked up a quill and said, “Enter.”

General Manuel Vero, commandant of the Gyrenes, came in and saluted. “Sire, the prisoner has been interrogated.” He stood stiffly at attention, almost muscle bound. His accoutrements glittered, his sword swung loosely at his side. The only decoration he wore was the insignia of the Muster.

“At ease, Manny. Nobody here but us chickens,” said the King.

Camp rose and retrieved his glass from under the couch. “Want one, Manny?”

“No thanks, Camp. I’m on duty.” To the King, he said, “My resignation. Sire. At your convenience.”

“Your men cannot be everywhere within the crowd. Nor,” TJ held up his hand to stop Vero’s protest, “can we strip search everyone who attends an open court session. What did you find out?”

“The blade was poisoned, Sire.”

“And?”

“The assassin said he was hired at night by someone in thick robes using an obviously disguised voice. Also, the man had no real future: he was free on bail awaiting a hearing for murder. Conviction was certain. So he traded his life for enough money to support his family for many years.”

“Could be a plot.” observed Camp.

“On your way out, Manny,” TJ said, “tell the herald to find out what idiot judge allowed bail for a murder suspect, have him fire her, and the usual—slap her in prison for five years and award her property and possessions to the victim relief fund of whatever ethnarchy that is. I’ll sign the papers when he has them prepared—which will be immediately. What happened to the prisoner?”

Vero shrugged. “There was only one quick way to determine if the dagger actually had poison on it.”

“Good. That is all.”

After the general had left, TJ said, “If I’m now a target, how about my possible successor? How is the Prince’s training coming along?”

“TJ, I’m tired and my diplomacy is gone. Want it straight?”

“Yes,” the King said, already knowing the answer.

“Academics, fine. He will never be a quality swordsman of our class. But he does have an eye. A bowman he might make. Part of the reason he can’t refine his swordsmanship may be his balance. His toes have grown that skin between them again. Do either your or Gwen’s families have a history of attached toes?” TJ shook his head. Summer shrugged. “Strange. Maybe we can have your surgeon cut the skin one more time.” TJ looked sour and Summer shrugged again, obviously not wanting to pursue that line of thought. He continued, “Yet I do not know whether Michale will kill or not, for that is the final test. I’ll tell you right now, he doesn’t have the thirst for blood that some have.” He glanced at TJ.

“Some of us do have that problem, do we not?”

Camp grinned. “At any rate, he hasn’t had to come up the hard way.”

“I couldn’t very well make a slave of him, Summer. My mother and Gwen had a great deal to do with his upbringing. Too much.”

“You could spend more time with him, TJ.”

“He’d rather compose poetry and read and study than attend me at my duties. I cannot let him ignore his education.”

“Hell, boss. I would rather read and study than attend you, but I don’t. And there are more ways to receive an education than from instructors and books.” Summer paused. “And Mike will have to make the Trek one of these days.”

TJ bowed his head. “I know,” he whispered.

“If he’s not prepared and killing tough, the Trek will kill him.” Summer said.

“Yes.”

“Unless he chooses to challenge the system and not take the Trek.” Summer’s voice was soft.

TJ whipped his head up, shaking off the possible shame. “No!” he shouted, slamming his fist onto the desk and scattering papers. “He shall take the Trek when it is time. He would not shame the family.”

TJ knew Summer had accomplished his purpose: he’d gotten the King’s attention focused onto the matter.

Damn, TJ thought. What happened to the child I raised so carefully? The child who almost died before life was realized? The child whom I nursed in the broadest sense, sending the governesses and maids off when Gwen was still ill and colic and sickness raged within him? The child who used to lie in his wrap and smile up at my beard? The child whom I treated with a proper amount of discipline as he grew, binding him to Gwen first and myself second; but more importantly, instilling in him the welfare of the kingdom, the welfare of Bear Ridge. Whatever happened to that child? Where did he go wrong? Or was it just me who went wrong? Had not other influences warped his character? Aye, did I not raise him to be a warrior prince? What happened to the bond to me? Certainly, he thinks for himself and does not have to echo me.

But. But why is he the way he is?