A Confusion of Princes (40 page)

T
HE W O R L D WA S a bleak one. It was unable to support human life and didn’t do very well with home-grown

life-forms either. It had not been tek-shaped to improve its temperature, which was too hot, nor its atmosphere, which was thin and somewhat poisonous.

Thrukhaz Three did have a starport of sorts, built for a Prince who, on the basis of a single holographic image, had thought that the huge, carapaced beetles that were at the top of the local food chain might offer good hunting. When it turned out that they were easily frightened, basically herbivorous, and left luminous trails that made them ludicrously easy to track, the hunting was cancelled. The infrastructure built for the hunting parties remained.

As Thrukhaz had once been claimed by a Prince, it technically remained within the Empire — but in practice it was part of the Fringe, blessed with numerous wormholes to and from long-established Imperial worlds. Shadowy traders and smugglers found that it was a useful place to meet, in order to buy, sell and get away in quick time if it proved necessary.

Haddad, an assassin of the Empire, came to Thrukhaz Three, but his primary purpose was not to buy and sell. Though Haddad was only twenty-one old-Earth years, he was already a senior apprentice, and was soon to be made a Master of Assassins.

That was if he survived this final mission for his current Prince, which was doubtful. The Prince’s probability calculator, Uncle Yukhul, had worked out that the chances of the overall plan succeeding were quite good, about 0.42. Haddad’s chance of remaining alive was a much more disturbing 0.04.

But even the priests of the Temple of the Aspect of the Cold Calculator could not include all possible variables, particularly for missions outside the Empire. And no assassin expected to live a long time. They were expendable, particularly apprentice assassins. Perfect to use up in long-shot missions, like the one Haddad was engaged in right now.

It was unusual for an apprentice to be sent alone out of Imperial space, disguised as a Fringe-dwelling dealer in antique weapons. The transparent panels in Haddad’s head were hidden under Bitek simuflesh that had spread and merged into his own skin. A living wig had been implanted into his scalp, giving him a dark red mane that stretched halfway down his back. A programmed Bitek scathe had burrowed red trails across his cheeks, creating in five minutes the effects of years of ritual scarification.

This was the fashion of a clan of independent traders, the

Pralganians, who turned up from time to time in odd corners of the galaxy. There were no real Pralganians in the sector at the moment, or at least there should not be, according to Haddad’s information.

To reinforce his disguise, Haddad wore a Pralganian trader’s flax-gold shipsuit, with paler yellow boots and a belt of woven wires that supported twin sting-guns: handguns that fired low-velocity Bitek projectiles, suitable for use on a ship or in zero gravity. One gun had a red grip, and was for crystalline darts charged with a lethal nerve poison. The other had a blue grip, and was loaded with a mere knockout/paralysis combo. Or so the traders liked people to believe. It made their enemies watch the red-handled gun too closely.

A Bitek portable safe followed Haddad. Portable safes, with their ultra-tough, armoured hide, strong reptilian legs and cacophonous hooting alarm snout were very popular for transporting valuables in the Fringe, though some customers didn’t like the idea of goods being stored inside the utility stomach of a living creature. Even though it was designed for the purpose, and was both dry and disconnected from the alimentary system of the beast.

‘Hup,’ said Haddad. He checked his breath mask and weapons and went out through the ion curtain that separated the breathable air of the starport arrival ‘hall’ from the miasmic mist of the planet. The safe waddled after him, its sentience limited to obeying simple commands, knowing who its master was, and shrieking if anyone tried to cut it open or prise its massive, interlocking jaws apart.

Haddad had memorised a map of the Thrukhaz Three startown, but it was based on the interrogation of a trader who had been there several months previously. He noted the differences as he walked between buildings towards the caravansary that was his chosen destination. He had selected it from the data available in the Empire, and confirmed the choice with some judicious questioning of the other travellers who had descended with him from the tramp starship that ran a semi-regular route between Thrukhaz and Sazekh Seven, the nearest Imperial system.

The caravansary was much as Haddad expected. He took a small room at the back, a bolted-on unit that had a ceiling hatch as well as a door, and reserved a rectangular patch of ground in the courtyard, where he would set up his booth. Leaving the travelling safe surrounded by a number of tiny telltales, Haddad wandered the startown, buying a few odds and ends for his booth and examining the wares of those who would be his competitors, selling antique or interesting weapons. None had anything of particular interest. He made a point of introducing himself, and invited the other dealers to come and see his wares.

Returning to the caravansary, Haddad found that, as he had expected, his room had been searched and surveillance established, and the travelling safe had been inspected, though not actually opened. Unless it had been opened with Psitek by either a Master of Assassins or a Prince, and he thought it was too early for either one to be here.

Haddad took out one of the items he’d bought, an obsolete Mektek Jhezhan spytracker, and set it going on his table. It unfolded its jointed legs and search tendrils, and started looking for spy-specks.

After the spytracker had wandered for a few minutes without success, Haddad smiled, as if he were content he was not under observation. He already knew from a Psitek scan that it would take the spytracker a few hours to find and destroy the spy-specks, which were of a newer and superior make.

‘Open.’

Haddad reached inside and gently ran his fingers over the items on each shelf. No one could see it, under false flesh and hair, but his temples were roiling with the blue fluid that indicated Psitek activity.

As far as he could tell, nothing had been interfered with, and nothing new had been introduced. For the benefit of those watching and listening via the almost invisible spy-specks up in the corners of the ceiling, he took out the most important item.

This was a small reddish box of real wood, not Bitek extrusion, at least five centuries old. Haddad flicked the bronze catch, and opened it. Lined with velvet, it held a simple steel dagger, the bright blade rippling with tiny wave marks, the hilt and guard a darker, more ominous metal.

The weapon was at least three thousand years old, and came from ancient Earth. To a discerning collector, it was worth more than the entire Thrukhaz startown. In fact, it was so valuable, only one of the richest plutocrats in the Fringe could afford it — or a Prince of the Empire.

Not that Princes typically bought things. They just took them, unless they were already claimed by another Prince or a temple, or made inviolate by an order of the Imperial Mind.

But here, essentially outside the Empire, a Prince might find it easier to buy. Though there would probably be an attempt or attempts to steal it first. Not that such attempts would solely be the action of Princes. Many people would want that ancient dagger.

Haddad closed the box and returned it to the safe, taking out several other packages which he laid out on his table.

‘Shut and lock.’

Interlocking teeth ground to closure. The safe hunkered down on its haunches.

Haddad sorted through the lesser wares he had taken from the safe while he waited for the spytracker to finish. He had nothing else that was anywhere near as valuable as the dagger, but compared to what he had seen from the other weapon-sellers, his basic stock was good. All old Imperial tek, proven in countless battles across the galaxy.

Like the blast projector he was examining, a lighter and shorter version of the basic mekbi trooper weapon.

Haddad heard faint footsteps in the corridor, and his Psitek senses picked up hostile intentions. Earlier than he had expected, but the indications were very clear. He lifted the blast projector and sighted at the door. It was locked, but whoever was outside had another key.

As the door slid open, the blindingly bright energy pulse from Haddad’s weapon essentially vaporised the two thugs who were about to charge in, and badly wounded their boss, who was several paces behind.

Haddad moved faster than a human should be able to move. Leaping over the remains of the two attackers, he ripped off a Bitek medaid patch disguised as a button on his shipsuit and slapped it on the scorched face of the boss who had been lurking behind. The patch rippled, manipulating blood chemistry, injecting drugs, arresting shock and arranging mental compliance — at least for the minute or two the man had left.

‘Who sent you?’ demanded Haddad.

‘Contract,’ whispered the dying man. ‘Lerrue the Shubian.’

‘Kill and steal?’

‘Yes . . . the safe . . . ’

The man died. The medaid patch shrivelled and fell off.

The next person in the corridor was the manager of the cautiously, her hands up and open.

‘An attempted robbery,’ said Haddad. He didn’t mention the fact the intruders had a key, doubtless obtained from the woman.

‘I will require a different room. Number 125 will be suitable.’

‘It’s rented . . . ’ the manager started to say. Then she looked at the energy projector in Haddad’s hand, the smoking doorframe, and the dead thugs. ‘I mean . . . it will be ready in thirty minutes.’

‘Is there a legal process to be followed?’ Haddad asked, already knowing the answer. ‘Authorities to be alerted?’

‘No,’ said the manager. ‘We sort things out ourselves here. As you have done.’

‘Where would I find Lerrue the Shubian?’

Haddad already knew the answer to that as well, but, as always, he wanted separate confirmation.

The manager’s mouth twitched.

‘Lerrue?’ she croaked. ‘The small green dome outside the starport arrival hall. But . . .’

‘But what?’ asked Haddad.

‘Lerrue is a Shubian,’ said the manager.

The Shubians were known to the Imperial Mind. Haddad knew what data the Empire already possessed. Indeed, Lerrue the Shubian had a part to play in the plan, though the alien didn’t know it yet.

‘What does that signify?’

‘Shubians set prices, put buyers and sellers together, for a commission. They don’t do stuff themselves. Least, Lerrue doesn’t.’

‘You mean that Lerrue did not send these people, but merely arranged their services to be supplied to whoever wanted me killed and robbed?’

‘Yeah,’ said the manager. ‘And Lerrue, she’s kind of important here, sort of like the unofficial . . . uh . . . governor or whatever. She sorts things out, like I said, fixes the prices.’

‘Interesting,’ said Haddad. He had not known Lerrue’s gender, though for Shubians this was not important, as they changed from time to time. ‘Let me know when my new room is ready.’

The next morning was as greenish and congealed as any other day on Thrukhaz. Haddad finished securing his new room with a few choice devices, then left it via the hole he had cut into the adjacent storage closet. The portable safe stayed behind, hunkered down under a blanket.

Lerrue the Shubian was easy to find. There was a queue of breath-masked people waiting outside the exterior airlock door of the green dome. Obviously Lerrue didn’t trust an ion curtain to keep the good atmosphere in and the bad atmosphere out. There were a couple of guards stationed outside who were performing a similar function to the airlock, only with visitors.

Haddad paid them to let him in. They took his sting-guns, and the J-knife from his boot, but only did a cursory scan for other weapons, making his misdirectional shuffle of items around his body purely a drill.

Lerrue was a nine-foot-tall humanoid with shiny hide, big eyes and several flapped holes in the side of her bald head that looked like ears but weren’t. She was wearing a hundred-years-out-of- fashion Imperial evening dress, which only reached as far as her thighs, or whatever Shubians called the part of their legs above their second kneecap.