The Wizard of Karres

CHAPTER 36

So that was how the captain found himself sweating in the uniform of a Slalonican peasant festival dancer. The puffy sleeves would have been ideal to hide a Mark 20 in, but naturally they'd all been thoroughly scanned for weaponry before being allowed into the Imperial complex. Even here they were totally isolated from the actual guests and nobility of the Empire, and of course, the Imperial House themselves. The dances and displays took place on a stage, with an unobtrusive moat separating the mere entertainers from the jeweled and masked butterflies of the Imperial court. That moat, the Sedmons had explained, was actually a kill-zone. It had everything from spikes to detectors connected to sonic fibrilators, to several Imperial household bodyguards with heavy weapons, all to forestall a would-be folk dancer assassin. They were locked into their section—and the only official way out was through a long passage that led to gates outside the main compound. Emperor Koloth was taking no chances that the traditional Winter Carnival would lead to his death, the way it had to the death of his uncle, the Emperor Tarabian. There was, however, a door, which no one was supposed to know about. The Emperor Justino had had a secret way made to the dressing rooms, so that he could visit his mistress, who had been a tsling-dancer from Ambar's World.

It was, of course, securely locked.

The Empress Hailie would be at the ball, as would her stepson the Emperor. First there would be the dancing and the entertainments, and then the Imperial House would go out to the grand balcony for the people and the vids.

Outside in the Imperial city the revelry was noisy and cheerful, with music and dancing, fireworks and the drinking of loyal toasts. It wouldn't even pause until the Emperor and his retinue appeared on the stroke of midnight on the grand balcony, to accept the adulation of his people.

Inside the grand ballroom the royal orchestra played ancient music on traditional instruments—very badly, to the captain's ear. It didn't matter much, as the masked courtiers weren't letting appreciation of it spoil their cultivated languid boredom or their gossip.

"How is Vezzarn doing with that lock?"

Captain Pausert was living in mortal fear that he might have to dance. The pin-striped kilt and wooden shoes might be traditional dress on Slalonica, but as far as the captain was concerned, they made him feel very foolish. Not to mention clumsy.

"Fine. He said another five minutes," said a stilt dancer from Kota. She was a pretty little blonde with gray eyes.

"That's what he said five minutes ago," grumbled Pausert.

"Well, it still looks like you won't actually have to dance, Captain." Goth was dressed up in the red and green paint of the Mardaban fire-eaters. "I've got your evening-dress 'ported into the changing rooms, and a lovely mask."

Captain Pausert was going to accompany Hantis, who'd be wearing her fabulously expensive tozzami fur coat, lelaundel tippet, and a gorgeous beaked mask. The captain's costume, especially his own mask, was designed to match. The mask had jewels on it. Lots of them, and the captain didn't think any were fake. He decided not to ask where the jewels had come from. There'd be time enough later for his stern lectures on property and moral probity.

"Has anyone got the Empress picked out yet?" he asked.

"We think she's the one in the gold lame with the feathers," said Hulik. "But that's the whole point of the masked ball, Captain. The idea is to let the Imperial House mingle with their courtiers."

"Stupid," grumbled Pul. "You can tell who anyone is by smell anyway. And that lot reek of Nanite. I'll tell you soon enough which one is the Empress. I was given her scarf to sniff, once."

"It's open," said the small spacer.

Lots of dream candy out there, said a little silver-eyed menace, suddenly.

Don't cause trouble now. Please, begged the captain hastily. Why did this vatch have to keep coming back?

"Let's go, Captain," said Hantis. He offered the Sprite his arm and she rested one elegant gloved hand on it. Pul had been decorated as much as possible to make the grik-dog appear to be a pampered lady's toy, not even to be left behind at a social occasion. The grik-dog looked more sour than usual about the pink bows and the jewel-encrusted leash.

They slipped out and were soon weaving their way between the Emperor's guests. The masked dancers were subjected to Pul's nasal enquiry. The feathered gold lame, likewise. None of them were the person they were looking for.

At length they came to a small woman with a simply cut azure silk gown and a butterfly mask sitting quietly in an alcove. A couple of other guests lounged around nearby. Considerably bulkier ones.

Pul nodded and tugged at his leash. One of the two large men got up, ever so unobtrusively. Pausert knew then that they had the right person. "Your Imperial Highness," said Hantis quietly. "I have been sent to you by our mutual friends, of the house Serrak."

"Lady Hantis of Aloorn, I assume," said the woman in the butterfly mask. "It's all right, Jaime. These are our last remaining friends. Although, I think they have come too late. In a few minutes I will have to take my place on the dais with my stepson . . . or the thing that is pretending to be my stepson. And then the Nanites will have me at last."

"You know about the Nanites, Your Highness?" asked Pausert, puzzled.

She gave a low, sad laugh. "Why do you think I sent word to Karres that I needed help?"

"Oh." The captain felt rather stupid. "I wasn't told all the facts, ma'am."

She laughed again. "That old 'need to know' business. I wonder how many more disasters occur than are avoided, by keeping agents in the dark? I realize that Karres is in strict quarantine, but I have been hoping for rescue by witches coming thrumming down the Egger Route. But according to the last communication I had the only hope they had been able to come up with for the Empire was one 'Captain Pausert' and a companion by the name of 'Goth.' Their best premotors all agreed on that. They also agreed on there being a very low probability of success—less than a one in five chance that he would get here. But if he did, that he would have discovered how to deal with the plague. I don't suppose your companion would be Captain Pausert, Lady Hantis?"

"Er, yes," said the captain uncomfortably. "I am Captain Pausert, Your Highness. And Goth is with me."

He bowed. Now that he thought about it, it was all rather obvious. The witches could, if they'd wanted to, have reached the Empress via the Egger Route. Pul was indeed effective against Nanites . . . but there was a limited amount of venom in one grik-dog. And the Empress hadn't needed Hantis to tell her about the Nanites.

The Empress inclined her head at him. "And have you worked out how to deal with the Nanites, Captain?"

A number of pieces fell into place in the puzzle in Pausert's head. The mission hadn't been about Hantis and Pul, after all. It had been about Goth and himself.

"Then this was all a teaching device?" he demanded of Hantis.

"Say rather a learning device," she replied. "Threbus detected unusual klatha skills in you when he ran the tests. You affect adult witches enormously with your klatha gathering, but you don't appear to affect nonhumans or children—which is the reason I was sent on this mission as your minder. You are a klatha-force lighthouse, Captain. The best premotors on Karres worked on you—and found that you obscured their results. When fate said that you had to die . . . you changed the rules. They tried various future models. The predictors always came up with the same answer: allow him certain factors and allow him to evolve. Then they worked on what the best factors would be. Do not imagine that any of your companions are here by accident."

"Huh. They could have told us," said a voice close to his ear.

The Empress and her bodyguards jumped only slightly more than the captain. "Goth," he muttered. "I should have guessed. No-shape. And where is the Leewit?"

"The servant with the canapes," said Goth. "We couldn't let you out on your own, Captain."

The Empress' shoulders shook slightly. "Well, Captain, it appears that you inspire loyalty and great faith. So: Have you the answer we need? In less than twenty minutes I will need to take my seat among the Imperial House, who are, we believe, Nanite-invaded to the last person. If I fail to do so, I will undoubtedly be stripped of Amra's Regency. My influence and my daughter will disappear, and the Empire will slowly be devoured by the Nanites. Eventually, all humanity as well."

Knowing that what he needed desperately was to think, Captain Pausert felt as if his brain had turned into cheese. What had he learned? What klatha skills had he evolved? He suspected that he could use the Egger Route without the shaking. He'd learned how to do the Sheewash Drive. What else? Well. There was the cocoon shields. He'd bet they'd be proof against Nanites . . . or anything else.

And there was that, too. Betting itself. He'd always been a lucky gambler. Goth had put her finger on it: he always won if he really wanted to. When it came to the pinch, he'd gambled on the sequence of the cards being the access number for the Agandar's accounts. And he'd been right. He'd known he was right. And yet . . . it had needed Goth, too. To put the final key in to it. The predictors had said that it would take Goth and himself.

"Goth," he said quietly, "come and put your hand on my shoulder. Lend me your strength as we did for the Leewit when she helped the nursebeast. Be the key."

The moment he said it, the same hair-raising prickle that came with massive klatha use surged around him. This was right. He knew it. Knew it with a cast-iron certainty.

He felt Goth's hands—no, both arms—and not on his shoulder but around his neck, hugging him.

"So what is the answer, Goth? What can I do that Karres had to send us on this harebrained mission to learn?"

"It's got to be the vatches, Captain," Goth's voice whispered in his ear. "Or, at least, little Silver-eyes. I've never heard of anyone having a vatch that they play with instead of the other way around. Have you noticed that it always seems to come when you think of it?"

"I don't usually want the pesky critter."

"It likes you, Captain. Same as the Leewit does. And I think you do like Silver-eyes. Sort of, deep inside."

Silver-eyes was very like the Leewit, now that Pausert thought about it. Annoying, mischievous and capricious. Demanding, too. And, true enough, the captain had a soft spot for both of them. The vatchlet and the Leewit did things he'd often wished to do himself. "I suppose so. But I can't see why it would like me, Goth."

"You protect it. You frighten off the big ones."

The captain felt something dawn in him. "And it regards Nanites as dream-candy."

"Call Silver-eyes, Captain," said Goth with a calm, Toll-like certainty.

He did. And the little vatchlet came, like the sound of violets, like the smell of music.

Well, Big Real Thing, what do you want? Make that lady's mask disappear?

No. What I want you to do is to eat dream candy. All of it that's here. Every last piece.

The vatchlet emanated a definitely dubious feeling. I don't know . . . The last time I did that, I got sick.

So much for that idea. The little vatch's worries were unwarranted, since Pausert was now sure that it had been Pul's venom which had made it feel ill, not the Nanites themselves. But how could he convince Silver-eyes of that?

The Leewit, too consumed with curiosity to stay away any longer, came over with her tray. "What are you doing here, stinkin' little thing?" she hissed.

Silver-eyes giggled. Been playing with the others. But they're not as much fun as you are.

The others . . .

"You say," said the captain to Hantis, "that I'm like a klatha lighthouse. Threbus—Goth too—once said that would attract vatches to me."

"Yes, Captain," said the Sprite. "Threbus told me that you glowed."

"So call the vatches, Captain," said Goth.

The big ones are scared of him, said Silver-eyes, proudly and proprietarily, levitating a canape to drop down a stately dancer's neck.

Ignoring the shriek, the captain asked, Would the little ones come if I invited them? You said there were many of them.

Sure. They only stay away from Dream Things because the big ones chase them. But it's like I said: the big ones are scared of you.

Captain Pausert felt that absolute gambler's certainty settling over him. This was the answer he'd been hunting for. He took a deep breath and concentrated on summoning them, across time and space.

* * *

Later, when she was called on to describe the event, the Leewit hit on it perfectly. "Imagine the biggest, messiest kids' party ever. Times ten."

* * *

The captain was amazed at the number of little vatches who came. Still, there was enough dream-candy for all of them to gorge on. Which, they did, except for Silver-eyes. That little vatch—not quite so little, anymore—was too wary to do more than nibble a bit. So Silver-eyes amused itself with canape bombing runs. There were entire buffets full of ammunition.

Only one of the Nanite-possessed came close to them. Pul bit him. It was not a pretty sight. One of the bodyguards dragged the writhing man away.

You could tell who the infected ones were, without Pul's help. They were the ones collapsing all over the place. The rest were screaming and running around in the food-fight and practical joke session to end all food fight and practical joke sessions. Admittedly, the victims weren't enjoying it much, but none of them was going to end up dead, which was what the captain had rather expected after the experiences in Nartheby. They just looked like the victims of canape carpet bombing.

The Leewit stood it as long she could. Then she grabbed a platter of the stickiest canapes and announced to the captain that she was going to join in. "No fair that the stinkin' vatches have all the fun!"

The captain grinned. "Why not? You will never get such a chance again. Food fight at the Imperial gala event of the year."

Pul had walked cautiously over to one of the collapsed figures. Sniffed. "No live ones!" he growled in his gravel-crusher voice. "The human is still alive, though he won't be for long."

"They have to be alive!" said the Empress, turning pale. "If they don't appear on the balcony at midnight, we'll have panic across the Empire. Insurrections. War."

Why did it never get any simpler?

"Let's examine him," said the captain. "Maybe . . ." He and the bodyguard hauled the courtier into the alcove. He was breathing normally, although his pulse was racing.

He was also deeply unconscious. It was obvious to Pausert that there would be no way to simply prop him up on the balcony and fool anyone into thinking he was anything but comatose.

A man in evening dress walked over. "Good evening, Captain," said Sedmon. "Your Highness."

The Empress had retreated behind her two bodyguards. "Who is this, Captain?"

"The Daal of Uldune, ma'am," said the captain. He decided there was no point in explaining that it was actually one-sixth of the Daal.

Sedmon bowed. "Hulik wants to know whether you need assistance. The artistes of the Petey B are ready to intervene. Although, it appears that what is really being affronted out there is dignity." He looked at the chaos, and smiled wryly. "We've noted that Uldune wants no part in a fight with the witches of Karres, if this is what the three of you alone can do."

"Unless they want to get in the middle of this mess, I think not. Dame Ethy would never forgive us for getting pink turofish mousse on the costumes. We need to get these men back to their senses by midnight, Sedmon. Give that appearance, at least."

Sedmon looked thoughtful. "Or Uldune is in a remarkable position to possibly profit," said the descendant of the pirate overlords urbanely. "Not everyone will miss the Empire, Captain."

Captain Pausert realized it was up to him, again. But the gambler's certainty was back.

"I would," he said firmly. "Not the Empire as such, Sedmon. But the stability and peace it brings to ordinary people's lives. We're not going to start the war years, war centuries again. And before you think of taking advantage of the situation—I suggest you remember just who you are dealing with. Karres is not destroyed or even gone for long. I'll have your cooperation or Uldune will be fighting the witches of Karres. Look around you and be warned. This is what we do in mere play. Don't make us do things in earnest. Now, tell the other Sedmon that we need Dame Ethy to go through her wardrobes for regal gear. She and her troupe are about to play the role of their lives. In the case of Richard Cravan, an Imperial one."

Then he walked out onto the ballroom floor, accompanied by Goth. He clapped his hands. Vatches began swarming around him. All of them were tiny, but there were so many they seemed like a curtain of impossible blackness.

The party is over. Thank you all for coming. Please come again. Now go home.

The vatchlets squawked vehement protest. Pausert began forming vatch hooks. Great, big, glowing, terrible vatch hooks. That had the same salutary effect on the vatchlets as a father brandishing a great big terrible leather belt before his human brats.

Quickly, the blackness receded.

Silence settled over the ruined ballroom. And then the orchestra, those who still had whole instruments, began to play of all things, an ancient lullaby.

The Empress took off her mask and walked up onto the dais. She held up her hands to hush the crowd. The hysterical panic-filled babble subsided as they turned to stare at Empress Hailie.

"My lords and ladies. Control yourselves," she said, firmly. "We have an Empire to save. We have the Imperial appearance to make at midnight. If it doesn't happen, you know what the consequences are sure to be. So. Masks off, courtiers! And to work. If the Emperor himself isn't fit to appear on that balcony . . . I'll find someone else to stand in his shoes for the night, and wear the crown and wave to his people. But the people of the Empire will see what they expect to see. The Empire will go on. Then, when that is dealt with, we'll put things to rights here."

* * *

Dame Ethulassia finally got both the audience and the applause she'd always craved. Richard Cravan found himself wearing Imperial regalia, and playing the role of a lifetime. In later years it was said that was the Winter Canival when the Emperor had given his most regal speech ever.

Though the Leewit didn't think so. "Clumping stupid, you ask me! There wasn't any wind blowing at all. And even if there had been, he didn't have to say that crude stuff about wind cracking its cheeks." The Leewit was genuinely affronted. "Huh! It's not fair. If I'd said it, you'd be washing my mouth out with soap."