Queen of Stars (22 page)

Scheddi said, “Right.” Carrying Avior as if she weighed nothing, he followed Botein over to the tumbledown little cottage.

Avior had been a resident in the Starlands for long enough to know a bit about portals. She knew they worked only within a single domain and its subdomains, so this Hermitage must be in the royal domain, like Kraz. Botein was trespassing here. From this bridgehead the Family goons could access anywhere in the royal domain, except specially guarded places such as Castle Escher.

Vildiar had told her she need not tell him what Rigel was up to, but Scheddi was certainly smarter than he pretended, and Scheddi was going to be the Family’s spy in Kraz. He wouldn’t need an air car, and probably couldn’t drive those contraptions anyway. But he could step through the portal to the Hermitage to report and be back before Avior even missed him.

“Been lovely meeting you, sister,” Botein said. “It’ll only take a minute to get the Nusakan to drive the unicorns through, and then I’ll get out of your hair and let you go on with your painting or whatever you were doing.”

I was modeling Halfling Rigel’s left knee, and you bloody well know it, lady.

Scheddi said, “Then we’ll be alone?”

“Yes,” Avior sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. Even the scent of his skin was exciting. “Will we have time for a drink first?”

“Certainly not,” said Scheddi.

Chapter 28

W
hat happens now?” Izar demanded angrily. “If I have to stay one more day in this aquarium, I will turn into a
shark
!”

“Could only be an improvement,” his bodyguard said.

“A halfling-eating shark!”

“Oh, not so good. And your mother wouldn’t approve. What do you have in mind?”

It was early morning. They were gathered around a table on the royal patio in Segin. Izar and his visiting friend Ukdah had just eaten their usual breakfasts, about two thousand calories apiece. Their plates were being cleaned by a school of shrimps. Thabit, his eyes even redder than usual, was sipping black coffee and growling in response to suggestive questioning from his twin, who had been on duty the previous night and had thus missed whatever party or orgy was now exacting its toll.

Rigel was preoccupied too. It was one day short of three weeks since Vildiar had been outlawed, so Fomalhaut’s latest prophecy of Rigel’s death, as relayed by Achird, should be fulfilled the next day—unless, of course, it had been greatly exaggerated, like rumors of Mark Twain’s death. Nothing had happened since, except that the queen’s popularity had soared, as measured by people willing to join her council or be seen around court. The starfolk were assuming that the Vildiar problem had been solved. It hadn’t.

No one had seen any trace of “V” or the Family killers. No additional members of the queen’s council had died. Her officials had moved into Phegda and started taking oaths of loyalty from Vildiar’s most senior underlings, just a few dozen starfolk out of the hundreds whose domains were directly rooted in his. None had refused to change allegiance and none had suffered unexpected death as a result.

So the monster had vanished? Being essentially immortal, he could easily afford to take a twenty-year vacation, and the waiting would be much harder on his potential victims than on him. It was especially hard on Izar, who was being held in virtual house arrest in Segin. Rigel sympathized, knowing how soon the blue-green light and breathable water palled. The imp still missed Turais, too.

“What would you like to do?” he asked again.

“A hippogriff ride!” Izar said at once. “Down into that volcano, Whasisname, where the dragons nest. And some white-water barrel riding.” His standard technique was to ask first for something totally suicidal, in the hope of winning his second choice, which would be only slightly suicidal.

“Hippogriff possible. I need to head over to Kraz first. Do you want to come with me?”

Izar opened his mouth, then his opalescent eyes flickered to Ukdah as he remembered that Kraz was where Tweenling Avior had her studio and there were secrets there that he had sworn never to tell
anyone
. So Ukdah couldn’t go with them. “Can’t take more than two on a hippogriff, though, can you?”

The kid was faster than a shyster lawyer on booster rockets.

“’Fraid not. But Thabit can see Ukdah home. Have you chosen a gift for him?”

“Not yet.” Being royalty, Izar had to give every visitor a going-away present. He loved it. “What’ch fancy this time, Uk?”

Ukdah’s hair and eyes were turning from childish white to pale green. He was slightly older than Izar, and thus could usually manage to hold his own without being browbeaten into utter submission. “A couple of those electric slugs!”

“That all? Just two?”

“How many does it take to
kill
somebody?”

Rigel and Tyl rolled their eyes in unison. Just one electric slug left in a person’s bed or a clothes drawer could deliver a very memorable shock. Fortunately starfolk were rarely subject to cardiac arrest.

The outer door flew open and in strode Starborn Elgomaisa. The queen was still in bed. Rigel was quite certain that the royal consort had not slept here in Segin the previous night, but other people were not supposed to know. He noticed the two starlings exchanging meaningful glances.

So, he thought, did Elgomaisa.

Everyone rose and bowed—except Izar. A month or so ago he had announced that he was Naos now and did not have to kowtow to anyone except his mother. Rigel had put the matter to the queen, and she had agreed, much to everyone else’s astonishment. Elgomaisa had not been pleased.

“Halfling,” he said, addressing Rigel. “My mother is grievously insulted by your continued refusal to certify her home as a safe place for the queen to visit. I will go over the arrangements with you one last time. Be there in about an hour.”

Rigel bowed again as the consort crossed the patio and disappeared into his official bedroom.

“Halfling,” Izar told Thabit, “help Ukdah Starling collect as many slugs as he needs before you take him home. Good of you to come, Uk. We’d better move our buns, huh, Rigel?”

Meaning he wanted to be included in the visit to Vindemiatrix, which he hadn’t seen yet. It was still scheduled to become the next royal residence, but Rigel kept postponing the move because of his doubts about security.

“How could I refuse a request so graciously worded, Izar Naos?”

Izar laughed. “Smart-ass halfling!” He faked a punch, man-to-man style. Grown-up guys did that.

Kraz was within the royal domain and thus on the other side of any portal, but Rigel had not been there for weeks. At first Tyl and Thabit had kept him informed of the sculptor’s progress, but lately whatever there had been between her and the twins—the details of which Rigel would much rather not know—had apparently cooled. Yesterday he had received a note passed on by the Palace Guard in Canopus to say that she wanted to see him. It was early to go calling, but he and Izar could always pass the time with a unicorn ride.

So he thought, but the portal at Kraz was set in the outside wall of the barn, so when he stepped out into the yard, the first thing he noticed was that the paddock was empty. Rigel glanced around the little cluster of buildings and decided the whole place had an air of neglect, almost abandonment: weeds were starting to sprout, and the shutters had been closed on many of the windows. Either the two Nusakan mudlings had been neglecting their duties, or they were no longer working there. His first instinct was to grab Izar and drag him back through the portal to somewhere safe, like Castle Escher. Izar, too, had sensed something wrong and edged closer to Rigel. But Saiph was not indicating any danger.

“What is that appalling stink?” Izar demanded.

“Me,” said a voice at his elbow.

Starling and bodyguard simultaneously leapt about two meters sideways and spun around to view the speaker. He was short by starborn standards, about Rigel’s height, but he did have elfin ears flanking huge upright horns. His face was incredibly ugly, a protruding muzzle whose smile displayed a graveyard of marble tombstones, not elfin spikes. From the neck to the waist he was a burly, hairy youth, but below that he was all goat—furry pelt, two cloven hooves and…and everything else. He was also naked.

His name was Scheddi.

“What is that?”
Izar squealed.

“I’m a satyr,” Scheddi said, his voice seeming to fight its way through those great teeth. “What’re you?”

“I’m not a
what
, I’m a
who
!”

“Scheddi means that he’s a who, too.” Rigel tried not to smile.

Izar wrinkled his nose. “Why don’t you go and bathe?”

“I just did,” Scheddi said, and indeed his fur was damp. “I’m told the perfume is part of my appeal, although I can’t smell it myself. Did you come to see my mistress?” He grinned in a blaze of ivory.

“Is she awake?” Rigel asked.

“Probably not, but I was just going to wake her. I’ll tell her you’re here.” He trotted up the slope to the studio, hooves drumming on the hard ground and short tail twitching from side to side. The visitors followed more slowly.

“You suppose he goes around all day like that?” Izar whispered.

“You ask him. I don’t want to know.”

After a moment the imp added, “You suppose the twins gave up because they couldn’t match the new competition?” So he had noticed that estrangement, and yet his smile was not his usual leer.

Izar was growing up. Although he still played the enfant terrible most of the time, glimpses of maturity showed through when he forgot to hide them. At times now it was even possible for Rigel to accept that they were almost the same age. Rigel wondered if he could claim any credit for the change, but he had no idea how starborn youths normally developed. When he met Izar’s friends, they were always on their best behavior, which was very rarely true of Izar. Besides, the imp had survived an attempted murder and two kidnappings. That sort of childhood would make anyone streetwise.

As they neared the studio, Scheddi appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the jamb and grinned. “She says you can come in. Some people have no shame.”

“Do satyrs?” Izar asked innocently.

Scheddi looked indignant. “Of course not!”

The inside of the big shed was dim and the reek of satyr made Rigel’s eyes water. Avior came forward to meet them, looking bleary and sleepy, but she was respectably dressed by Starlands standards, wearing a moon-cloth wrap and a bandana over her hair. She had learned local ways well enough to bow to the starling and express the wish that the stars might shine on him forever. Izar acknowledged her greeting politely, but his gaze was darting to and fro as he assessed the chaos.

Scheddi was opening shutters, gradually illuminating a muck heap that would not have shamed a major hurricane. The floor was carpeted with an ankle-deep layer of rags, liquor bottles, dirty dishes, and many pots and boxes of plaster, pigments, and other art materials, resting on a mixture of trodden clay and sharp chips of stone. Fortunately much of the mess was hidden from view by canvases on easels, clay models on pedestals, and partly chipped blocks of marble. A bed in one corner held a rumpled blanket but no pillows. It seemed as though Avior worked, ate, and slept in this one room. And so did Scheddi.

How could anything close to beauty ever emerge from such a midden?

“Hi!” Rigel said. “How do the Starlands compare to Saskatchewan so far?”

She smiled. “Closer to heaven.”

“Getting everything you need?” Rigel asked. He must be catching Izar’s style of humor, but Avior’s ran along much the same lines.

She laughed. “As much as I can handle.”

And that was at least as much as was good for her health. She sported several multicolored bruises, a badly split lip, and a puffy eye, while the marks on her breasts and arms looked suspiciously like bites. All her injuries must date from the last few hours, because Rigel had supplied her with healing amulets from the royal treasury.

“You sent word that…” He stopped in front of an easel, struck dumb by the portrait on it. The setting was a green jungle, with every fleshy leaf gleaming wet, every raindrop shining. This dark but detailed background set off a three-quarters portrait of Scheddi, lit by a shaft of sunlight and depicted in harsh, crude strokes of brilliant color. Yet the likeness was perfect, from the tips of his horns down to his grotesquely oversized genitals. He stared out from the canvas with sadistic mockery, the ultimate in male lust and dominance. The image was even more repellent than the original—possessive, menacing, brutish.

Rigel had privately dismissed Avior as a skilled, if skewed, craftsperson. But if this was not a work of genius, it had to be close.

“That’s magnificent!”

“He likes posing,” she said dismissively. “It’s the only way to make him keep still. I call it
Man
.”

“Is that how you see us?”

She flipped a cloth over the picture to hide it. “An artist’s mission is to teach other people to see more clearly.”

Before Rigel could think up a believable rebuttal, he heard a cry of horror from Izar, who had gone buzzing off like a bluebottle.

It took a lot to shock him. Rigel quickly dodged around the easel and found the problem. On a long worktable in the back of the room lay the body of a halfling, faceup, arms by its sides. It was corpse pale, with white hair and barely visible scars where it had been clawed by a bear in the spring. The mouth hung open in a corpse’s gape, the lips streaked with dried blood. No navel, no nipples. He had known he would have to face this sometime, but he hadn’t expected the head to be turned his way or the dead white eyes to be open and staring at him.

And he had certainly not expected to see the wounds—four black arrow punctures, the shafts broken off a few centimeters above the flesh, barbed heads left in place. They were gruesomely realistic, ringed by caked blood. No two were exactly alike; some had been cut off closer, some had bled more than others. But the worst horror was that there were four, placed about as he had seen them in the Time of Life vision: right elbow, left shoulder, abdomen, and lower chest.
How had she known there would be four and where to put them?

“That’s incredible!” he said hoarsely, instinctively reaching out a hand.