The Chalice of Death (5 page)

What became of the armies of Earth no one knew. Those who survived were scattered about the galaxies, seeded here and there, a world of one cluster, a planet of another.

Fiercely the Earthmen clung to their name. They shaved their heads to distinguish themselves from humanoids of a million star-systems—and death it was to the alien who offered himself as counterfeit Earthman!

The centuries rolled by in their never-ending sweep, and Earth herself was forgotten. Yet the Earthmen remained, a thin band scattered through the heavens, proud of their heritage, guarding jealously their genetic traits. Carso was rare; it was but infrequently that an Earthwoman could be persuaded to mate with an alien. Yet Carso regarded himself as an Earthman, and never spoke of his father.

Where was Earth? No one could name the sector of space, but Earth was in the hearts of the men who lived among the stars. Earthmen were sought out by kings; the bald-heads could not rule themselves, but they could advise those less fitted than they to command.

Then would come a fool like Joroiran, who held his throne because his father seven times removed had hewed an empire for him—and Joroiran would succumb to a Lyrellan's wiles and order his Earthman off on a madman's quest.

Navarre's fists stiffened.
Send me for the Chalice? Aye, I'll find something for him
!

The Chalice was an idiot's dream; immortal life was a filmy bubble. But
Earth
was real; Earth merely awaited finding. Somewhere it bobbed in the heavens, forgotten symbol of an empire that had been.

Smiling coldly, Navarre thought,
I'll find Earth for him
.

Unlimited funds were at his disposal. He would bring Joroiran a potion too powerful to swallow at a gulp.

Later that day he and Carso were aboard a liner of the Royal Fleet, bearing tickets paid for by Royal frank, and feeling against their thighs the thick bulge of Imperial scrip received with glee from the Royal Treasury.

“Ready for blasting,” came the stewardess's voice. “We depart for Kariad in fifteen seconds. I hope you'll relax and enjoy your trip.”

Navarre slumped back in the acceleration cradle and closed his eyes. In a few seconds the liner would spring into space. The two hunters for the Chalice would have begun their quest.

His heart ticked the seconds off impatiently.
Twelve. Eleven
.

Nine. Six
.

Two. One
.

Acceleration took him, thrust him sharply downward as the liner left ground. Within seconds, they were high above the afternoon sky, plunging outward into the brightly dotted blackness speckled with the hard points of a billion suns.

One of those suns was Sol, Navarre thought. And one of the planets of Sol was Earth.

Chalice of Life
, he thought scornfully. As Jorus dwindled behind him, Navarre wondered how long it would be before he would again see the simpering face of the Overlord Joroiran VII.

Kariad, the planet nearest to the Joran Empire in their cluster, was the lone world of a double sun. This arrangement, economical as it was in terms of cosmic engineering, provided some spectacular views and made the planet a much-visited pleasure place.

As Navarre and Carso alighted from the liner they could see that Primus, the massive red giant that was the heart of the system, hung high overhead, intersecting a huge arc of the sky, while Secundus, the smaller main-sequence yellow sun, flickered palely near the horizon. Kariad was moving between the two stars in its complex and eccentric hour-glass orbit, and, in the light of the two suns, all objects acquired a strange purple shimmer.

Those who had disembarked from the liner were standing in a tight knot on the field while Kariadi customs officials moved among them. Navarre stood with arms folded, waiting for his turn to come.

The official wore a gilt-encrusted surplice and a bright red sash that seemed almost brown in the light of the double suns. He yanked forth a metal-bound notebook and began to scribble things.

“Name and planet of origin?”

“Hallam Navarre. Planet of origin, Earth.”

The customs man glared impatiently at Navarre's shaven scalp and snapped, “You know what I mean. What planet are you from?”

“Jorus,” Navarre said.

“Purpose of visiting Kariad?”

“I'm a special emissary from Overlord Joroiran VII; intent peaceful, mission confidential.”

“Are you the Earthman to the Court?”

Navarre nodded.

“And this man?”

“Domrik Carso,” the half-breed growled. “Planet of origin, Jorus.”

The official indicated Carso's stubbly scalp. “I wish you Earthmen would show some consistency. One says he's from Earth, the other—or are you not an Earthman, but merely prematurely bald?”

“I'm of Earth descent,” Carso said stolidly. “But I'm from Jorus, and you can put it down. I'm Navarre's traveling companion.”

The customs officer riffled perfunctorily through their papers a moment, then handed them back. “Very well. You may both pass.”

Navarre and Carso moved off the field and into the spaceport itself.

“I could use a beer,” Carso said.

“I guess you've never been on Kariad, then. They must brew their beer from sewer-flushings here.”

“I'll drink sewer-flushings when I must,” Carso said. He pointed to a glowing tricolored sign. “There's a bar. Shall we go in?”

As Navarre had expected, the beer was vile. He stared unhappily at the mug of green, brackish liquid, stirring it with a quiver of his wrist and watching the oily patterns forming and re-forming on its surface.

Across the table, Carso was showing no such qualms. The half-breed tilted the bottle into his mug, raised the big mug to his lips, drank. Navarre shuddered.

Grinning, Carso crashed the mug down and wiped his beard clean.

“It's not the best I've ever had,” he commented finally. “But it'll do in a pinch.” Shrugging cheerfully, he filled his mug a second time.

Very quietly, Navarre said, “Do you see those men sitting at the far table?”

Carso squinted and looked at them without seeming to do so. “Aye. They were on board the ship with us.”

“Exactly.”

“But so were at least five of the other people in this bar! Surely you don't think—”

“I don't intend to take any chances,” Navarre said flatly. “Finish your drink. I want to make a tour of the spaceport.”

“Well enough, if you say so.” Carso drained the drink and left one of Overlord Joroiran's bills on the table to pay for it. Casually, the pair left the bar.

Their first stop was a tape shop. There, Navarre made a great business over ordering a symphony.

The effusive, apologetic proprietor did his best. “
The Anvils of Juno
? I don't think I have that number in stock. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard of it. Could it be
The Hammer of Drolon
you seek?”

“I'm fairly sure it was the
Juno
,” said Navarre, who had invented the work a moment before. “But perhaps I'm wrong. Is there any place here I can listen to the
Drolon
?”

“Surely; we have a booth back here where you can experience full audiovisual effect. If you'd step this way, please …”

They spent fifteen minutes sampling the tape, Carso with a prevailing expression of utter boredom, Navarre with a scowl for the work's total insipidity. The symphony was banal and obvious—a typical Kariadi hack product, churned out by some weary tone-artist to meet the popular demand. At the end of the first fifteen-minute movement Navarre snapped off the playback and rose.

The proprietor came bustling up to the booth. “Well?”

“Sorry,” Navarre said. “This isn't the one I want.”

Gathering his cloak about him, he swept out of the shop, followed by Carso. As they re-entered the main concourse of the terminal arcade, Navarre saw two figures glide swiftly into the shadows—but not swiftly enough.

“I do believe you're right,” Carso muttered. “We're being followed.”

“Kausirn's men, no doubt. The Lyrellan must be curious to see which way we're heading. Or possibly he's ordered my assassination, now that I'm away from the Court. But let's give it one more test before we take steps.”

“No more music!” Carso said hastily.

“No. The next stop will be a more practical one.” Navarre led the way down the arcade until they reached a shop whose front display said simply,
Weapons
. They went in.

The proprietor here was of a different stamp than the man in the music shop; he was a rangy Kariadi, his light blue skin glowing in color-harmony with the electroluminescents in the shop's walls.

“Can I help you?”

“Possibly you can,” Navarre said. He swept back his hood, revealing his Earthman's scalp. “We're from Jorus. There are assassins on our trail, and we want to shake them. Have you a back exit?”

“Over there,” the armorer said. “Are you armed?”

“We are, but we could do with some spare charges. Say, five apiece.” Navarre placed a bill on the counter and slid the wrapped packages into his tunic pocket.

“Are those the men?” the proprietor asked.

Two shadowy figures were visible through the one-way glass of the window. They peered in uneasily.

“I think they're coming in here,” Navarre said.

“All right. You two go our the back way; I'll chat with them for a while.”

Navarre flashed the man an appreciative smile and he and Carso slipped through the indicated door, just as their pursuers entered the weapons shop.

“Double around the arcade and wait at the end of the corridor, eh?” Carso suggested.

“Right. We'll catch them as they come out.”

Some hasty running brought them to a strategic position. “Keep your eyes open,” Navarre said. “That shopkeeper may have told them where we are.”

“I doubt it. He looked honest.”

“You never can tell,” Navarre said. “Hush, now!”

The door of the gun shop was opening.

The followers emerged, edging out into the corridor again, squeezing themselves against the wall and peering in all directions. They looked acutely uncomfortable now that they had lost sight of their quarry.

Navarre drew his blaster and hefted it thoughtfully. After a moment's pause he shouted, “Stand still and raise your hands,” and squirted a bolt of energy almost at their feet.

One of the pair yelled in fear, but the other, responding instantly, drew and fired. His bolt, deliberately aimed high, brought down a section of the arcade roofing; the drifting dust and plaster obscured vision.

“They're getting away!” Carso snapped. “Let's go after them fast!”

They leaped from hiding and raced through the rubble; dimly they could see the retreating pair heading for the main waiting room. Navarre cursed; if they got in there, there would be no chance of bringing them down.

As he ran, he leveled his blaster and emitted a single short burst. One of the two toppled and fell; the other continued running, and vanished abruptly into the crowded waiting room.

“I'll go in after him,” Navarre said. “You look at the dead one and see if there's any sort of identification on him.”

Navarre pushed his way through the photon-beam and into the spaceport's crowded waiting room. He caught sight of his man up ahead, jostling desperately toward the cab-stand. Navarre holstered his blaster; he would never be able to use it in here.

“Stop that man!” he roared. “Stop him!”

Perhaps it was the authority in his tone, perhaps it was his baldness, but to his surprise a foot stretched out and sent the fleeing spy sprawling. Navarre reached him in an instant, and knocked the useless blaster from his hand. He tugged the quivering man to his feet.

“All right, who are you?”

He punctuated the question with a slap. The man sputtered and turned his face away without replying, and Navarre hit him again.

This time the man cursed and tried fruitlessly to break away.

“Did Kausirn send you?” Navarre demanded, gripping him tightly.

“I don't know anything. Leave me alone.”

“You'd better start knowing,” Navarre said. He drew his blaster with his free hand. “I'll give you five to tell me why you were following us, and if you don't speak up I'll burn you right here. One … two …”

On the count of three Navarre suddenly felt hands go round his waist, other hands grabbing at his wrist to immobilize the blaster. He was pulled away from his prisoner and the blaster wrenched from his hand.

“Let go of him, Earthman,” a rough voice said. “What's going on here, anyway?”

“This man's an assassin,” Navarre said. “He and a companion were sent here to kill me. Luckily my friend and I detected the plot, and—”

“That's enough,” the burly Kariadi said. “You'd all better come with me.”

Navarre turned and saw several other officers approaching. One bore the blaster-charred body of the dead assassin; the other two pinioned the figure of the furiously struggling Domrik Carso.

“Come along, now,” the Kariadi said.

Chapter Four

“A good beginning to our quest,” Carso said bitterly. “A noble start!”

“Quiet,” Navarre told him. “I think someone's coming to see us.”

They were in a dungeon somewhere in the heart of Kariad City, having been taken there from the spaceport. The surviving assassin had been placed in another cell.

But someone
was
coming. The door of the cell was opening, and a yellow beam of light began to crawl diagonally across the concrete floor.

A slim figure entered the cell. Light glinted off a bald skull; the visitor was an Earthman, then.

“Hello. Which of you is Navarre?”

“I am.”

“I'm Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Marhaill, Oligocrat of Kariad. Sorry our men had to throw you down here in this cell, but they weren't in any position to take chances.”